Chapter 18
Eighteen
MARIS
“Holy fucking shit. It worked.”
I lean in to look at myself in the bathroom mirror and run my fingers along my skin. It’s pink and shiny, like I just did a peel treatment or went ham with an exfoliator brush. There’s not a bruise or cut in sight, my entire face is…is…
“It’s perfect.” I turn my face left then right and take a quick step back from the mirror.
My eyes have to be playing tricks on me.
The scar I’ve had since fourth grade from getting clipped by the chain holding the tire swing at recess is just gone.
I touch my cheeks and then my throat, every imperfection is gone.
“How the fuck do I look like I have a filter on?”
It’s true, I do look like I have a beauty filter on but this isn’t an app, this is real life.
No matter which way that I turn my face I look perfect and beautiful.
There’s no sign of the girl that got her face beat killing a man and it’s not just my face.
My entire body is healed. I’m not sore anymore.
I look down at my hands and bite my lip.
My knuckles aren’t split, there’s no bruises from fighting off Brian. It’s like that night never happened. Every little piece of me feels new. I pull my shirt off and then my pants to give myself a once over.
“What the fuck?”
Every scar is gone, my skin looks flawless. I’d freak out but my birthmarks are all still intact so this is…believable. It’s not like I’m in a whole new body, right? I mean, it feels that way. I haven’t felt this good in years, not since I was the old Maris who was actually human.
I feel alive again.
I lean over the sink and think. “How did he do it?” It’s not like I got abducted by aliens and lost days or weeks or however long it would take for me to completely heal and get a beauty glow up like this. “It was just one night. Just one.”
How can I have changed this much in one night?
I lift my head and look at myself again.
My eyes are normal, there’s no bags under them from not sleeping, my cheeks aren’t gaunt and too sharp because I eat like shit.
My face is healthy, glowing, I’m fucking rosy-cheeked for crying out loud.
I look like a woman who sleeps more than two hours a night.
No, fuck that, I look like I sleep a solid ten and eat well-balanced meals, all while drinking water.
“Who are you?” I whisper and push myself away from the sink like I’m scared my reflection is going to move when I don’t and pull me in the mirror to switch places with me. Oh my god.
What if it does?
“Calm down. Calm down the fuck down,” I order myself and take a deep breath. “He’s just a good doctor, like…doctor to the world’s rich and powerful level but he’s just a doctor. He told you it was going to heal in a day and it did. Stop freaking out.”
Even as I talk, I don’t believe myself. Reason and logic demand I acknowledge them but I turn my face away and ignore the fuck out of them as I get into the shower and get started for the day. It’s only seven am, I’ve got plenty of time to shower and eat breakfast before I go down to the newspaper.
I shower and studiously study how my body looks. Even the scar I got shucking oysters with Billy the summer my life went to shit is gone. I had to get stitches and it looked like a heart on the base of my thumb.
Billy had liked it. “It’s cute. Just like you.”
I’m glad it’s fucking gone. I finish showering, dry my hair, and for once when I try to do it, it doesn’t fight me. It falls in silky waves down my back and shoulders like I spent hours on a blow out. With shaking fingers I put on makeup because why not?
When I’m done, I barely recognize myself.
“You look hot,” I tell my reflection. I haven’t looked this good in a very, very long time.
Maybe it’s the fact that I look and feel great that I don’t don my usual dark clothes, the ones I put on to fade into the background.
No, fuck that. I grab a crimson sweater dress still wrapped in the dry cleaning bag from when I last wore it two years ago and put on a pair of matching slingbacks.
The shoes make me stop. They’re Italian leather, supple and soft.
A gift from granny from her last Europe trip. I really should wear them more.
I take out a long black wool cashmere coat to complete the look.
On my way out the door I even stop to make my bed and grab a pair of hoops to wear as well.
I stop at the bottom of the stairs and think.
I could make breakfast, or I could get something on the way.
I think of Henry and wince. I don’t want to lose my shit and punch someone.
“You won’t,” I tell myself as I pick up my work bag and shove my computer and phone inside. “You’re fine. You’re in control. And what if this is a dream? Just enjoy it.”
It could be a dream and I mostly think I’m right. I do feel in control right now. Not at all like I’m in a waking nightmare that just won’t end. If there was a day to get something for breakfast, this is the day.
When I leave my house, everything feels normal.
That’s a decent sign this isn’t a dream.
I take my time walking into town. I almost drove but decided against it.
opting to take the walk to think instead.
But instead of thinking, I just sort of…
float? It’s hard to explain. Every time I try to think about last night, about how I could have healed like this there’s nothing.
The last thing I remember is Julian telling me to keep talking to him as he tucked me into bed.
That was nice, having someone there with me as I fell asleep.
I think I asked him to stay? Or maybe I didn’t.
I know I wanted him to stay. Either way, Julian stayed with me but that’s all I got.
