“It’s Matt.”
“What are you talking about? It can’t be Matt. I didn’t give him my cell phone number.” My brain is moving much slower tonight and it takes me a second to process before I place my hands on my hips and glare at her.
“I did,” she says simply, seemingly pleased with herself. “You dozed off and while you were sleeping he asked if he could have it, so I gave it to him.”
“Well, why did you do that?” I ask, my voice cracking a bit while I bite the inside of my lip.
“Why not?”
“Gah,” I grumble, before trotting into the bathroom to groan one more time. Why is she giving Matt my cell phone number? We’re in the same hotel for heaven’s sake! I peek out of the bathroom and she’s typing something on my phone. “What are you doing now, troublemaker?”
“I’m telling him it’s your phone.”
“Gah!”
Her voice bubbles with laughter as she calls out, “Me thinks thou dost protest too much.”
I stick my tongue out at her before I close the door so I can pee and compose myself in private. I’m not really sure why I’m so upset. Maybe because you like him, says the little voice. “Oh, shut up!”
“Who are you talking to,” Peyton yells through the door, “your little friend?”
I flush the toilet and take extra time washing my hands while staring at my reflection. My skin is touched by the sun, the caramel highlights in my hair are shining, and my eyes are bright. Hmph. I look happy. Almost.
It’s quiet when I make my way back out to the bedroom but I catch the devious look still stuck to Peyton’s face.
“So did he text back?” I ask, fiddling with the hem of my skirt and secretly hoping the answer is yes.
“What do you care?” She smiles, lifting one of her shoulders in a shrug. “You don’t want him texting you anyway.”
I lob a pillow at her head and she nails me right back before I settle myself on the bed, leaning against the plush velvet headboard. “So what was up with that sex story, you being tied up? Quite the adventurous one in high school, weren’t you?”
“Hey! Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.” She grins while rolling a strand of hair around her finger. “What about you? What was up with sex in the haunted house? It’s dark and scary in there.”
“Exactly,” I respond, picking at my chipped fingernail polish, a reminder that I need to re-do my manicure first thing in the morning. “Do you want to know the real reason that Eddy and I were having sex in there?” I ask, my eyes focused on a speck of lint on the duvet.
She waggles her eyebrows and swivels her hips, a wicked smile on her face. “Because you were horny?”
I shake my head back and forth, continuing to look down, unable to face my reality. “Because it was dark in there, and that way he couldn’t see my scars and find me repulsive like all the other guys did.” I’m not sure what possesses me, but I lift up my tank revealing the scars covering my belly and Peyton’s hand flies to her mouth.
The playfulness of the moment before is gone, replaced by thick, polluted air, the grin on Peyton’s face disappearing completely. She scoots up the bed and sidles next to me, twisting our arms together, her head against mine. If anyone had told me a couple of months ago that Peyton and I would be bonding like this, I would’ve laughed in their face. But here we are.
“Oh honey,” she says, taking my hand, her voice full of empathy. “I don’t know what to say. There aren’t enough words to express how awful it makes me feel that you had to go through that…but…you’re a wonderful person…and those scars don’t matter. They don’t make you who you are….”
I could tell her story after story about how they’ve mattered. How men have walked out on me time and time again, mouths gaping open at the sight of my scars, words filled with lame excuses battering my ears. I’ve heard the choking swallows, had the lights turned off more times than I care to remember. But instead, I don’t respond. I don’t tell her how wrong she is, that the ugliness has not only stained my skin but seeped its way into my soul, defining me…every single day of my life.
Chapter Sixteen – Matt – Scary clowns
I run a finger over the row of dress shirts hanging in the closet that are, of course, organized by color, and settle on a crisp, white one. Slacks are an easier decision. The only color I brought was black. I’m forgoing the fucking tie. I don’t like wearing them and I think I can actually get away with it here, not so much when I’m in the office, so I’m taking full advantage.
My obsession with having things in order started after Mom died. Her death seemed to affect me the most, well, aside from Dad. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m the oldest and had been with her the longest, but her passing left a huge gap in my life, especially given the fact that Dad checked out to a degree once it happened. I’ve tried to taper it, but if anything, it’s gotten worse. But shit, if it helps me cope, I suppose there are a lot worse things.
My mind drifts to Fran as I eye the cell phone sitting on the bedside table, recalling wanting to send her another text last night but deciding against it. I don’t really know what she would’ve thought, but I had a great time yesterday and just wanted to tell her again.
The picture of her when we returned to the hotel is cemented in my brain. Her cheeks, pink from the sun, bringing out the green in her eyes, her hair an array of tangles from the salty breeze, her skin tanned and beautiful. She does things to me and she’s messing with my head. I look down at my dick. No, I wasn’t talking about you. Although.…
I slip on my shoes, swipe my briefcase from the closet and my watch from the corner table. The clock reads 8:45 a.m. and I’m seriously late. Shit. The conference starts at nine and I was supposed to be down there to prepare a half hour ago.
In a mad dash out the door to catch the elevator, I check my briefcase to make sure I have all the necessary blueprints for my presentation. The car stops on the twenty-third floor and I’m willing it to hurry up. I’m typically very organized and have everything laid out and ready to go before I present, but something’s off…or someone’s throwing me off. Fuck.
The doors open and my smile widens. Fran steps onto the elevator and I suddenly can’t remember what the hell I was doing or what I was looking for in my portfolio.
“Morning,” I greet, checking out the black pencil skirt, black spiked heels, and white blouse she opted to wear today. Her hair is piled atop her head with a few strands dangling around her face. “You look…nice.”
“Thanks,” she replies, taking a moment to observe my clothing choice as well, and from the look on her face it seems she approves. “You do, too.”
For some reason, unbeknownst to me, she walks over to the other side of the elevator as if she wants to be as far away from me as possible. I showered this morning so I couldn’t possibly be offensive but I lift my arm anyway just to be sure.
We start moving again and I try to reel in my thoughts from Fran and focus on what I need to accomplish this morning, but it’s hard when I catch a whiff of something sweet in the air. It’s that jasmine scent again but this time it’s mixed with something, maybe vanilla, and it’s very distracting.
The elevator comes to a jolting stop and the floor shifts beneath us. I look over at Fran who drops her briefcase and covers her face with her hands that are now shaking.
“Fran? Are you all right?” I ask, concern lacing my voice.
When she lifts her hands away, I notice the milky white color of her cheeks before she staggers backwards, bracing both arms flat against the wall. Her eyes are cloudy and unfocused, her breathing accelerated. I think she might be having a panic attack. Immediately, I push the emergency button on the wall to tell whoever is on the other end that the elevator is stuck and we need help right away. A man’s gravelly voice comes over the speaker.