Girl Before a Mirror (7 page)

“Every community has their own . . . their own standard of norma—” I say as Tristan steps forward in nothing but a well-placed fig leaf.

“Oh, that's bullshit and you know it, Ms. Wyatt,” Helen interrupts.

“I'm sorry?”

“I'm not trying to be mean.”

“No, of course. I've always thought the word
bullshit
was an underutilized term of endearment,” I say.

“I like you,” Helen says, with another blow to my back, spilling
my champagne. “What I mean is there's something about this place that forces you to drop the act.” Billy comes forward and drops his toga to unveil an even smaller toga as if he's some kind of risqué Russian nesting doll. I raise an eyebrow and look from Helen to Billy and back to Helen. “I know it seems antithetical, but there you are,” Helen says.

“Oh, come on. This is all just . . . I mean, you guys are selling a fantasy world,” I say, watching the women go crazy as the men hop down from the stage and the party really gets started.

“Takes one to know one, dear,” Helen says. “You gonna drink that?” I pass her my flute of champagne and she downs it in one go. She hands me back the empty flute with a wink. A snap of her fingers to her assistants and just like that . . . Helen Brubaker is gone.

“I think I'm in love,” I say to Sasha once Helen is out of earshot. Sasha just stands there shaking her head, trying to form some kind of word or sentence, but . . . nothing. I scan the ballroom and notice a table at the very back that looks like it has some kind of food on it. “Food.” I point to the table, apparently only able to speak in single-word sentences.

“I'm going to head back to the hotel, if that's okay?” Sasha asks.

“I'll be right behind you. I'm going to see if Preeti is here yet,” I say.

“I'll cab it back,” Sasha says, pulling her phone from her purse.

“Is that the guy from the date the other night?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she says. I'm waiting for something more . . . but nothing.

“Nice. Okay, I'll see you back at the hotel,” I say, making my
way back to the food. I order a club soda with lime from the bartender and start to dig into the tiny cubes of cheese that are stacked high on a decorative platter.

As I stuff several tiny cheese cubes into my mouth, I see Colt, a blond titan of a man. He's almost as big in person as he appeared on the banner. He's decided to attend tonight's party almost nude and holding a discus, rather than appearing as the shirtless cowboy from the banner. He's an Olympian. An ancient Olympian in designer underpants and a yellow Livestrong rubber bracelet.

And, as if on cue, Colt ambles over to me.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” I say, swallowing the tiny cubes of cheese.

He doesn't even look real. He's everything women desire. And he knows it. Broad shoulders, blond hair, tanned skin, ice-blue eyes, and a body that looks like it could have been chiseled out of marble. A body that I'm seeing pretty much all of right now because his designer underpants are hardly covering much of his six-foot-four-inch frame.

“So, you want to take a picture of me?” Colt asks, posing.

“Oh, no thank you,” I say as politely as I can manage now that Colt stands frozen into place as Myron's famous sculpture,
Discobolus
. He waits expectantly, so I wipe my hands of any cheese remnants and pull out my phone and begin to fumble with the camera settings.

“You want to get in here with me?” he asks, still posing.

“Oh, um . . .”

“We'll take it for you!” a very excited group of women say from just behind me. I
thank them and hand over the phone. I walk the few steps over to Colt and stand next to him, my face flushing, hands clasped in front of me, purse still on my shoulder.

“Touch him! Act like you're kissing him! Feel his biceps!” the women chirp and shout. I shuffle closer to Colt with a muttered “okay” and awkwardly hover my arm just above his huge extended discus arm. I want to crack a joke to cut the growing tension that's floating all around Colt and me, but all I can manage is muttering and half-starting sentences like I'm some hapless person meandering down the street with a tinfoil helmet atop my head.

