12. Mona
This is my shot, a real chance at showing what I can do with a brush and a dream.
Peyton has been letting me shadow her for the last week or so, which has made for long nights, especially when I’m working at the face-painting booth the entire day beforehand.
But it’s worth it because I got approval from the makeup department to do one of the scary fairy’s looks tonight. It’s primarily glam and then splattered with fake blood. I can do this.
Peyton is watching over me, making sure I stick to the brief and will be able to deliver. She’s my professional babysitter.
With my eye-shadow palette in my left hand and brush in my right, I feel truly unstoppable and one hundred percent in my element. I love it. It’s my favorite form of art, and this masterpiece is almost complete.
Kennedy, my gorgeous client, is radiating by the time I finish her look, complete with about a pound of body shimmer. She hops up from the chair and heads straight to wardrobe, a pep in her step.
From Peyton’s shit-eating grin, I think she’s proud of what I’ve done. And so am I. I knew I could kill a glam look every day of the week, but even I’m impressed with the cleanliness. It’s flawless.
“Well done,” Shantae, the head of the department, praises me, and I swear I could flip a car right now. “She looks great.”
Shantae continues on, checking on the other works in progress, and it takes me physically pinching myself to stop a squeal from slipping free as I plop down into the makeup chair. Peyton shimmies beside me, just as excited as I am.
Brett—one of the SFX, special effects, artists I’ve recently gotten to know while partnering with Peyton—saunters over, acting casual in front of Shantae, but freaking out when he nears. “You killed that.”
My face warms, feeling like I’m under a heat lamp from the compliments being thrown my way. “Thank you.”
“Do mine next.” He smirks, batting his lashes at me. “Maybe then, I’ll catch the hottie owner’s attention.”
“What?” I chuckle, caught off guard. “Who? Cambrie?”
I’ve never spoken with her, only watched her strut by on an important mission. She’s gorgeous. Long blonde hair. Legs for days. The type of pretty that when you see her, you have to do a double take.
“Eww, no.” Brett looks at me like I just said the dumbest thing. “She’s stunning. But you know I don’t like women. I mean, I love women, but not like that. Trust me, I’ve tried.”
My eyes flutter closed for a brief second while I fight the giggle behind my quivering smile. “Is she not the owner?”
“No,” Peyton adds. “I think it’s her brother?”
Brett whips his phone out of his pocket, typing rapidly.
“Yes, he’s her brother. Casper Ridley. Six-five.
Delicious eyes. Delicious body. Delicious hands …
” His head tips to the side as he studies something intently, an eyebrow kicked up and a smirk on his lips.
But he snaps from his stupor with a shake of his head.
“Sorry. I found a family photo of theirs when they were in the Hamptons last summer. My God, how many abs does he have?”
“Don’t be rude.” Peyton scoffs, extending her arm and flexing her hand. “Show us.”
An owner I haven’t met? Either I’m blind or he doesn’t come here very often. He could silently own the place and have his sister run it though.
Brett passes the phone to Peyton, who gasps, hearts in her eyes.
“I’ve only seen him once, in passing, but he unfortunately had a shirt on at the time.”
“Oh, come on.” I laugh, a tightness forming in my chest. “I’m sure Casper‘s some rich guy who has more money than morals. Who cares if he’s hot?” I groan. “Let me see.”
Money’s always been a part of my life in a way that someone like him will never understand. I’ve fought tooth and nail just to survive, scraping together change that I found on the street to pay for my gas or my next meal.
Someone like him, like Cambrie, they’re likely nice people. Maybe. Probably not. The rich people I’ve had the displeasure of meeting in my life have all been major disappointments.
Peyton juts the phone toward me, and I spin in the makeup chair to reach it.
“Mr. Boss Man,” I murmur mockingly as I take it, glancing down at the Instagram post on Cambrie’s page, and a train slams into me. “Shit.”
Oh God. You have to be kidding me.
It’s him.
The guy from the craft store who called me gorgeous. Who I told to fuck off. Who came to my booth opening night. Whose face I painted a butterfly and unicorn on before flipping him off.
Shit.
“What?” Peyton kicks my chair, and I don’t think it’s the first time she’s asked it, based on the force behind it. It’s just the first one I heard. “Oh my God. Do you know him?”
I chuckle, more of a nervous scoff as I question how I still have this job. “Sort of.”
Brett slowly inhales, trying to contain his excitement. “Go on.”
Handing his phone back to him, I scratch the back of my neck.
“Well, how do I say this?” Puffing my cheeks up, I shift the air side to side before parting my lips and telling them everything I just recounted in my mind.
They’re both in shock when I finish, and if it was physically possible, their jaws would be on the ground, along with Brett’s phone that he dropped halfway through my spiel.
“I should … like, apologize, right?” I break the silence, unable to restrain the nervous laugh from slipping free. Anxiety traces lines down my neck. “And hope that he hasn’t already started processing termination paperwork?”
Brett scoffs with a smirk, nothing but bad thoughts in his mind. “I think there’s a lot of things you should do to, with, for that man.”
