Page 2 of The Girl He Loves
He’s just like his dad. He loves to play and tease. Trevor, on the other hand, is more like me; a little serious and very organized, but loves a good laugh once in a while.
I smile when I spot it. I’m grinning but my heart also beats faster than it should. I walk over to my bookshelf and stare at it for about three seconds before deciding to restore the order. In a moment like this, I always entertain the possibility of not doing anything, not adjusting, not making it right. What would be the worst possible scenario? A book out of order on my shelf. The world would go on. No one would die. I know this. Lord knows, Brian has repeated it to me enough times. I know it, but I can’t help myself. It’s a compulsion, an urge stronger than anyone can imagine. I need to make it right.
The book is conspicuous, much larger than its neighbors, a non-fiction book nestled in romance fiction, its spine turned towards the back of the bookshelf, the edges of its pages visible. It makes me breathe so fast, puts me on edge. It’s an itch I absolutely need to scratch.
When I finally take the book and return it to its rightful place, spine outward, I breathe easier. I smile at the thought of who could have been messing with me today. Brian or Tristan? They think I’m funny. They think having a serious psychological disorder is something to laugh at.
When it’s anything but.
* * *
I havethe fastest shower humanly possible following my workout. I dry my short bob straight. I don’t look at my reflection while I dry, I watch the people behind me. I love to listen in on other’s conversations — always have. I’m such a creep.
I don’t have any friends at the gym. I go in, do my thing, and leave with a wave goodbye to whoever is at the reception desk. Everyone but me seems to have friends here. I always see women chatting like old friends, and it makes me a little envious.
I stare at my reflection; dark bob, green eyes, square face, heart-shaped mouth. I’ve seen it a thousand times before. It’s of no interest to me. I just pretend to look at myself, but really, I’m spying.
The two middle aged women; early forties or so, are oblivious. They’re getting dressed, back into their day clothes. They’re letting it all hang out, asses on display and breasts flopping. I don’t understand this — I envy their lack of self-consciousness. I don’t stare of course. I wouldn’t want them to think I’m a weirdo. I am, but I don’t want them to know that. Even if they are complete strangers.
One is dark skinned with a short crew cut, the other is fair, with greying blonde hair and glasses.
They start off with the weather. Spring is finally here. It’s about time. The winter has been rough. Crew cut says she’ll need to buy a new lawnmower to mow her lawn. Glasses says that stuff is so expensive. I wonder why they’re worrying about such things. Don’t they have husbands? If I had a lawn, I’m sure Brian would be the one mowing it. Crew cut says she fell last time she was working in the yard, and she can’t handle falling, with her bum knee and all. Glasses says she’s noticed the knee scar, and always wondered.
I want to see the scar, but I don’t want to be obvious. I glance quickly. I see it… it’s kind of horrendous. Crew cut explains it was from a surgery to remove a tumor a few years ago. I feel so bad for her. She says she’s really self-conscious about it when she goes to the beach on vacation. I want to jump in and tell her not to be. Her and Gerald apparently enjoy going on vacation. So she is married after all. Gerald, be a man and mow your lawn.
“Gerald always says to me, ‘Look at all those huge three-hundred pound heifers in thong bikinis at the pool, and you’re worried about your scar.’ I guess he has a point,” Crew cut says.
I cringe a little.
“Oh, I know,” Glasses says. “I see them too when we go to Aruba. Don’t they have no shame. They shouldn’t even be allowed on the beach.”
Crew cut laughs out loud.
My jaw hangs. I’m shocked. These women are horrible. I want to punch them in the face. What can I do to rectify this situation? I believe in karma, and Glasses is about to get hers.
I turn and walk over to her. “I’m sorry,” I say sweetly. “Is your name Miranda?”
“No,” she says, confused. “Why?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. You look exactly like an old friend of my mother’s. I’m so sorry… you just look exactly like her, and you must be about her age… sixty-ish?”
Her mouth drops and she’s speechless for a few seconds. “Uh, actually… I’m forty-three,” she says. She looks completely devastated.
I smile inside. “Oh, I’m sorry… I didn’t mean anything… never mind.” I walk away and pack up my stuff.Take that, you fat-shaming bitch.
“Sixty? Seriously?” Crew cut says. “You don’t look a day over forty, Kelly.”
“Thanks, Sarah,” Kelly says, but I can hear the anguish in her voice.
My job is done.
When I getto Ruth’s Diner, Abigail and Gretchen are already there. Abigail is a vision as always, tall and slim, about five inches taller than me, beautiful and ethereal.
She waves a hand when she spots me. Her and Gretchen are sitting in a booth, facing each other. Gretchen hasn’t seen me yet. Abigail rises to greet me with a hug. Today, she’s wearing a long flower patterned dress with tall black boots. She always dresses very feminine, and wears her long blonde hair in waves — she looks like a woman in a renaissance painting.
I lean down to give Gretchen a hug. “Don’t get up.” I slide next to her. Of all my friends, Gretchen is the most like me, a little uptight, with similar fashion tastes. We favor cute pencil skirts, pretty heels and frilly blouses. But we differ when it comes to our hair. Her long hair is often braided, curled, straight, worn in a bun or a loose up-do. It always changes. Occasionally, she dyes the ends… blue, purple, red. Mine on the other hand, is always in a straight bob…. chocolate brown.
Gretchen glances at her watch. “Twelve-thirty exactly,” she teases.
