Chapter Twenty-Eight
Lately I’ve been walking home to spend my lunch hour with Grandma Helen, Wanda, and whoever else is around, but when I let myself inside, Fifi is the only one there to greet me.
She circles my ankles, dragging her tail across my shins, then bosses me over to her bowl for treats.
I’m halfway through making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich like the adult who lives with her grandmother I am, when my phone chimes and vibrates against the counter.
Since my emails are less urgent these days, my to-do list padded with a little extra wiggle room, it’s no longer a sound that comes along with a spike in heart rate and anxiety.
And it’s…nice. Like my to-do list isn’t the only thing with space to breathe.
Back in Miami, I would’ve considered taking a whole hour for lunch a waste of time, but now it resets me midday, splitting up any bad or stressful news, before it can rob me of my entire day.
I’ve even begun to play the piano here and there, though the sheet music I ordered probably won’t sound good for another few weeks or even a month. But even that’s okay, as I’m finding joy in the mix of clumsy-beginner and muscle-memory riffs.
I swipe the peanut butter left on the knife with a finger and pop it in my mouth, snag a mini bag of potato chips out of the pantry, and head to the couch to fully enjoy and experience my break.
Fifi comes along, leaping onto the cushion next to me so she can lick a couple of my potato chips clean of salt. We’ve settled into a nice rhythm, she and I and the rest of the ladies—I can’t remember the last time that invisible fist of dread came for my throat.
I go to snag the remote off the coffee table, but get distracted by a text, and despite all my big talk, I’m lifting my phone before I can remind myself this is supposed to be Mia Time.
But when I see it’s from Eniola, letting me know she’s sent the photos to my email, I’m glad for my lapse in self-control, not to mention the great timing. There’s NSFW and then there’s opening up racy snapshots of yourself while at work, something this publicist would highly advise against.
I debate opening the attachment on my cell, where the photos will be smaller and it’ll be easier for me to be less hard on myself. Immediately, our body positivity practice kicks in, and I grin at how often the ladies quote me quoting Miss Americana herself, with a “We don’t do that anymore.”
With that, I decide it’s worth retrieving my laptop. I download the folder, double click to open, and draw a sharp breath.
The lighting and angles do glorious things to my body, to the point I zoom in to prove to myself it’s me, not some Victoria’s Secret model who’s been photoshopped in.
Holding the pose on the tufted couch with my back overly arched felt a bit awkward, the tip of the stiletto poised on the armrest, but damn is the result worth it.
Fifi pokes her head between me and the screen as I click through the series, the bright glow illuminating her whiskers and long fringe on the tips of her ears.
My skin is porcelain, my eyes pop, and I even pull off a pout in a shot that looks like the photographer stumbled upon me rolling around in bed. Which is typically what I do when I can’t sleep, but it’s never resulted in such perfectly tousled curls and casual cool sexiness before.
No wonder the me from that night got frisky with Noah Drayton in a golf cart.
I’m flooded with tingly electricity at the memory of his mouth and his hands on me, my heart racing so fast it leaves me dizzy—then and now.
Most of the emotional tornadoes I experience are fueled by turmoil and uncertainty; this is a twirling, whirling dust devil, dancing happily across the plains.
I’ve been on a high for well over a week, and hope and happiness are attempting to assure me everything truly is going to work out. For this property and me.
I return my attention to the racy photos onscreen.
Heat rushes to my cheeks as I reach the poses where I’m wearing the lingerie I flashed Noah under the cover of a weeping willow tree. Sensuality has always been a complicated issue for me, and before last week, I would’ve insisted it was such a tiny part, it didn’t much matter.
These photos sought out that sliver and exposed it. And then, like oxygen and an open flame, Noah fueled my desire until it spread and consumed me.
I squeeze my thighs together, a residual thrill coursing through me. The echoes of my pleasure were still pinging around the cocoon of the willow tree when I’d shyly asked how he’d like me to return the favor.
“Favor?” He’d reached out and snagged a cinnamon-tinted curl. “Sugar, that was all for me.”
Turns out, with the right guy, it’s not such a tiny piece after all.
And the woman in the boudoir shots onscreen certainly agrees.