I stand next to Colt and it takes all of my energy not to look at anything below his waist and nope, not the chest, either, and Jesus, the shoulders on this guy could—my face is getting hotter and hotter—I've never seen biceps that big in person. In the fantasy version of this I'd be the cool cucumber who swanned over and made some hilarious joke and the women would snap a photo and they'd all see the chemistry and swap knowing glances as oh, do you want my phone number, Colt? Oh, you're really a philosophy professor over at the local university? No, I didn't even notice you were wildly attractive, you know, I don't objectify people like that. Yes, I do think that's noble of me to love you for your mind, Colt. And I'd throw my head back and my long brown hair would waft behind me as I'd finally hit that pose where you look over your shoulder in photographs and it looks mysterious and sexy instead of bewildered and bloated. Then the music kicks in aaaaand cut to a slow-motion shot of Colt and me dancing at our wedding reception, the haze of lanterns in the distance and all we can see is each other and Colt whispers, “You were always my Isabeau,” and I nuzzle him as the camera catches
the look in his eye of a besotted adoration he thought he'd never find.

Instead.

“I think I ate too much cheese,” I say, still standing a good foot away from Colt and the future we'll never share together.

Then, it's like everyone gets the memo in that moment. She's not one of us. I can feel the chill in the air as the women snap the photo and Colt moves into a standing position again. I thank them. They are polite, but disapproving, as they hand me back my phone. I disentangle myself from Colt and they swarm him. I stand on the fringes of the party, watching the revelry.

I turn back to the cheese and scarf down several more cubes, then move on to the slices of pineapple, strawberries, and grapes. Unable to control myself, I dip cubes of pound cake and brownie bites in the chocolate fountain one after the other. I've gone from starving to nauseated in ten minutes flat. I fix myself a little plate of cut-up vegetables and stand off to the side of the buffet table with my club soda still in hand. I take it all in.

“I think I ate too much cheese?” I say to myself. A shake of the head.

The music is loud and right out of every bad wedding reception. The seven male contestants move and mingle throughout the party, taking pictures, dancing, and vying for votes among the crush of hundreds of adoring women. I see every type of woman on the dance floor—every size, every age, every color—shaking her groove thing, if you will. There are no social strata or cliques. It's a mosh pit of women feeling free to let off steam. Helen Brubaker is over in the corner of the dance floor, shoes off and dancing like no one is watching. I can't help but smile seeing
her back up into Jake, the cocoa-skinned god who can only throw his hands up and smile.

I take a bite of a carrot, which tastes terrible after those delectable chocolate-doused goodies. I force it down and throw the rest into the bin, conceding defeat. I take a drink of my club soda.

Women continue to flood the dance floor. Helen Brubaker and her entourage keep dancing. The seven cover model contestants smile and pose. The publishing ladies on the fringes laugh and catch up with one another. And then there's me.

I feel as if one of those spotlights that originally illuminated the cover model banners is now focused squarely on me. I don't belong here. And everyone knows it. Sasha happily chatted up several women before she left, but me? Helen Brubaker calls me out for shoveling bullshit within five minutes of meeting her. In the past I've always been able to rise above the fray—or the dance floor, if you will—and go about my business. I chalk up this hiccup to my yearlong Time-Out. Or maybe I'm just afraid I'll get caught reading that one Judy Blume book under the covers again.

I thought by taking on Lumineux, risking it all, and getting that meeting I was finally done with my training montage and ready to step into the ring. But as I stand here on the fringes, I now realize there's a difference between stepping into the building that houses the ring and stepping into the actual ring itself.

While Rocky's training montage consisted of push-ups and jogging, mine was more about learning to be vulnerable. The key to true happiness, my therapist said, was opening myself up to being imperfect or whatever she was talking about. Something
something something transparency and then quiet sobbing as I slid down the wall. So, I championed it. I decided to be the
best at vulnerability
! Look at me! I bragged that I'd figured it out, and hand over that blue ribbon because here is the girl who wins at being imperfect! I'm perfect at being imperfect! No? I've missed the point? Hm. Of course I was ready to be transparent with people . . .
someone
.

But apparently it doesn't work like that.

Standing on the fringes of this party it all comes roaring back. I'm thirteen years old and, once again, I'm the new kid in town. The vague promises my parents made that we'd visit or stay in touch with whatever half friend I'd glommed on to were short-lived, so as I got older I learned to just . . . not. Trust. Invest. Care.

I set down my club soda on the bar and notice my hands are shaking. And I know it's not just this stupid party. It's everything. Forty. The Time-Out. Cleaning house.

My death match with vulnerability rages on. And the ring? I'm nowhere near ready to step into that ring. I can't even let go long enough to take a picture with Colt.

