19. Naya
NINETEEN
NAYA
"What if he wants to have sex?" I asked Darren as I put the duck inside the pre-heated oven. I was going French for this Christmas. I was making duck with plum sauce, mashed potatoes, almond cauliflower roast, green beans with tomato confit, and a classic French yule log for dessert.
"Then have sex if you want to," Darren suggested and then blew his nose. He'd evolved from coughing to a runny nose now. I almost pulled my earbuds out, he was so loud.
"I can't just have sex."
"Sure, you can. You have a pussy, and usually that means?—"
"Gross, Darren. Don't ever talk about my lady parts."
Darren laughed hoarsely and then blew his nose again.
"You scared, Sparky?" he finally asked.
"Yeah."
"Tell me why?"
It was a tactic he'd taught me to calm anxiety. When I was scared, I'd take it to the worst-case scenario and then assess the situation from that lens.
"I'm scared that he's playing a game with me. That he wants to humiliate me."
"Okay. How will he do that?"
"He'll tell others how I cooked for him when he was a jackass to me, and that I have no pride."
"Who are these other people he'll say these things to?" he asked patiently.
I felt tears prick my eyes and then bleed through. "My brother, Kara, Ann…and I'll find out he never actually broke up with Ann. That he was just doing this to entertain himself."
"Oh, Sparky," Darren sighed. "What else?" he prodded.
I chewed on my lips to stop myself from whimpering. "He'll say he wants to make love, and then when he sees my scars, he's going to be revolted by them. He'll tell me I'm ugly, and how could I ever think someone like him would be interested in someone as horrible as me."
I could hear Darren's ragged breath and it wasn't the virus. He knew this was hard for me, but it was also difficult for him to hear because I was telling him what was inside me, what my inner critics were telling me.
"Anything else?"
"Isn't that enough?" I snorted, wiping my tears.
"Okay, so you're worried that he'll spend Christmas Eve with you, eat your awesome food, and tell everyone that you're a doormat who has no pride, that even though he's treated you horribly, you still cooked for him. Yes?"
I groaned. "Well, when you put it that way, it sounds stupid. Why would he spend Christmas Eve with me just to tell someone I'm a moron?"
"Okay, so…this end state is not very likely?" He sneezed several times after that, and I waited for him to blow his nose. "I'm back, Sparky," he said hoarsely.
"He's not coming over to screw with me. He wants to spend Christmas Eve with me, which is weird."
"As weird as him sending you a Thanksgiving meal?"
"Weirder."
He laughed softly. "Now, the other thing you're worried about. He'll get you into bed, get you naked, and say he can't stand your scars; they turn him off and leave."
"Yes," I whispered. I could hear Amias saying all those things to me.
"How likely is that, Naya?"
"Very likely," I choked out.
"You think he's that much of a douchebag?"
"No, I think my scars are that?—"
"One thing you imagine him saying that shit, quite another you saying it to yourself," he reprimanded. "You think he'll say those things to you? You think he's that shallow a man?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "I'm scared that he will."
"I'm not going to tell you how to feel or that your feelings are wrong; they're yours and you have every right to them. How about this? You tell him about your scars before you take your clothes off and see his reaction and then assess if you want to move forward," Darren suggested.
I felt like an idiot. "He doesn't want to sleep with me, Darren. I'm just going off the deep end here. I think he feels bad about…whatever and I resigned and…I don't know why he wants to spend time with me. I'm so confused."
Darren chuckled. "Okay, I need to go back to sleep now, but you remember that you're in control, and if he misbehaves, kick him out of your house, and as soon as I stop feeling like death, I'll go beat that asshole up."
"You'd do that for me?"
"Absolutely, Sparky."
I felt a little better after talking to Darren, but then I took a shower and stood in front of my closet, and the fear was back.
She has no fashion sense.
I looked at my clothes and grimaced. Everything was black. Long and black, covering my whole body. I didn't have one sexy outfit.
I texted Darren: I know you're dying. But what should I wear?
Darren: I'm circling the drain, babe. Wear the dress I bought you.
Me: FUCK NO!
Darren: Or you can wear your black yoga pants. Those be homey, Miss Chicken!
Me: I probably don't even fit that dress.
Darren: Don't insult my training, Sparky. You're in shape.
Last Christmas Darren had bought me a dress that had a designer label on it.
It was not black. It was also still wrapped in the bag it came in and was hanging way back in my little closet.
I pulled it out, and I wondered if I'd still fit regardless of Darren's training.
The past year had been tough. I hadn't been eating properly or sleeping all that well.
The first six months after my father died, I just went to work, went to the Krav Maga Institute, babysat Magnus, and stayed home in sad pajamas indiscriminately using my DoorDash app.
I pulled the dress out and put it on the bed. I unzipped it and grimaced. It was a maxi dress with a slim skirt, a fitted bodice, and two bows on the shoulder to hold it in place. It was red. Like fire engines, the color of the sole of expensive shoes, slutty porn star lips red.
It was almost too summery I thought critically. I couldn't wear that in December in Boston.
I texted Darren about it, and he replied: You keep your apartment warm, and it's not like you're going out wearing it.
I had some burns on my hands, but they had mostly disappeared unless you looked carefully.
They had not required skin grafts, and the scarring had been minimal; the same for my arms, which allowed me to leave them bare.
It was my lower back and legs that were no-show areas.
The truth was that I'd been lucky because I hadn't ruptured a spleen or had internal bleeding.
I had had first, second, and even third-degree burns across my body.
There had been a scar on the side of my neck, but that had mostly faded.
The one on my face was also not too bad.
This was one of the few advantages of my African heritage—my melanin could hide the many sins of my skin.
I put the dress on with shaking hands and looked at myself in the mirror. It was like seeing a stranger.
I took a photo and sent it to Darren.
Darren: Reggie says he'll do you. Nancy says she'll do you, too.
I chuckled. Nancy was with Reggie, a former linebacker's very sexy wife. I wrote back: What's Nancy doing there?
Darren: She had COVID last month, so she thinks she's the shit. She gets it again; she's gonna kill Reggie.
Me: Amias will think I dressed up for him.
Darren: No shit! Really?
Me: Are you being sarcastic?
Darren: Yeah, Sparky.
Me: I'm wearing yoga pants. This is too hard.
Darren: You wear your skanky pants, girl; you can find a new trainer.
I sent him a finger emoji and set my phone down.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
I decided to go all out. I blow dried my hair. I decided I wouldn't wear any special makeup. Just mascara and lip-gloss like I always did. And maybe a little concealer to hide the dark circles, and that acne scar from like a month ago and….
I put on black ballet flats and decided not to look in the mirror anymore so as to not hyperventilate. In any case, as a rule, I only had mirrors that I could look into waist up. I didn't need to see my legs. No one needed to see my legs.