Page 77 of Legs

We brought our makeup bags to the counter, mascara and blush studiously applied. Me between my half-naked friends. Images of Jimmy spun like a broken record through my mind, so I kept quiet, their conversation rolling without me.

“I buy gifts for mistresses,” Ainsley said. “I’m helping men cheat on their wives.”

Gwen cringed, pausing mid-mascara application. “It is pretty shady.”

“Exactly! If I don’t redeem myself, I’ll get visited by the Ghost of Christmas Past, and I do not want to relive my high school days.”

“So change jobs. Take a page from Rachel’s book and start fresh.”

“Aside from the fact that I need the money, I like what I do…just not that aspect of it. And are you ignoring me, Rachel? Because this silent treatment isn’t cool.”

Before I could answer, Gwen snickered. “She’s just uncomfortable. She hates talking to us when we’re topless.”

“Yep,” I said, but their nakedness wasn’t the only thing stealing my speech. These days, if I opened my mouth, I’d lament about how confused I was. And sad. Really sad. I was tired of my voice. “Just can’t focus when ‘the girls’ are out. They are that distracting.”

Ainsley stepped into her jean skirt and made a show of shaking her shoulders (and breasts) before getting dressed. “I consider it a compliment. But back to my disreputable life. I need to make a change. Not become some born-again do-gooder who gives her savings to charity and lives off smiles and happiness, but…I don’t know. Contribute more, maybe?”

Her tone was light, but her face was pensive, like the day we’d had our smoothies and she’d asked if I thought the post-wish blackout was odd. I was no longer sure the event had been a magical twist of fate. I’d be returning to school in August. My tuition hadn’t been paid yet, but I’d been accepted, which meant my resolution was nearly complete. I expected the enchanted power outage to somehow polish the rest of my life. Outside of school, my life didn’t feel particularly shiny.

“What about volunteering?” I asked, forcing my focus back to Ainsley. Whether this was about her wish or not, her frustration was palpable. “Something to make you feel like you’re helping.”

She pushed at her cuticles. “Could be smart, but animal shelters spike my allergies, and working in a soup kitchen isn’t my thing. You know how I get around meat.”

Her vegan-loving self would toss her cookies at the sight of a chicken bone. “Would you consider construction? There are always Habitat for Humanity projects. I know of one going on.”

Because Owen had mentioned one such project the day Jimmy and I had broken up.

My mind often traveled to that time, and many before it, snagging on details like a fisherman desperate for a catch. I couldn’t see a motorcycle without my belly tumbling, couldn’t glimpse a tattoo or dark hair or ripped jeans or belt buckles or leather jackets without fantasizing, wishing Jimmy were waiting for me, at home, with nothing on but a wicked smile.

The cavity in my chest widened. It had been four weeks, and the man was nothing if not persistent—calling constantly, sending emails and texts.

I’m sorry, Ray. So damn sorry.

You’re my sunshine, baby. Let me make things right.

You deserve the world. I will prove how wrong I was.

More of the same flooded my phone, but I never replied. Ainsley, however, did. Her text read: Message her again, and a Candiru fish will appear in your toilet bowl.

He didn’t relent, and I read his words greedily.

“That Habitat thing isn’t the worst idea,” Ainsley said, wrenching me from my depressing thoughts. “Construction guys are hot.”

Owen certainly was. Devastatingly handsome, really. But not as sexy as my bad boy. I clacked my molars together, reminding myself he was no longer mine. “If I were still with Jimmy, I could have helped—his friend volunteers at a site. But I bet it’s easy to research online.”

The notion forced a much-needed grin to my face. I’d once witnessed Ainsley swear like a truck driver after smearing dirt on her white stilettos. Stick her high-fashion self on a construction site, and she’d be liable to break a nail and breathe fire. Video footage would be necessary.

Gwen zipped her gym bag. “Don’t let them give you power tools. I’m not picking you up from the hospital.” Then to me, “Any news on the Jimmy front?”

We gathered our stuff and headed for the door, me trailing behind. “He’s as persistent as ever, but I haven’t replied yet. It’s not that I hate him for what he said or can’t find a way to forgive him. I’m just…I don’t know. I feel stuck.”

Before his onslaught of texts, he’d sent me a note, long and eloquent. He’d explained how messed up he’d been, stuck in the past, stubborn to the last. He even told me about an eye-opening conversation with Sophia (Banana-fana fo-phia). It all made sense.

When with Jimmy, I couldn’t mention Sophia without being met by a brick wall, and the reason he’d joined the contest proved he hadn’t dealt with his issues. He’d twisted the situation with me and his parents, and had transposed all that negative energy on yours truly. It sucked. Like eat a bag of gummy bears and inhale a pint of rum raisin sucked. The girls had even taken me to a bar and pinned his picture on a dart board. Excellent therapy.

He’d since apologized to the moon and back, and I wasn’t one to hold a grudge. Still, I couldn’t reply. Not to yell at him. Not to ask him to stop. Not to forgive him or tell him I dreamed about him nightly, and that I’d gotten into my Viticulture program and was excited and couldn’t wait to pick courses and learn all things wine and finally have a career I loved. I couldn’t break my silence, and I didn’t know why.

He hadn’t given up, yet. If that time came, I wasn’t sure what I’d do.