Helen Brubaker is right. It's bullshit.

I need to get out of here. And I need a drink. A proper one. I wind through the revelers and finally make it out into the hallway, down the escalators, through the lobby,
oh my God, the heat
, into the rental car,
oh my God, the heat
, and back to the Biltmore.

I see the bar right away. As I walk toward it, my hands finally stop shaking. I pull my cell phone from my purse and look at the picture of Colt and me. I text the photo to Allison, Michael, and Ferdie back home along with:

Kids? Looks like Momma just got her Christmas card picture
.

I'm scrolling through various work e-mails as I find a seat at the bar, the blaring televisions with various sports shows drowning out the low, thumping electro music that's soundtracking the rest of the hotel. The angular, hard-lined architecture is softened with the deep dark reds and browns of the lush furnishings. Everything here is breathtaking. Or maybe it's just me happy to be in air-conditioning and away from scantily clad men that I am unable to keep my cool around. I scan the landscape, breathing in the cool air.

Because the Bacchanalia is still in full swing at a hotel far, far away, there are no women from RomanceCon here. The beauty of not staying at the Con hotel. I settle onto a low-backed stool at the bar just as I get the text responses to my fabulous picture with Colt.

Michael:
Are you in Logan Circle right now?

Allison:
Looks like someone wants to throw a little DICKsus, as well. Hahahahahah
.

Ferdie:
I don't understand what I'm looking at
.

I order an ice-cold Lagunitas beer and whatever they have that's fried on the menu. At the last minute, I tack on a cheese plate and a side salad I probably won't eat. I drink. And I eat. I pull out my copy of Helen Brubaker's
Be the Heroine, Find Your Hero
, taking notes and marking passages or ideas that might work for Lumineux. I go back and forth with Allison and Michael, even sending the picture of Colt and me to Hannah—mostly out of guilt. I can feel myself pulling away from Hannah in a move I like to call the Slow Fade. She doesn't respond to my text. Hm.

As the bar begins to fill up, I catch myself hiding the cover of Helen's book. Old habits. The book makes women feel empowered, sexy, and cherished, and challenges them to be the heroine of their own stories, and I can't even be seen in public with it?

“What are you reading?” asks the man seated two barstools down from me, his British accent noticeable even in this noisy hotel bar.

“A book,” I say, positive now that the hits are going to keep coming. And apparently the symbology and prevalence of cheese is going to be something I have to analyze when covering this with my therapist later.

“Oh, is that what those things are?” he asks. I turn to him. He's dressed, as Hannah would say, nattily. A bespoke suit, the jacket of which hangs on the back of his stool. His blue oxford cloth shirt is open at the collar and is being reined in by a tweed vest. His dark blondish hair flips up just behind his ears. The length makes me curious. He looks so hemmed in, literally, but his longish hair and the three-day golden-gray stubble that frames his jaw speak to something . . . else. I try to hide the book under my arm and into an alternate universe, while attempting to avoid too
much eye contact with what turn out to be very dark blue eyes. “Lincoln Mallory.” He extends his hand to me across the two barstools.

“Anna Wyatt,” I say, taking his hand in mine. I'm suspicious. Immediately.

“Pleasure,” he says. Grabbing his jacket and drink, he moves to the barstool next to me. I watch him. “It's just for convenience, I assure you.”

“Mine or—”

“Oh, mine absolutely,” he says, settling in. “I really am best up close.”

“Wow, really?”

“I thought I'd simply state the obvious,” he says.

“If it's so obvious, one could argue it doesn't need to be stated,” I say.

“One could argue that.”

“Not you or I, clearly.” He motions to the waiter to bring me another drink.

“Clearly.” And out of the corner of my eye I begin to see the haze of those lanterns and the slow-motion first dance and . . . no. Anna. Stop. Don't think. How about you try that for a change. How about you unpin that poor dissected frog and just . . . let it go.

“I love a hotel bar,” I say.

“Do you now?”

“Yes, and I know that was a little bit sarcastic, but I'm going to tell you why with an earnestness that will make you feel just a twinge of guilt.” I laugh and he smiles. That's just . . . he really is better up close. I thank the bartender as he sets another beer down in front of me. I take a sip. Lincoln waits.

