Page 16 of Lucy and Her Wicked Three

My downward spiral, obsessing over what people say about me, would be incomplete without an empty bottle of wine and Mateo's abrupt departure playing on repeat in my head.

I mean, sure, I told him we should take a break, but I wanted to snatch those words back so quickly. But then… he barely argued.

I never wanted it to touch you, Lu.What does that even mean?

With my online persona imploding and Mateo staying elsewhere—with "friends" that I didn't even know he had—it was easier than I thought to stay off my phone, my usual method of taming my anxiety.

So after he left, I paced the apartment, cried, shoved my face into Mateo's pillow because I already missed him so much, and before the sun came up, I finally passed out. The only good thing that came of my night was that I didn't do something stupid like call him and beg him to come home before we hashed our shit out.

When I woke, my face was raw from the tears; half my false eyelashes had fallen out, old glue sticking one eye shut. It took me twenty minutes to remove the remaining lashes.

Afterward, I stared in the mirror, not recognizing myself. My freckles were everywhere. My roots were showing. If I took a selfie, I doubt half my followers would even recognize me.

But this is me, isn't it? Beneath all the veneer?

I realize, belatedly, that last night was the first time Mateo's ever seen me without makeup.

Even after we moved in together, I often got up before him to brush my teeth. Touch up my makeup. Brush my hair, run oil through the tips. Spritz on some perfume.

But right now, the idea of going out into the real world, making an appointment with my eyelash technician, to take the steps to put my face back on feels like a step too big.

I debate putting on makeup, just to feel pretty. To feel less cutesy with all my childish freckles. But I can't stomach the effort.

Would Mateo still want me, I wonder, if I never wore it again? If I stopped going to spin classes that made me want to heave, if I stopped doing a monthly cleanse, primping and plucking every inch of my body? Without the polish, would he still love me?

I wish I could just light a candle called Vagina Power, feel my inner feminist roar, and free myself from the fear that Mateo, or even I, can only love persona me, not the real me. Not the messy, insecure, supremely anxious me.

I look pathetic. I feel even worse. And I can't stand to look at myself in the mirror a moment longer, so I track down my phone and face the music.

Of course, I'm flooded with notifications, just like last night. One, in particular, makes my already unstable heart race.

Forty minutes later, I'm banging on Portia's door.

"Girl, who died?" Portia asks when I rush past her into her apartment. "And what the hell are you wearing?"

I look down at my workout shorts and hoodie, two sizes too big. It's not expensive or couture. I bought it at a thrift shop years ago. It was so comfortable, and I loved it, but I never wanted to wear it except around my apartment before I moved in with Mateo, after which I buried it in the back of my closet. The hoodie has a paint stain on the chest, two holes on one arm, and is a god-awful mustard yellow.

No lashes. No makeup. Thrift store clothes.

It's how I know my downward spiral is growing wider.

I look up and meet Portia's scrutinizing gaze, expecting her to call out how different I look. Instead, she shakes her head inamusement but says nothing. Tentatively, I follow her into the kitchen, where she's prepping veggies and fruit for her weekly smoothies, portioning each out for the freezer. I do this, too, when I've got my shit together.

Portia's wearing an expensive silk kimono robe, and it flutters as she moves, highlighting her graceful curves. I'm mighty jealous of her confidence and nonchalance in the face of my emotional breakdown.

"You gonna explain why you're rolling in here looking like an extra in a zombie flick?"

I take a seat at the counter. "Did you see the post?"

She nods slowly, face grim.

"It's been drivin' me insane trying to figure out why she would do this. I thought we were friends. It took me forever to get the courage to pick up my phone this morning, and then I saw her post. I'm tagged in it, like, a million times. I can't escape this bullshit." Sniffing, I suck in a breath, but I refuse to keep crying. Not over Delaney.

"Well, at least you don't have to worry about her and Mateo having an affair. He called this morning, by the way. Asked me to check on you." She snorts, "As if I wouldn't. Anyway, apparently, he called his lawyer at the ass crack of dawn, who showed up at Delaney's place to scare the living shit out of her. Must have worked."

I can't believe he did that.

Then again, I can. Mateo always shows up in those behind-the-scenes ways with big, grand gestures. He just can't show up for the little, everyday things, like telling me about his day or talking about his feelings.

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