Page 64 of Wild Eyes
And I like that.
I don’t rush to do my hair and makeup in the morning “to look presentable,” as my mom would say—as if I’m apparently repulsive when I haven’t spent hours primping. And I don’t rush past the mirror either. I stop and stare at myself. My eyes. My nose. The light lines on my skin. The pores that I can never get quite small enough.
Each time, I’m less alarmed by the sight of myself. Each time, I like what I see just a little bit more.
I nap. At night, I sleep like the dead. I don’t even hear West leave in the morning, and when I wake up late, I don’t beat myself up about it. I never realized the extent of my exhaustion.
When the anger hits, I throw rocks into the lake and watch them crash down onto the silken surface.
After a couple of days, I don’t even miss my phone. Instead, I read an old bodice-ripper romance I find on a shelf in West’s living room within one day. When it’s over, I feel happy and optimistic. Something about that guaranteed happy ending cheers me up. And I realize scrolling my phonenevermade me feel that way.
After four days of almost constant silence and nothing but my own company, I feel ready to face other humans.
Just maybe not West.
The two of us seem unable to quit bumping into each other. It’s funny at this point. What makes it less funny is the way my body reacts to the mere sight of him, like it doesn’t realize my brain is a fucking mess. Not to mention West has made it clear, he’s not in a place for anything serious.
And I don’t think I can do anything casual. Not with him. With him, I feel downright possessive.
Plus, my time here in Rose Hill is but a blip on the radar of my life, and I’ll eventually have to leave.
I peer at myself in the mirror, popping my lips together to press my freshly applied lipstick evenly across them.
It’s red. Brightred.
My parents would hate it and tell me it’s not my brand. But with so many miles between us and all the shit I found out, my brand feels less important than ever.
As do they.
Sure, I see their emails when I check my inbox, but I feel no inclination to answer them beyond saying my phone was misplaced and I can only be reached via email. I told them I was taking a breather, and I am.
Their very own walking, talking paycheck has pulled her head out of the clouds, and I think they’re a little scared of the view I’ve got now. A little worried about what I might find with my feet firmly planted on the ground.
I think what I’m finding is myself. And the knowledge that I won’t let what they’ve done to me stand.
A quick glance at my watch tells me I should make my way to the main house. Rosie is picking me up at seven, and I’ve got five minutes to wander up there.
One last glance in the mirror brings a smile to my face. I’m wearing a black tank bodysuit to match the dainty black stiletto sandals that are wrapped around my ankles. They peek out from the frayed hemline of my skinny blue jeans that are so tight they look painted on.
I’ve flat-ironed my freshly washed hair into a silky curtain that falls midway down my back once I take all the curls out. The bruising on my face is all but gone, leaving a pale-yellow tone that was easily covered with makeup.
A few pieces of simple gold jewelry complete the outfit, and I reach for my leather jacket as I turn to leave.
I’m most likely overdone for a small mountain town, but I look sexy. Not cute and not sweet. And thatfeels new and somehow intrinsically me. Or at least the version of me I’m getting to know.
I walk gingerly to the main house, trying to keep the narrow heels from sinking into the porous ground beneath me, and breathe out a sigh of relief when I make it to the driveway. Rosie hasn’t arrived yet, so I take a moment to gaze up at the farmhouse.
All the stray toys that were out when I first arrived have been tidied up or put away. I find myself missing that lived-in first impression. I’m barely acquainted with Emmy and Oliver, but the absence of their chaos saddens me. It makes me think of West asking me over for dinner.
A pang of guilt about turning him down hits me. It was an attempt at self-preservation, but now I’m wondering if I misunderstood. I wonder if the weeks they’re gone are too quiet for a man so vivacious and bursting with energy.
As though I’ve summoned him with my thoughts, he strides out the front door, phone pressed between his ear and shoulder as he locks up.
The shirt he’s wearing fits snugly around his broad shoulders. It’s like a polo with buttons all the way down the front. On the back are the words “The Ball Busters,” along with a logo displaying a bowling ball and pins.
I knew he was on a bowling team but seeing him all decked out makes me giggle.
He spins at the sound, eyes zeroing in on me.