“Proceed, Ms. Wyatt,” he says.

“It's an odds game. No computer or person in the whole wide world could have predicted that this exact group of people would be sitting at this exact hotel bar on this exact night. All of the flights and the rental cars and the trains and the meetings and the showers and the last-minute decision to throw caution to the wind and come down here and watch the game. It's utterly incalculable. So few things are. I love that.”

“So few things are?”

“Incalculable,” I say.

“Are they, though?”

“Sure. So much of life is routine and controlled and—”

“You mean, so much of
your
life is routine and controlled.”

“No, life in general. Everyone's lives. Life.” A look from Lincoln. “What? You don't agree?”

“Well, what do your calculations say I'll say?”

“Ah.”

“I think life can be as incalculable as you want it to be, Ms. Wyatt.”

“I knew you'd say that,” I say. Lincoln is momentarily flustered and it is breathtaking. I watch as he collects himself, his long fingers curling around his drink while he slowly takes another sip. He allows a small smirk before he meets my gaze once more.

“Certainty tends to be a bit . . . deceptive. Or at least that's been my experience,” he says.

“No, I can definitely . . . I get that,” I say. He smiles and he's a bit elsewhere. I continue, “And it's Anna. Please.”

“Anna then.” Sighhhhhh. “What brings you to Phoenix?”

“Work. Like everyone else, I expect. You?”

“Same. I own a consulting firm in New York. I travel to Phoenix
once or twice a year to meet with a client who lives in one of the Biltmore estates. We golf.” He ends with an efficient nod.

“Golf, eh?”

“Yes, it's all so very calculable.” He toasts with his glass and takes a long drink.

“A couple more drinks and I'm positive I won't be able to say the word
calculable
.”

“Then that shall be our litmus test. Say
calculable
. Now? How about now? That's it, Wyatt, we're cutting you off,” he says. I'm smiling. Smiling. Leaning into him and I'm completely unguarded.

“DUI checkpoints around the hotel where they demand you say difficult words. Sorry ma'am, you can't order those five desserts from room service until you've said the word
proselytize
,” I say, and Lincoln laughs.

“And what is it you do?” he asks.

“Advertising. We're here on a big campaign—well, it's actually a tiny campaign and I kind of tricked my way into getting the meeting, but . . . I think it's a chance, you know?”

“I do know.”

“And it feels important. So much of advertising is . . .” I shake my head thinking about scantily clad women biting into hamburgers and perfect mothers happily cleaning up their family's messes. “Well, isn't.”

“And this campaign of yours?”

“It's different. It feels different. And it's mine.” A flash of Audrey, and this urgency shudders through me.

“What . . . what was that?”

“You know how when you get an idea . . . not just any idea,
the
idea. . . it's almost like you can actually hear the starter pistol go
off, and then it's just this all-out race to get to the finish line before anyone else does?”

“That theory only works if you truly believe you're incapable of having another idea. Is that what you believe?”

“Sometimes.”

“Hm.”

“What . . . what was that?” I say. Lincoln smiles and puts up his hands. Another started and stopped thought and he defaults to scanning the bar with those dark blue eyes of his. I follow his gaze. The drunken businesswomen to our left prattling on with secrets and complaints they'll definitely regret sharing come morning. The quartet of businesspeople making painful conversation about anything and everything until falling silent as they take comfort in the dim screens of their smartphones. The single men and women who just want a drink and maybe to talk sports with someone before going back to their hotel room alone. Lincoln settles back on me with a sigh. “What?” He shakes his head.

“It's not about the idea; it's about confidence, love,” Lincoln says.

“Is it now?” I ask, my walls slamming back up.

“You know the most powerful thing a person can do?”

“Tell a total stranger they have no confidence at some random hotel bar?”

He laughs. “Almost.” A smile. He leans in. “To convince someone they'll only have one good idea.”

“Hm.” Gulp.

“You hate that I'm right.”

“I do. Oh my God, I so do.”

Lincoln leans back and laughs. Really laughs. “I get that a lot,” he says, and then I laugh.

We fall silent.

“It's not often you find the door unlocked, you know? There's your way in. And when you do?”