Peyton elbows him. “I mean, he hasn’t fired you yet. Maybe he appreciates not being recognized and treated like a normal client.”
“Oh, yeah. Because I’m sure he’s absolutely fine with the thought of me cursing out and flipping off everyone who comes to my booth.” I throw my hands up, panic starting to gnaw at my skin. “I’m going to apologize the next time I see him. And hope that I don’t get fired in the meantime.”
That’s my plan. I’m not going to go out of my way to try and meet with him. I’m not going to hunt him down and make him take my apology. If he lets me go before then, I’ll figure it out.
Yeah, like living out of your car again and being forced to find another job.
Yeah, well, I don’t like it either! I shout back into my own mind.
Arguing with myself is a skill I’m not sure everyone has, but I excel at it. I chalk it up to keeping to myself my entire life, avoiding people like the plague.
It’s eight p.m., and I haven’t heard from my masked haunting in over two hours. Ugh.
Throwing my head down against my pillows, I roll on my side, facing the door, my gaze landing on Penelope. “Hi, sweetie.”
I wonder what she’d say if she could talk. I imagine a thousand snarky comments about my current life situation as I mist her enclosure through the wire mesh cutouts on the sides.
Her abdomen is still nice and full from her last feeding, so the mealworms in my fridge are safe … for now. Their sacrifice is always appreciated to keep my girl alive.
She seems to be loving domestic life. Food and water always provided. A safe enclosure, where nothing can hurt her and she can’t fall too far to injure herself. It’s perfect.
I wish I knew how old she was though. A female jumping spider’s lifespan is longer than a male, which I have confirmed from my intense late-night research.
She’s a regius jumping spider. Tan, almost orange.
With purple fangs that shimmer in the light.
I think it’s incredible that nature can make something so beautiful.
I’ve been noticing things like that a lot more lately.
The color changes in the trees. The brightness of the full moon.
The ivy leaves that encase a corner on the back side of the house, fading with the season.
A thousand shades of oranges, reds, and yellows consume the property. I think the world is prettier in fall.
The cooler mornings have me craving apple cider and fresh-baked cinnamon rolls.
I want to do all the fall things, but I don’t want to do them alone.
Nor do I live in a situation where I can bake cinnamon rolls in my kitchen.
There is a café downstairs that serves treats, but I’ve already consumed so many of them. I need something else.
Maybe I could bake them at Mr. Masked Man’s place. But eventually, I want to go on dates, to a pumpkin patch or even attend a night of the festivities here, without the face covering. I love it, and it’s fucking hot, but it can’t stay on forever.
“Where art thou, Mr. Masked Man?” I sing, rolling my head back and staring straight up at the ceiling.
He said he has meetings and his travel is picking up a lot, but I’m really feeling the weight of his absence.
I mean, even the ghost in the house has taken a pause in scaring me.
I’ve heard creaks and found the same framed image on the ground as usual.
Thankfully, it hasn’t tried to grab or threaten me lately.
I was even brave enough last night to venture out of my room well past midnight.
I needed a spoon for a pint of ice cream that I had in the freezer part of my mini fridge.
I was terrified at first, and I couldn’t help but sing the first song that came to my mind—“Party in the U.S.A.” by Miley Cyrus.
My ghost must’ve been happy with the choice because he didn’t terrify me at any point during my outing.
Maybe we’re finally becoming friends—or at the very least, civil roommates.
My mind wanders for a few minutes, concocting stories and lives for the ghost, trying to put a make-believe name or face to an unknown entity.
Then I feel crazy for even seriously considering the ghost to be real.
Paranormal concepts make my brain feel fuzzy sometimes.
For one second, I’m certain that the ghost is real, and then the next, my brain is trying to convince me that I’m overreacting. It’s confusing.
What’s even more confusing than contemplating the existence of spirits is the attachment I have toward a certain masked man. One, I’m starting to wonder if he’s been kidnapped or if he’s avoiding me because if I don’t hear from him soon, I’m going to turn into the stalker.
You’re being obnoxious.
He’s busy, clearly a very important asset to whatever the hell he does for work. He will get back to me when he can.
Is he watching me on the cameras right now? I’m half tempted to see how long it’d take to respond if I pretended to be on the phone with some other guy.
I grunt, flopping onto my stomach, my face buried in the pillows. I’m not that type of girl, nor do I want to risk anything with his job. His work seems important to him, so it’s important to me.
Mentally, I make a quick list of things I need to figure out.
His name.
His occupation.
His age. I can tell he’s close in age to me, if not a few years older.
What secrets he’s hiding from me. There’s gotta be something because otherwise, he would’ve shown me who he was by now.
Does he have a whole family? Is that why he’s recently gone hours without talking to me in the evening? Maybe his wife found out, and they’re trying to work through their issues while he still strings me along.
Deep in my bones, I know that’s not the case. But with so many unknowns, it’s hard not to grasp at straws.
My mind continues to spiral through possibilities as I nestle into my bed more and more, until sleep wraps me in a warm hug and I drift away.