Page 42 of Challenged By You
“I’m afraid,” I admit.
“About your date?”
“No, about you wielding sharp implements near my face.”
“You’ll thank me later.”
“Or murder you in your sleep.”
She shrugs as if it makes no never mind. And then plucks the first hair out of my brow.
“Crap!” I use both hands and shove into her stomach. “Who agreed to this shit?”
“You did when you rolled over in the middle of the night—waking me from a sound sleep, mind you—desperation in your voice. ‘Elle, what do I do? I don’t know what to wear?’” she mimics my voice. Joan Jett has merged into Roxette, and Elle is getting into her groove as she aims toward my eyebrows again.
“Why can’t I do this on my own?”
“Because the look we’re going for is arched and sexy. I don’t want you to take off so much you look like you’re Elizabethan. The woman was a badass but she had no hair. Who cares if it was due to smallpox? It doesn’t help she looks like she chugged arsenic every time her portrait was painted.”
“Fair point.” Bravely, I lift my chin. “Do your worst.”
“Try my best.” Tipping up my chin, she puffs air into my face—an old trick I taught her, damnit—to open the kids’ eyes when they were scrunched closed. “T, this is only the beginning. By the time I’m done, you won’t recognize yourself.”
“That’s entirely what I’m afraid of.”
* * *
Seventy-five minutes later,Jonas is due to pick me up any minute. My hair has been flat-ironed out so it hangs in a blonde curtain down my back. After a long battle, which I lost, my legs have been slicked with a lotion that has an oil additive so they shine, prompting Elle to declare, “You don’t need to cover those sticks with hose, T. I mean, if I had legs that ran up to my pits despite giving birth to two kids, I’d be tempted to slip on a G-string and greet him at the door with nothing but that.”
“And that’s the difference between us. You retained your confidence after everything was done.” I stare at the options Elle has hung on the bifold doors of my closet. “No,” I say immediately, pointing to the dress she brought with cutouts.
“You’re a party pooper. What if he takes you to some hot club?”
“Then you can say I told you so.” I scrunch my toes against the hardwood, wishing with all my might I had more time to do something ridiculously out of budget like pamper my feet with a real pedicure instead of a soak and coating them with dark lacquer. I take a glittery number with feathers sprouting from random places and shove it hard at Elle with a disdainful “If I feel like I could pluck it to eat, I’m not wearing it.”
Elle chuckles. “Jesus, that’s probably why I still have the tags on it. I didn’t realize why I was attracted to it and can’t bear to put it on.”
Distracted from my final two choices, I glance over my shoulder at my best friend as she slides her dresses into a bag. “Because you want to cook it?” I ask incredulously.
“Maybe subconsciously.”
“And I thought I had problems.”
“You do,” she informs me cheerfully. “You have ten minutes until a knock comes on that door. And when it does, you’re going on your first date since Will. Avoiding the topic will only get you so far.”
“I’m not avoiding the topic.”
“Then what do you call this? You won’t say a damn word about how you’re feeling.”
I lean back against the opposite wall to study the remaining dresses while I gather my thoughts. “I’m terrified.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“Part of me hates myself for allowing things to progress this far. He was interviewing me to apologize for almost costing me my job, Elle. But…”
“But what, T?” A comforting hand hands on my shoulder.
Taking a deep breath, I try to put my thoughts into words. “I’m me,” I say carefully.