“You open it,” he says. And before I can think better of it, I kiss Lincoln Mallory. Right there. In front of that impossibly incalculable grouping of people seated at that hotel bar.

“I knew you were going to do that,” he says, as we finally break apart. I laugh.

“I didn't even know I was going to do that,” I say, breathless. Lincoln stands and instructs the bartender to put both checks on his room. I am quiet. He signs the tab, thanks the bartender, and turns back to me. I watch as he takes his jacket from the back of his stool.

“Shall we?”

“Yes,” I say, without hesitation.

We're standing at the elevator after Lincoln's pressed the call button when I finally wake up from whatever stepping-into-the-ring haze I was in that made me say yes to following this man to places unknown. As the doors ding open, he motions for me to enter first. I'm expecting him to touch me, whether on the small of my back or the arm, as I glide past him and into the elevator. He doesn't. He steps inside the elevator and just as he's about to press the floor for his room, I press the floor for mine. I turn to him and raise an eyebrow. We are quiet as the elevator ascends.

I find myself just staring at the numbers, trying to calm myself. I take a deep breath and make patterns out of the numbers, multiplying and dividing them as the elevator speeds to my floor.
It's about confidence, love
. And before I can think better of it, I press the red stop button, pulling my hand back like I've just
touched an open flame. I stand there for a second, staring at the red button. And then I turn to face him.

I run my hand down the front of his jacket, curling my fingers around the lapel, the material soft and weightless in my hands. The alarm of the stopped elevator muting in my now overheated ears. Lincoln's eyes are everything I need them to be in these moments—surprised, curious, and wanton. As my hands explore his body, he remains absolutely still except for that stare. It follows my every move, my every breath. After what feels like millennia, I'm finally ready to meet his gaze. And it cuts through me. I ball my hands into tight fists to keep them from shaking, and then rest them on his hips to steady myself.

He leans down and I pull back, shaking my head no. A raised eyebrow from him. I run my hands back up his body until I'm grazing the flips of hair at his neck and my fingers luxuriously thread their way through the tangle of his dark golden hair. He sighs. A deep, shuddering sigh, and his eyes close for the tiniest and most beautiful of moments. And then I pull him into me, the warmth of his mouth fast on mine. The buzzing of the alarm is gone. All I hear are Lincoln's quickening breaths as he backs me up against the mirrored wall of the elevator, his hand skimming down my body, coming to rest at the crook of my knee as he pulls my leg around him, closing the space between us to beyond infinitesimal.

“Attention! Be advised! The fire department is on their way!” The staticky, urgent voice finally breaks through. Lincoln leans away from me and I find myself being pulled closer as he scans the elevator buttons for a way to stop the voice. Stop the fire department. He takes his hand from under my shirt and reaches across to the talk button.

“No need for all that. We're all fine here. Just a curious son who likes to press buttons.” Lincoln's voice is breathy. It's all I can do to focus on the long, taut muscle in his neck that disappears beneath the collar of that blue oxford cloth shirt.

“Well, all right, sir, but let's try to get it going again, huh?” the disembodied voice says.

“I'm trying, mate,” Lincoln says, his fingers tightening around my knee as he brings my leg in closer to him. He dives into me for another kiss as the voice whines on about valuable time and money. We finally both come up for air wearing the same annoyed, then resigned, expressions. A quick shake of his head and Lincoln depresses the red stop button. The elevator thunks back into its ascent. We disentangle ourselves and begin tucking in shirts and smoothing down fabric. I can feel the color in my face staying at blush red. The elevator slows and the doors ding open at my floor.

I rest my hand on his chest and step out of the elevator alone. My eyes are fixed on his until he disappears behind the closing elevator doors.

“Um . . . hello?!” Sasha is standing in the hallway in her pajamas holding a soda from the vending machine, her mouth hanging open. I can't speak yet, so I just shrug as I begin rummaging through my purse for my room key. “Wha . . . I mean . . . how? Who was he?” Sasha asks, following me down the hall.

“I don't know . . . I met him at the hotel bar,” I say, my mind finally slowing down enough to piece a sentence together. I slide my room key into the slot, get the green light, and open the door. Sasha follows me in.

“Tonight? You met him tonight?” Sasha asks, cracking open her soda and sitting down in the desk chair.