Page 23 of Then You Happened
“Meaning?”
“He’s stayed here in town well after you told him you didn’t want any. I’d say that’s a man who’s willing to weather a little woman’s wrath, and nothing’s wrong with that.”
“I don’t even know what to say.”
“Oh, look. My next client is here.” She offers a sly smirk. “I need to go assist her,” Fi says as she rushes to the doorway. I’m about to call her bluff when I see her helping an octogenarian through the salon.
So, I stand there awkwardly because the ease I had with Fiona disappeared when she did. I glance around and meet the eyes of another stylist, who looks my way and then averts her attention just as quickly.
Heat creeps into my cheeks, permeating every part of me like a firestorm and making the room feel as if it’s closing in on me. My heart starts to race, and I struggle to draw in a breath.
The panic attack hits me out of nowhere.
I used to have them all the time after Fletcher died and I’d found out about everything. They used to hold me hostage, curled in a ball, for hours on end, but I thought I’d shaken them.
I look frantically for the bathroom and run toward it the moment I see it, knowing I’m just adding more to the gossip mill. With the door shut and my hands braced on the counter, I close my eyes and focus on my breathing. On hoping that I didn’t just cause a scene over nothing and calming myself down.
On forcing myself to relax.
And just as fierce as the panic attack is my fury at myself.
It takes everything I have to meet my own eyes in the mirror. Sure, my hair looks better than it has in months, but nothing else does.
The hollow look still haunts my eyes. The straight line of my mouth still looks tense. The weight on my shoulders is still unbearable.
Who is this woman who is a mere shadow of herself?
When did I let this happen?
I never cared what they thought of me—correction, I told myself I didn’t care what they thought of me. Fletcher only reinforced it by keeping me separated from them.
So what am I going to do about it?
Tears burn and well and my knuckles turn white as I grip the edge of the sink. As I struggle to control my emotions and let the anger at myself burn away the doubt and the insecurity and discord I’ve allowed to be sewn into the very fabric of who I am.
This is no way to live.
None.
The epiphany that I need to make a change has been staring me in the face. I know that if I really mean the promise I’ve made to myself, that I’m going to turn things around, then I have to start with myself.
The sound of my sigh fills the small space, but it’s the alarm bell I need to wake myself up.
“No more, Tate,” I whisper harshly, not wanting to give the people beyond the closed door anything else to talk about. “No. More.”
I take a mome
nt more to wipe the beads of sweat from my face, pinch some color into my cheeks, add a touch of lipstick I found in the recesses of my purse, and then I leave the salon with a fake smile as if I’m perfectly fine.
With clammy hands, I force myself to walk through town, past the posters announcing the high school’s latest production of Annie Oakley, and beneath the banners on Main Street that announce the county fair is headed our way this summer. Even the old timer’s sitting in Hal’s Donut Shoppe with their coffee cups empty, their donuts long gone, and their opinions filling the air, are different.
Life has moved on. I may still be stuck in the ruts that lead the way out to the south end of the ranch where Fletcher was buried, but life has moved on.
Am I terrified?
Hell, yes.
But of what though?
