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I probably looked like a mess—I always looked windswept when I stepped out of the fear vortex. Plus, I cried in my car on the way here, so my makeup was probably smeared all over my face…
My eyes flicked to the mirror on the wall, and I felt the magnetic compulsion to check my appearance; to smooth my feathers.
Would I look different, I wondered?
Would I look disheveled?
Had my reflection transformed into one of those women who kissed their bosses?
Slut.
I bit my lip as I approached, but thankfully the mirror showed me the same old reflection, only with a light dusting of black mascara flakes under my eyes. My irises were their normal greenish-brown, not shimmering emeralds like they were after a bout of ugly-crying.
I tilted my head to check my hair: still chocolate-colored, still woven into an immaculate french braid. I couldn’t resist doing a quick check for grays and feeling enormous relief when I didn’t find any. Even though I was only twenty-four, early grays ran in my family.
You kissed your boss, you slut,my anxiety hissed.
My eyes flicked down to my lips.
Any bruising? No bruising. That was a relief. Though, they were a little swollen…
My anxiety—which I’d named “Disgrace,”—seized the images I kept trying to shove into a drawer at the back of my mind.Bitch, I got receipts,she said, jerking the drawer open with her manicured claws.
Exhibit A:
I blinked and saw Sawyer’s face in front of mine, the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes deepening as he smiled.
I frowned, fighting to think about something else, but she already had her hands in the drawer, plucking out more files.
Exhibit B:
Sawyer looking at me with an approving, fatherly smile as he showed me a lesson plan a few weeks ago.
A fatherly smile.
Maybe that’s what did it… God, I was such a Freudian freak. What the hell was wrong with me?
Disgrace smiled wickedly, then plucked out file after file, scattering them across the fields of my mindscape like a snowstorm.
Exhibit C: Sawyer’s scandalized look when you kissed him. You’re going to get fired.
Exhibit D: How much you secretly like putting everything you’ve worked for at risk. You get off on being reckless.
Exhibit E: You think about him when you masturbate. You think about him masturbating about you when you masturbate.
Exhibit F: You jeopardized your career because of your stupid fantasy about him fucking you across his desk like a little slut—
The door flew open and Disgrace scattered away like a cockroach.
A man burst through and made a beeline for the exit. I only caught a glimpse of him, but it was enough to know he wasn’t my type:
Bulging arms.
Swirling tattoo sleeves.
Tight black v-neck.
I could barely see his face under his wild beard and shaggy hair, but I could see the eyes:
