Page 14 of This Much Is True
I can almost hear his smile through the phone. “You got it.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m going to go have a super awkward conversation with Kennedy. Do you want me to bring the stuff over, or are you coming to get it?”
I glance back toward the house. “Can you bring it over?”
“Sure. I’ll let you know when I’m on my way.”
“Thanks, man.”
“No problem.”
“Bye.”
I end the call and sling my arms over the gate overlooking the field. The sun is warm on my face as I stare at the horizon.
“The most important thing is that I keep my head together,” I say, my voice carried off by the wind. “She’s not here for me. She’s here because she needs me as a friend, and I cannot, no matter what, screw that up.”
I pull my arms back and let out a long sigh.
Don’t screw this up. That’s funny. Screwing up is what I do best.
I pivot on my heel and head back to the house.
Chapter Five
Laina
“You would think,” I say, groaning and stepping out of a pile of white fabric, “that getting out of a wedding dress would be easier than this.”
I turn slowly and face the discarded garment.
A heaviness settles in my chest, aching between my breasts. It would be unbearable if there wasn’t an even heavier feeling of contentment in my soul. I catch a glimpse in the full-length mirror leaning against the wall—a mirror I bought at a yard sale and put in that exact spot one summer afternoon.
My hair is swept up in the back, with tendrils framing my face. There’s enough makeup on my skin to film a movie. My breasts hang freely, and the white thong showcases the spray tan I didn’t want to get. I don’tlooklike me. No wonder I haven’tfeltlike me lately. Everything I always liked about myself—my freckles, sense of humor, boundless energy—is all gone.
I race into the en suite and find a washcloth and towel. Using a new bar of soap from beneath the sink, I scrub my face until my skin is pink. The abrasion of the cloth and sting of the soap areprobably as metaphoric as they are cleansing, but when I look in the mirror over the vanity, I’m … free.
“There you are, Laina,” I say, smiling at my reflection. “Nice to see you again.”
It takes longer to settle my hair. Thanks to all the product the glam team used to make it picture-perfect and more bobby pins than was necessary, it takes my fingers and a comb I locate in a drawer to get it in some semblance of normalcy. I find a rubber band and pull it into a ponytail.
Each layer I peel away removes a cloak I knew was uncomfortable but didn’t realize how suffocating it was until now.
Tom won’t come in and see me without makeup and make a snide comment. He won’t mention that I won’t fit into my wedding dress if I don’t get my ass to the gym this morning. There is no chance he’ll come through the door and find a way to work a lyric from one of my songs into the conversation just so he can tease me about thejuvenile languageorridiculous themesof my music.
And the look in his eyes, an arrogance that twinkled just enough to make me nervous, will no longer make my stomach tighten when we inevitably argue about one of those things.
“You’re good,” I whisper to myself. “This is not a dream.”
I wash the soles of my feet and dispose of the cloth in the bottom of the shower.I’ll get that later. Then I make my way to Luke’s closet.
“Okay, we have a shirt from the feed store, one from a power tools company, another from the feed store.” I laugh, sorting through the bin of shirts on the floor. “Oh, here’s a purple one from the feed store. Bet this was an exclusive piece of merch.”
I snort and pull the shirt over my head. The air is filled with the scent of his cologne—a warm pepperiness with a hintof apple, and the smell of his mother’s laundry detergent. The combination makes me smile from ear to ear.
Discarding my thong into the mass of tulle, the last layer of the morning to go, I throw on a pair of his boxers.