He’s there in one fuzzy memory and then not.
The next memory I have is opening my eyes and feeling fantastic.
Another miracle happens this morning, because when I get down the hill and complete the couple of miles from my house to downtown, my feet don’t hurt.
A feat considering the only thing I wear anymore are sneakers and boots.
I walk into town and head straight for The Perky Perch.
They have breakfast wraps and burritos that I can grab with a coffee.
As good as I feel right now there’s no way I’m going to a resturant to sit down and eat while people stare at me and whisper.
They’re already staring enough as it is.
The second I hit Main Street, it starts.
I get it. At first, I think the townsfolk don’t believe it’s me.
That it’s someone that looks like me. Maybe a distant cousin that’s come to visit because I see them take a glance, but then the second they realize it’s me they stare.
It’s a hard double take and a pointed lean forward.
Yeah, definitely not sitting in the diner with that going on.
The bell at the door of The Perky Perch jingles when I step inside and right on cue, all conversation stops.
The only thing that keeps going is the sound of the milk being frothed and the espresso shot that’s already been pulled.
I glance around and everyone is watching me with bug eyes.
Jesus, they’re acting like they’ve never seen a woman in business chic before.
“M-Maris?” Belinda blinks at me like a gaping fish.
She’s nice. It’s her job to be nice since she’s a barista but still, even when she sees me in town she doesn’t act like I’m an axe murderer or a witch.
She greets me like I’m normal and sometimes even makes small talk if we’re in the grocery store looking over produce.
“Those radishes look awful.”
“The lettuce is good today.”
That sort of thing. Right now she’s staring at me like I grew an extra head.
“Good morning, Belinda.”
She smiles then looks me over. “You look so good.”
“Thanks. I, ah, went to the salon.”
She gives me a wide-eyed stare. “The one here?” She whispers. Of course, she’s whispering. I wouldn’t go to the salon here. Minnie fucking works there and made it clear I’m not welcome. Not like I’d want her boyfriend stealing ass to touch my damn hair anyways.
I shake my head. “No, the one in Seattle.”
“They did a good job. A real good job. I love your coat.”
“Thanks. It’s vintage.”
“So cool.” Belinda nods and then remembers she’s got a job to do when the bell jangles again as another customer enters. “Right, right, sorry, what can I get you? I’m here just jabbering away. I-well, I couldn’t help it. You just look so fucking good. Classy.”
Something like pleasure unfurls in my body and warms me up. Belinda is right. I do look fucking good. I feel good too. I forgot that it used to be like this for me in town. Everywhere I went I used to be welcomed, doted on, told that I looked beautiful. I soak it up for a second and then order.
“I’ll have a black americano and one of the spinach feta wraps.”
“Great choice. For here or to go?”
It’s cute that Belinda still asks. I never eat in. Everyone knows that.
“To go.”
“Cool. I’ll get this in for you. It’ll be fifteen even.”
“Thank you.” I go to reach for my wallet but before I can, someone steps up beside me.
“I’ve got hers. Add it to mine,” a man says and for a wild second I think it’s Julian, but then I look at the man.
“Billy?”
“Hey, Mare. Long time.”
Billy looks good. He always looks good. That’s why I always took him back with a quick text telling him to get his ass to my house when I was feeling bored.
With long dark brown hair and sparkling brown eyes Billy has the good looks of a movie star wrapped up in the idiot trappings of a small town fisherman with no aspirations.
His job means his body is fit and toned, the kind of muscle on his big frame that can only be made by actual work and not in a gym.
Whatever he wears looks like it’s tailor made for him.
Right now, it’s a pair of dark wash jeans, a white tee and a dark green flannel.
He’s got his usual work boots on and I see his work gloves hanging out of his back pocket.
It might not have been true love with us but he was a decent enough boyfriend.
I wonder how good of a fiancé he is to Minnie?
“How’s Minnie, Billy?” I ask because fuck him for not only dating my ex-best friend but proposing to her. Who fucking does that?
Belinda snorts when I ask that. She knows the score. Everyone in town knows it. True love or not, Billy and I were the ‘It’ couple until he dropped me and got with Minnie.
He makes a face and sighs like he always did when I said something he didn’t like.
“Come on Mare, don’t be like that. I’m trying to be friendly.
Let me pay. There’s about to be a line if you keep fussing,” he warns and I hear the stupid coffeeshop door bell ring again.
He’s right. There is going to be a line soon if I don’t give in but fuck that.
I don’t want to let him pay. Letting him pay means I owe him something. I’m not going to owe Billy Wright a fucking thing. I’d rather crawl over broken glass on my belly than give him the satisfaction.
I draw myself up, fully intending on communicating my glass to belly fantasy. “Billy,” I start but that’s as far as I get because suddenly right there is the man that I had been hoping to see.
“Julian?”