Page 2 of Lucy and Her Wicked Three

I finish getting ready, checking my makeup in the mirror, which has barely smudged; lashes in place, primer base coat and contouring on point, barely a freckle in sight.

Following Portia out of the building, we walk a few blocks to the cafe, getting a table right away, despite the lunch rush.

I set my vintage Valentino bag down next to some artfully arranged white coffee mugs, the chrome espresso machine spraying steam in the backdrop, and snap a few pictures. While flipping through the black and white noir filters, the server comes over, and we rattle off our lunch orders: fenugreek salads, one almond shortbread to share, and Chaga oat milkshakes with a shot of espresso.

I never take a bite without taking a picture, so I rearrange the leafy greens before eating. After posting, I feel animmediate rush when notifications pop up with instant likes and comments.

Seeking validation through social media is a difficult habit to break. Not that I'm trying that hard to break it. It's too easy, too quick, too convenient. I allow five more minutes of scrolling before forcing myself to close the app and check my messages. My heart lights up when I see Mateo's name, but it dims when all he says is he'll be home late tonight. No explanation why.

I don't want to be that person. The one who doesn't trust her partner and demands to know who, what, and where. It takes effort to slip my phone back into my purse and keep eating.

I love Mateo. I'm obsessed, wild, crazy, madly in love with him. Sometimes I think he feels the same; when he holds me like I'm a treasure and it seems like, in those moments, he's as deep down in love as I am.

Other times, I feel like he's holding back, hiding parts of himself, like I barely know him.

And, every so often, he'll give me this intense and scrutinizing look, like I'm an unsolvable math problem. I don't know if Mateo loves me as much as I love him. I don't know if he saves that hidden half of himself for someone else.

Which only makes me feel like I'm not enough. Maybe if I worked out more, went on another cleanse, or changed the volume of my eyelash extensions...

Maybe if I just tried harder, then he wouldn't realize I'm actually incredibly average, and everything he sees is a facade. That I'm an insecure, hot mess.

Something's missing in our relationship. There's a small, empty space between us, the chasm growing wider the longer we're together.

A sudden ringing in my ears brings a rush of heat rising up my chest. I lift my sweater, waving it away from my body to generate some air. I always get hot when I get anxious.

Before I can spiral, I pick up my phone and open my social media accounts to distract myself from having an anxiety attack for no particular reason at all.

We're on our fifteenth outfit change, and I'm running on caffeine and green juice and about to fall over.

Ziva yells at me to turn and walk away from the camera, showing off the intricate material of the athletic strappy yoga bra and leggings that make my ass look like it can shake, all while staying magically lifted and firm. The photographer and lighting assistant move in sync around us, like a choreographed dance, while Portia and I pretend to laugh like we're playing in the sun, even though we're posed in front of a stark white backdrop. Who knows where they'll drop our images in the editing room.

"Okay, we're doing good people. Let's move on to the last set. Change over!" Ziva shouts, clapping her hands, and all the assistants reemerge from the depths of the low-lit room, outfits in hand.

One assistant, Becca, manhandles me, stripping me down, and I try to help, but she slaps my hand away.

"That's supposed to be my job," a deep, sexy—also very annoyed—voice grumbles from behind me. Becca, spooked, stands abruptly, job half-finished. I take pity on her and tug my feet out of the obscenely tight material and, pants-less, turn to face Mateo. He's not smiling, but he never smiles, and lucky for both of us, mine turns genuine. Squealing, I jump into his arms, and he catches me.

"If you didn't want to see another woman undress me, you shouldn't come to a photo shoot." He's got nothing to worry about, I've only got eyes for him.

Mateo merely grunts in response, gripping my bare hips with his strong hands.

"Ugh, I hate you both. Get a room."

Mateo ignores Portia, who's being manhandled by her own assistant, and leans down to kiss my forehead. Reaching up, I lovingly brush his hair back, sliding my fingers through the thick, dark strands. It's a little messier than usual, like he's been running his hands through it all day in stress.

"What are you doing here?"

"I got out a little early, thought I'd come find you."

Mateo's schedule is a monster, he never shows up unannounced. He continues, "It'll be long days the rest of the week. There's some speculation about some shifts in the Chinese market this week. We might get caught in the crosshairs." He glances down at his watch like it'll magically provide insight into the problem. I don't actually know or care why the stock market in China is so important to the stock market in the U.S., only that it means some company Mateo works with will have a very good week or a very bad week, and someone somewhere will lose lots of money. That's about the extent of my stock market knowledge.

Mateo, son of Spanish immigrants who came to the U.S. with nothing, became obsessed with making his family money. He's incredible with numbers and predicting financial and market trends, so he quickly shot up the corporate ladder. Then he situated his folks in a beautiful house upstate, and now he rarely sees them.

Like with my work, somewhere down the line, he started for the right reasons.

I feel Becca snapping my strappy bra at my back, like a jockey and his whip, reminding me we're also in a time crunch. Mateo notices and shoots her a look, and by the sounds of it, he's effectively scared her off for a minute. She'll be rightback, though; her appetite to outperform the other assistants is stronger than her fear of Mateo's glare. He leans down, arms wrapped around me, and presses his soft lips into mine. Lost and in love, I let it consume me, forgetting where we are and who's around, my tongue dancing with his.

Somewhere in the distance, Ziva starts yelling again, and reluctantly, we let go. Like always, he doesn't say anything, not goodbye, not I love you. He says it all with the intensity of his stare and a final brief kiss on my cheek. Tilting his head toward the door, I nod in understanding. Breathless, I tell him, "I'll meet you out front in a bit." And then he's off.

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