Page 57 of The Young & the Sinner

Olivia

I textedMason early Sunday morning.

Me: Hey, are you busy today?

I felt brave just sending that text. Although we texted occasionally, it was mostly Mason who initiated the conversation, and it was mostly about him wanting to know how I felt that day. I saw him almost every day, and he still felt the need to check up on me every morning. The action was sweet, but I couldn’t tell if it meant anything more.

It didn’t take him long to respond. The three dots showed up almost instantly, indicating that he was typing.

Mason: No, why?

I took a deep breath.

Me: Can you come over? I have something to give you. And Max isn’t home. I’d much rather not spend any Sundays at home by myself.

That was the truth. Sundays were when the memories of being held down became the strongest for me. I was assaulted on a Sunday, and though it had been bearable so far, it was only because Max was usually home with me. Today, he had to meet his assistant for a late lunch to discuss some big meeting they had early tomorrow morning.

I didn’t tell Max how his leaving an hour ago had nearly given me a panic attack. We had been doing so well, and things were on their way to getting back to normal. I couldn’t tell him anything that might set us back.

I looked down at my phone and realized Mason still hadn’t texted back. I sat down on the couch and tried to get over the sting of his rejection. Perhaps I was too forward. I shouldn’t have said anything. I could have given Mason the painting when he came over to visit, and now there was a chance I would have to face him after he tells me no.

I groaned and buried my face in my palms just as my phone chimed with an incoming message.

I peeked at the screen with one eye, and when the words finally came through, I opened my eyes and read it a second time.

Mason: I’ll be there soon.

Soon. He would be here soon. But how soon was soon, and did I have time to make myself look presentable?

I hadn’t put any effort into my looks since the incident, mostly because every time I picked up a lipstick or mascara, I got the unreasonable feeling that by looking pretty, I was asking to be assaulted again. I hated that feeling more than anything else in the world. It wasn’t like I had asked Lorenzo to assault me that Sunday, when I was wearing boyfriend jeans and one of Max’s old t-shirts. And even if I had been wearing something provocative, it still wouldn’t be an invitation to be assaulted. No one had ever asked to be assaulted.

It wasn’t my fault. I knew that. I wrote down the mantra at least twenty times each night before bed to get it through in my head, yet I still felt sick whenever I attempted to put on any makeup.

But perhaps wanting to look pretty for Mason would be all the encouragement I needed to put that feeling behind me. After all, I got the feeling that I could prance around naked in front of Mason and he would still be a gentleman about it.

I ran up the stairs and opened my closet. A quick glace out the window told me the sun was gone and it would rain soon, so a dress was out of the question. I put on some fitted jeans and a thin long-sleeved white t-shirt. It was casual and cute. And it didn’t make me look like I was putting in too much effort.

By the time I got to my bathroom, my hands were trembling with nerves. I stalled by putting in some work on my long hair. Normally, I would either brush it out or pull it into a ponytail. My hair was straight enough that it didn’t require much work. But today I heated up the curling iron and started to section my hair off.

By the time I was done, I had the soft wispy effect going, with the ends curled. I thought I looked feminine enough. And, most importantly, the whole process didn’t make me feel dirty.

I grabbed my favorite shade of red lipstick from my makeup drawer, but I couldn’t bring myself to uncap it. My hands trembled as I stared down at the harmless little tube in my hand, only a little bigger than my thumb.

What was I doing?

It shouldn’t be this hard. Just uncap the lipstick and put some on. I didn’t even have to make it dark. Just a light dab here and there to give my lips some color.

It took me three tries before I could uncap it. I caught my reflection in the mirror just as I brought the red wax to my lips.

I frowned.

I was crying.

Wiping the tears away with my fingers, I let go of the tube and watched it clang into the porcelain sink, a smear of red following its trail.

I couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t put on makeup.

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