Page 98 of The Puppet Master
“Actually, it was the Egyptians.” Sawyer pulls the brush back and inserts it into the tube with a smirk. “They believed the gods favored it… Both men and women of all social classes wore makeup, so…” He shrugs and opens a circular container.
He dabs a brush along the red powder surface before bringing it to my cheeks. I stare at his chest.
“I used to do this for my mother,” he says, his tone more serious than before.
I move my eyes to his face, but I can’t tell what he’s feeling from his expression alone. It’s blank.
“When she was having a hard time getting out of bed, a shower, a nice dress, and a brighter face usually helped.” He meets my eyes for a moment, the sky blue piercing me so hard that I hold my breath. “Maybe it’s a misogynistic ploy to make women feel inferior. Or maybe it’s a tool that allows women to feel confident. I suppose it depends on who you ask.”
He studies both of my cheeks before gently smoothing his thumb beneath my right eye. It gives me an excuse to close them, which I’m grateful for. Most of the time, Sawyer is either playful or distant. It’s hard to look at him when he’s fully here in the present with me, his eyes like spotlights to the soul.
I squirm on the stool while he packs up the makeup.
“Was she sick?” I ask when I can’t help it. I feel I know a lot about Sawyer’s recent past, but it’s hard to imagine him as a child, carefully helping his mother into the shower, picking out a dress, applying powder to her face with fumbling, youthful hands.
“Sometimes,” he says without the remorse I search for. It’s just a fact for him. He rests the pouch on the sink then turns back to me, the lines of his face smoothed. “All done… I need togo talk to a friend about something, so I’m going to leave you, but a Keeper will come get you in about an hour.”
He stands up straight, towering over me while I stay perched on the stool. I just stare at him while he takes both of my bare shoulders. His palm grazes the very top of the white, strapless dress that shows my breasts as if I was wearing nothing at all.
“You’re gonna be fine, Luna. Don’t be nervous… I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
I blink, my eyelashes feeling heavier than usual, but words don’t exit my mouth. We both know he’s lying. He won’t be at the ceremony. He doesn’t have the energy to insist, and I don’t have the energy to argue.
For a moment, we might have been friends. At the very least, we weren’t enemies.
“Can I ask you something?” My voice is weaker than I’d like.
He curves his lips, but I see the nervousness plainly on his face. He’s normally so good at hiding. Whatever he thinks I’ll ask must be bad.
“What is the money really for?”
A breath whooshes from his nostrils as he leans on the sink. He looks relieved.
“I told you. I promised it to some people.” He tips his head. “Back when I had it.”
“Is it…” I search my brain. “A gambling debt?” My words come out slowly, like I know that it doesn’t make sense as I’m saying it.
He laughs. “Do you think I’mthatbad at cards?”
“You could’ve picked the wrong horse…”
“I don’t owe anyone anything. It isn’t like that.”
“Then what is it like?”
His amusement loosens as he looks into what must be serious eyes. I’m not sure why I want to know this. I’m not sure why it matters to me.
But it does. And for once, I’d like him to tell me the truth. If I mean anything at all, he’ll tell me the truth. Call it a goodbye present.
“I just…” I take in a deep breath. “I just want to know what’s worth more than my life.”
He flinches at that. His head turns away as he rolls his neck and crosses his arms over his chest. For seconds he stares at the wall, his shaggy blond hair ruffled from him running his hand through it. It looks so boyishly perfect, and I get the strangest urge to touch it. Comb it with my fingers, inhale its scent even when I know it’d kill me to smellhershampoo.
I wish I could hate him. It would make this so much simpler.
“It’s…” He sighs. “A long time ago, when I was fresh out of college, my business partner and I struck a deal that gave me my first big paycheck—a hundred thousand dollars.” He uncrosses his arms, lightly gripping the sink as he turns his head toward me but doesn’t meet my eyes. “My mother had passed away a few years before that, and there wasn’t any money for a funeral or burial or anything, so when I got the money, it was very important to me to make up for that. Or, you know,try. So I donated fifty thousand dollars in her name to a mental health organization.”
He hikes a shoulder. “It didn’t feel like enough. It still doesn’t feel like enough. But when I got more money, and eventually, the island happened and Ireallyhad it, I started a foundation for schizophrenia in her name. It funds research. Early intervention. Family housing. Medications for people with no insurance.
