Oh,hellno. I wouldn’t be sharing this list with a single soul. I would die before I let people see just how much of a weirdo I was.
“Then, one at a time, try tackling each item. You are getting better, Sophie. You’ve come so far already. But there are some things I can’t help you with.”
After a few more minutes of chatting and agreeing to check in next month—awholemonth—we ended the call.
I sat staring ahead, my face reflected back at me on the black screen. Swollen eyes, limp dark hair, a mouth pinched tight.
My life slipped away, and I let it. I’ve already missed out on so much because I was so scared all the time. I wanted to get out and live my life, but it was so exhausting in this mind prison.
Pathetic. Average. Boring.
No. These were not the things somebody practicing kind self-talk would say. I was working on loving myself for who I was. I snapped the laptop shut.
Say five nice things about yourself to cancel out the negative self-talk.
“I have clear skin, I think. Except around my period. I have ...” I cringed at how awkward this practice was.
Think,think. I tried to see myself as a stranger might see me. Not a local who has always known me as El’s granddaughter, who rarely sees the light of day.
I groaned and rubbed my eye sockets with my palms until I saw stars.
“I have shiny and healthy brown hair that hardly ever gives me trouble,” I said. “I am kind to animals.” I looked around my bedroom for inspiration.
Downstairs, I could hear the faint hum of Grandma in conversation with a customer in her Hooks and Grannies Hobby Shop.
“I am really good at quick research and fitting people to things that they might like.”Oh. That was a good one, I encouraged myself.
“I’m—”
The well seemed to have dried up after that. What was the point of saying nice things to myself if it felt like I was lying? At what point would that practice get easier?
I sighed.
“I want to be better.” I settled on.
I’d work on that more later. I needed to get out of this rut. Dr. Spinner was right. If I was going to change my patterns, then I’d have to actuallychangemy patterns.
I sat back and stared, losing a few minutes as I completely zoned out, processing this last call with Dr. Spinner.
It was only after a thump downstairs shook me loose from my staring that I realized I’d been hyper focused on a perfect set of abs. Those abs were attached to a sculpted pair of wide shoulders. It was like a twisted version of a children’s song ... the six-packs connected to the hard pecs, the hard pecs connected to the full biceps ...
The Cozy Creek Fire Brigade charity calendar hung over my desk, an important investment to support the local firefighters. Each month featured one of the hotties who either worked or volunteered for the local station. The CCFB calendars sold so fast last fall, it was easily their most successful fundraiser to date. Except maybe last year’s bachelor auction. But that was a whole other story.
Grandma alone had bought a box full and continued to sell them to tourists who bought them, ironically. Yeah, sure. I bought one and “ironically” stare at each chiseled hunk everymonth too. I imagine this will be a new annual tradition, as the year is three-fourths over and we still sell the occasional copy.
The abs I’d been inadvertently memorizing were those of Pace Leigh.
Now, there was a man who had it all. People like him were an absolute mystery to me.
It was now a few days into September, and I must have forgotten to flip the calendar over. He was the star of August—a Leo if there ever was one. Not that I was ready to say goodbye to ol’ Cutie McDimples just yet.
Pace Leigh.
I bet life came so easy to him. He moved through the world with such ease. Everybody in town loved him. Even in high school, it was as if the world were custom built for him. It’s been over a decade since we’d even exchanged words. Did he even remember me?
It was wild that people like him existed. To be that good-looking and charming. It was like a free pass to life. He could get whatever he wanted from anybody in town. To his credit, he wasn’t abusive with his powers. He was a pretty decent human. I mean, he was a firefighter, for crying out loud. He was always putting himself out there. I often saw him from my second-story window, zooming around town from store to store, helping residents. Never still, always coaxing out smiles and blushes like a prospector panning for gold. He was just so damn attractive and charming. It seemed criminally unfair that so much of that could be poured into one human recipe for life, and then there’d be people like me who spent thirty minutes deciding what to wear to check the mail, only to stay in their pajamas and then never leave the house.
In this photo—I was still staring at it—Pace was shirtless with only his boots and baggy firefighter pants on. He leaned against the antique fire truck parked in front of the station thatthe tourists loved to take photos of, with his thumbs in his suspenders, slightly tugged out so his small, dark brown nipples were on full display—that had to be a safety issue. He had a smattering of reddish-brown chest hair that was a few shades darker than the tousled flop of hair on his head. Even his short, trimmed hair seemed to fall just right where it was supposed to go to look the maximum amount of perfect. One booted foot rested effortlessly on the other in a relaxed lean. He had his typical confident, half-cocked grin that made everybody bend to his whims. He was still rocking that mustache in this picture, but he had since shaved it off. I didn’t hate it—to be honest, I think it sort of worked on him—but now his sharp jaw was more prominent along with his Romanesque nose.
