Page 17 of The Girl He Loves
Following dinner, I catch up on work. Because of today’s little excursion, my schedule was shot to hell. I hate breaking my routine, and I only usually do so in extreme circumstances, or if a stronger compulsion makes me do so, as was the case here.
Brian walks into my office, curious. His eyes dart over the papers spread out on my desk as he nears. He kisses the top of my head. “Working late? That’s not like you.”
“There’s a lot of work these days,” I explain, not taking my eyes off my desk.
“Tristan’s done his homework,” he tells me. “He’s having an easier time these days.”
“That’s great,” I say absentmindedly. Tristan has always struggled more than Trevor. His brother usually breezes through tests and assignments, although that doesn’t prevent him from stressing over them. Brian and I usually take turns helping Tristan out with his schoolwork.
“You almost done? I thought we could watchBroadchurch.”Broadchurchis a British series following the story of a missing boy. Being the mother of two boys, it absolutely wrecks me. I can’t even imagine what that would be like. We’re still on the first season.
“Almost.” I shoot him a smile. Caught up in my work, I’d completely forgotten about Ava, but just for a second. She comes back to me, and my smile fades.
* * *
We’re stretchedout on the sofa, my head on Brian’s lap. He’s stroking my hair as we watch the program. It helps me relax at night, and tonight is no exception. After years of therapy, I can somewhat compartmentalize. It’s something Dr. Russell and I have been working on tirelessly. I settle my worries, one by one, into a drawer, and close it, only to be opened at a convenient time. The opening of the drawer is key — I need to ruminate over these concerns. I sometimes schedule my ruminating time. I list it on my schedule as ‘lounging’ because to pen ‘ruminating’ into my schedule just seems crazy, which sadly is exactly what I am.
I’m having a difficult time keeping my stuff in the drawer tonight. Ava keeps popping into my head, unwelcome. So do her parents. Even her adorable cat. They are in themselves, like another show I’ve been watching, binging on.
I spot a stray hair on my white t-shirt. I pick it up and slide the length of it between the pads of my thumb and finger, until I feel the bulbous tiny root. Most people would flick it on the floor, but I’m incapable of doing so. The thought of a lone strand of hair on my hardwood floor would cause me great anxiety. Despite the fact that I couldn’t even see it, my brain would focus on its presence, and I would never be able to enjoy the show.
“Can you pause it for a second?” I ask Brian. “I need a glass of water.”
I take the opportunity to dispose my strand of hair into the garbage, and get myself a glass of water with ice. I’d never dream of telling Brian the truth. He knows I’m crazy but doesn’t quite realize the true extent of it — I hide many of my neuroses from him. It’s best that way.
* * *
It’s Saturday,and I stand in my spacious closet. I’ve taken ownership of about ninety percent of it. Thankfully, Brian doesn’t seem to mind. I’ve set up three shoe racks on the shelf lining the width of it. My shoes are organized by color, a beautiful rainbow of perfectly aligned pointy heeled pumps. Nine West mostly, and a single pair of Valentinos (a gift from Brian for my thirtieth).
I get off on it. Just standing here and gazing at my rainbow of shoes. As soon as I wear a pair, I’ll set it back to its proper place. My little mischievous Tristan has been known to mess with my shoes too. He’s been doing it a lot less lately, but when he was little, he’d drag a chair into my closet to pursue his misdeeds. He probably had to stretch his body to its limits, he was so small. I smile at the memory.
No, it’s decided. I cannot get rid of any of these pumps. To do so would mess the perfect display I’ve created. I’ll need to keep it to clothing. I flip through my dresses, blouses and skirts, looking for a few items I can part with. The brands are all perfect for what I’m looking to do: Tahari, Nine West, Jones New York, Ann Klein and Ralph Lauren mostly.
My pulse races as I select a few pieces — an Ann Klein sheath dress, a Ralph Lauren blouse, and a few other things I haven’t worn in forever. I fold them perfectly and store them in a linen bag. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I know it’s wrong, but I itch for it. I need to see Renee in the flesh. I wonder if she’s as beautiful in real life.
Unfortunately, another bus ride awaits me, but thankfully, this one is short. I absolutely hate everything about public transportation; the germs lurking inconspicuously on every surface, the too-loud people, the chaos, the litter on the floor. Yet I’m compelled to be here because my compulsion to see Renee is stronger than any reservations I might hold toward public transit. Thanks to my extensive ‘research’, I know Renee owns an upscale consignment fashion shop.
I sit up straight, emitting an aloofness that hopefully will keep people at bay, lest someone get the urge to suddenly strike a conversation with me. I stare at a plastic water bottle and an empty bag of potato chips on the dirty floor — it hurts my eyes. I want to turn my gaze away, but for some reason, I can’t. The sight of them helps me take my thoughts off Renee and our impending meeting.
When I finally get to my destination and exit the bus, I draw in a long breath and squeeze a drop of hand disinfectant onto my palm — I have a handy little Purell bottle keychain for such occasions.
I check the map on my phone once again — it’s just around the corner. My heart is beating frantically. My heels are digging into my ankles and my legs feel heavy as I walk slowly down the sidewalk. I’ve dressed the part; a stylish pencil skirt and blouse, and matching heels. My hair is up in a bun, and I’m sporting the low prescription glasses I rarely wear — very librarian chic. A Nine West handbag hangs over one shoulder, and the linen bag of clothes on the other.
I tell myself the story again, because if I say it enough times, I might actually start to believe it. I am Lara Smith, a thirty-something stylish woman who loves fashion and checking out new stores. I’ve heard about this place from my friend Sarah (also fictional). I have no agenda. I’m absolutely normal — not a crazy stalker lady who thinks her husband may be in the midst of a torrid affair with a woman much too young for him, a.k.a your daughter.
When I finally spot the sign in the distance, RESTYLE FOR YOU, my heart jumps into overdrive. There is absolutely no way I can go in there in my current state. I’ll need to relax a little before I step in. I blow out a long breath, just as Dr.Russell has taught me. Long deep breaths, in and out. I tell myself that I don’t need to stress. I am Lara Smith and I’m completely relaxed today, just out and about.
I study the display in the window — it appeases me — everything is esthetically pleasing, arranged just so. The two mannequins are beautifully dressed. One is wearing a pink vintage spring jacket with black detailing. It’s paired with stylish black booties and gloves. The other statue is wearing a pretty flower print dress and tall brown suede books, a Coach handbag. I drink the items in; everything is so beautiful. For a moment, I completely forget about my initial agenda as the fashionista in me rears her pretty head.
I try to peek inside to see if I might catch a glimpse of Renee, but I can’t quite see.
I’ve been standing here long enough. Any longer might look strange to anyone who happens to walk by. I draw in a breath and gently open the shop door. The old-fashioned doorbell chimes, announcing my arrival. Renee, who is at the back, hanging a dress, turns to me and smiles.
“Hello,” she says.
9
Her voice is friendly and welcoming.
