Page 10 of Dark & Deceitful

There’s a throat clearing, and someone stuffs a wad of tissues into my hand. I clutch them to my chest like a lifeline.

“I’m so sorry,” I blubber against the stranger’s neck.

“It’s gonna be okay, sweetheart.” He rocks me against him and hums. The scent of aftershave and leather mixed with his soothing sounds somehow calms me a little, just enough to breathe deep and stop shaking.

I’ll never be okay again.

Not after this.

My mom is dying.

And she’s all I got.

FOUR

Present Day

Standingin front of the bathroom mirror, I smooth a hand down the side of my floor-length, patchwork, earth-toned boho skirt. It’s wrinkly. It’s supposed to be. It adds texture, but I don’t know if this is the right outfit to wear to the shop today… ya know, ontheday. Perhaps I should rock head-to-toe black. Meh. I don’t know why I’m overthinking this.

Grumbling at my indecision, I adjust my knitted, copper-colored, cropped tank so my bra doesn’t show. I picked this little cutie up from a boutique in the town over. It’s handmade perfection. There’s something special about wearing clothes made by another person, not a machine. Don’t you agree?

On one of the talon jewelry hooks on my wall, I untangle my cream macramé necklace and dig through my crystal-filled selenite bowl in the corner of my vanity. Did you know selenite cleanses crystals? If you didn’t. Now you do. I select a gorgeous, tumbled tiger’s eye because it matches my outfit and provides protection. Slipping the wooden bead up the necklace, I place the crystal inside, slide the bead back into place, and over myhead it goes, setting in the space between my breasts. To connect with Mother Earth in one of the many ways my mother taught me, I pick two much smaller tumbled crystals from the bowl and tuck them into my bra, underneath my breasts, so you can’t see the slight bulge. Boob rocks are what I’ve grown to call them. Silly, perhaps. But I would rather go into the world protected in any way possible—a little jade for luck and carnelian for courage doesn’t hurt anyone.

Sorting through more necklaces, and I have a ton, I pick two more in varying lengths to layer. From another hook, I collect a shitload of bracelets—some beaded, some braided, and a few jangly ones, all of them in tones that compliment my outfit.

If you haven’t caught on yet, I’m stalling.

Sunshine’s in the living room, doom scrolling on his phone as I drag my feet. Sure, I’m excited to see whatever gift gifts he’s brought me. I’m nervous, too. I never go to work without looking at least somewhat put together. What kind of example would I be setting if I did that?

Opening the overstuffed drawer all of us makeup lovers have, I stare into the abyss of lipsticks, more eyeshadow pallets than I can count on two hands, and every popular must-have mascara, eyeliner, and fancy brush online influencers rave about.

Wasting no time, because I have my makeup routine down to a science, I get to work. Moisturizer first, no foundation. Thanks to a killer nighttime skincare routine, I have gorgeous skin for my age.Ew.No. I hate those words. When you’re twenty, you never sayfor my age. Once you hit your mid-thirties, it becomes second nature. I don’t like it. So, let’s make a pact right here and now that neither of us ever say that shit again.For someone our age.You mean someone with laugh lines. Someone who has lived a little or a lot. Nope. We’re owning our bodies and our style.

I sweep a peachy blush across my cheeks and get to the fun stuff. Adding a smidge of earthy orange shadow to my lid, I deepen it with a rich brown for a smokey eye and finish with a shimmery copper to intensify the look. On goes three swipes of mascara, yes three, thin eyeliner, and a rich, brown lip with a little coppery shimmer in the center.

Giving myself an approving once-over, I blow my reflection a kiss in the mirror and smile.

What a transformation.

I look good, if I do say so myself.

Emboldened to finish today’s fashionable look, I use the curling wand that’s been cooking in my sink—don’t come for me, that’s where it goes—to curl the ends of my chest-length hair to add a bit of chunky texture.

With a quick wipe to rid any loose eyeshadow from my face and a dab of a sexy essential oil blend to my pulse points. I tidy up and turn off the curler before heading into the bedroom. In the closet, I snag a brown cardigan off a hanger. It’s too damn cold to leave the house with bare arms, and brown fashion boots from the shoe rack.

Alright.

Let’s do this thing.

I’m ready.

Running back into the bathroom really quick, I snag a few smaller crystals from my bowl and stuff them into my cardigan pocket for later. Then I make the grand exit—hips swaying with false confidence, my bootsclick, click, clickacross the hardwood floor, as I join Sunshine in the living room. He’s exactly where I said he was, chilling on my couch, booted feet up on my coffee table, ankles crossed.

The moment he looks up from his phone, his eyes round, and he whistles. “Damn, Sweets, you look amazing.”

Pressing my lips together as my stomach fizzes from his compliment, I curtsy. It’s wobbly and far from graceful, but it draws a warm chuckle from Sunshine as he unfolds from the sofa to stand and stretches both arms above his head, expelling a loud yawn.

“You ready to blow this popsicle stand?” He offers me his hand, palm up, and I clasp mine in his.

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