Eniola included a handful of transitionary shots, and I return my own smile, appreciating her for capturing my quirky and comedic sides as well. All joy, no inhibitions, my laugh as genuine as can be.
Every single trait that made up me, including sexy.
Immediately my brain slams the door, my chest constricting with a warning about not being conceited—people don’t like girls who are stuck-up.
They don’t like girls who are loud.
Girls who are too smart, too confident or independent.
A lot of the time, it actually feels like the world doesn’t like girls at all.
It’s why we’re exhausted, constantly battling the voices that tell us we shouldn’t like what we like or like how we look. Yet each generation we make a little more progress, the warrior princesses who came before giving us a boost so we can climb that much higher.
I need all the help I can get, and saying things aloud lights up a different part of the brain and deepens the belief, so I push myself to go ahead and admit it. “I look sexy in these photos.”
The images make me feel the same way I did when Noah put his hands on me.
“Because I am sexy.”
If I could gift every woman this feeling of assuredness and appreciation for her body, not only would I do it, just think of the ripple effect. Not that men don’t need and deserve it as well, because they totally do, but too many of us have had our control over a situation ripped from us by a dude.
Just like that, I’m thirteen and in a parking lot, practicing relevés with the metal handrail that separated the sidewalk of the strip mall from the parking lot.
Desperate to get out of the house and find an activity that could be all mine, when I stumbled across the faded pink leotard and battered toe shoes at a secondhand store, it seemed like a sign.
I was the oldest in the class by far, and Mom would leave me at the studio for hours so my siblings would get in their naps, long enough the instructor would lock up and leave.
If I complained, I knew she’d take dancing away and I’d have to spend even more of the summer changing diapers, so I bided my time kicking rocks across the parking lot.
A few of the men going in and out of the liquor store blatantly leered, leaving me wishing I had worn the training bra I woefully declared I didn’t even need.
Then there was the guy who tried to coerce me into his truck for a ride home, only to call me a snobby little bitch when I wouldn’t accept his offer.
Being female is so odd like that.
One minute you’re standing in front of a dance studio in your rummaged tutu, and the next you’re being ogled and experiencing a pinch of shame you don’t completely understand, so very aware of the danger of men.
Upon my next visit to Grandma’s, while seated around a table with her, Wanda, and Rita, I ended up spilling about the truck that’d show up like clockwork, leaving me hiding in recesses and dreading ballet.
I’m not sure what was said that night over the phone, but my mom and my grandma’s relationship had been rockier since.
But the other thing tween Mia decided was that my mom couldn’t protect me or my siblings. Whether she couldn’t or wasn’t willing, it didn’t matter. What it meant was I had to remain ever vigilant and teach my siblings to also be independent.
An alarm rings on my phone, announcing the ten-minute warning before I trek back to the office. I quickly flag my favorite photos, including a picture where I’m peering at myself in a gilded mirror.
Then, filled with a type of gratitude I’ve never experienced before, I send a text to Sophia, thanking her for the photography session and boost in confidence.
With another glance at the time, I slam the lid on my laptop, slide it in my bag, and give Fifi a scratch goodbye.
Hours later, during that endless stretch of the afternoon when I need the jolt of a walk and a cup of coffee, I debate whether it’ll be weird if I run into Carlos. I never promised anything, and it’s not like he’s called, but I hate leaving things unfinished.
Although it’s not as if Noah and I have made any promises. We’ve exchanged a handful of texts, the last one informing me he was taking me on a real date soon.
The whine of a mobility scooter cuts through my reverie a handful of seconds before Jan bursts into my office for our meeting. Given how much she hates the business side, I’m surprised she lasted as long as she did running the property herself, honestly.
I launch right into it, relaying the game plan for the upcoming week. I’m working with a local journalist about a piece on the Seam Queens and how they provide blankets to hospitals and shelters for the homeless and victims of domestic abuse.
Not a hugely sensational story, as far as getting attention goes, but heartwarming and admirable. Plus, I’ve convinced the local news to film a segment, although I wish we could showcase more of our community and what’s truly at the heart of it in those sixty seconds.
Suddenly, a wild hare of an idea hops across my brain, and I can’t quite decide if it’s genius or the wrong side of outlandish.
It definitely pushes the envelope. Enough so, it’ll inevitably cause a few of the residents’ family members to pick up their pitchforks—especially before I fully explain it.
I happen to know one grumpy grandson who’s absolutely going to hate it.
…
At the beginning of the evening, I was so, so afraid someone would end up in the hospital.
I just didn’t think it’d be me.
When Leora and Ruth, the most tranquil duo of our group, informed me they used to do Roller Derby, I wasn’t sure whether they were lying or trying to give me a panic attack. Not that it’s not super impressive, but it was their turn to “Make Mia” as they’ve dubbed it, and that’s how they opened.
Naturally, I asked for proof.
There were pictures.
The ladies used to skate for a team known as the Terror of Tampa Bay and had decided it was time for me to carry on the legacy.
“It’s not like we’re asking to go to a rink and bash into one another,” Ruth had said, “we just haven’t been rollerblading in ages.”
“Not since my new hip,” Leora added, ratcheting up my anxiety.
“It’s low impact,” they claimed, showing off scars and telling stories that, don’t get me wrong, were pretty fucking amazing.
But now here I am, inhaling the scent of antiseptic and pouring sweat from the pain, too many grandmothers fussing over me as a nurse informs us, “Dr. Vasquez will be right in.”
Yeah, that tracks. I’d pleaded with the universe that he wouldn’t have to bear witness to my stupid injury, thinking surely it’s late enough…
Not for a workaholic.
Karma is so not my boyfriend, and speaking of, Noah—who also isn’t my boyfriend—is texting me. Asking me which nights I’m free this week.
How do I type “it depends on whether my finger is broken” without the use of my right hand? My pulse races faster, the screaming pain not enough to keep me from my bigger concern…
How will I possibly get everything done in time for the open house like this?
Ruth and Leora and I were skating and even racing and laughing, and then we wound up in an area I wasn’t as familiar with. It had, what you might call, a big hill.
I only found out how big as I crested the top.
“At least the pads did a good job of protecting your knees,” Wanda says, gently patting my thigh. Ruth and Leora are on my other side, taking turns holding and patting my non-injured hand.
Grandma Helen remains stoic, as is her way when anyone is injured. It’s like she’s pissed off human bodies are too fragile, but also…pale and timid and a little afraid?
“Fu-fu-fu,” I say as another sharp jolt fires up my arm, trying to remain respectful of the women that threw me to a pair of bubbies on rollerblades.
Fucking shit, this hurts!
There’s a light knock, and then Carlos strides in, the cedarwood and spice scent of his cologne cutting through the antiseptic hospital smell. His attention remains on the X-rays in his hands, his expression giving nothing away as he flips through them.
“Good evening—” This is where he obviously realizes there are so many of us, his eyes widening for a moment before he quickly recovers. “I see we have a full room. I’d ask how we’re all doing, but I have a little bit of an idea.”
A consoling, dimpled smile spreads across his face as his gaze lands on me. “Mia.”
He takes a seat on the stool and rolls closer on squeaky wheels. “I’ve looked at your X-rays,” he says, glancing from my face to my contorted finger.
“It’s broken, isn’t it?” I ask, already wincing.
“The good news is it’s dislocated,” he says, and he has a really twisted sense of what’s considered good. “The bad news is—”
He yanks my finger so hard I see stars and they’re streaking through me and I might’ve screamed. But then it’s over. “I have to reset it.”
I’m “lucky” that it’s a simple dislocation, no fractures or torn ligaments. He fits me with a blue foam and metal brace that’ll ensure everyone knows I hurt myself, covers the treatment plan, and then asks Wanda, Grandma Helen, Leora, and Ruth if he can have some time alone with the patient.
They ooh and aah and thoroughly embarrass me, leaving my cheeks rosy pink as they tell me they’ll be in the waiting room.
“Nah, you ladies go on home,” Carlos tells them. “I’ll bring Mia—my shift technically ended an hour and a half ago, so she’s my last patient of the day anyway.”
Great. Now I’m dizzy and my thumb is throbbing, and I’m afraid I’m about to have one of those chats with Carlos that inevitably ends in awkwardness.
No regrets, my ass.