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“I’m smiling. See?” I give her the best I’ve got.
She looks vaguely nauseated. “If, by smiling, you mean looking like you’re about to be eaten alive by the lions in ancient Rome, then yes, you’re smiling.”
“I’m fine,” I tell her for what has to be the millionth time. I keep hoping if I say it often enough, she’ll actually believe me. Then again, if I could put even a little conviction behind the words, we’d probably both be better off. “I’m really not sad. Just tired.”
Tori doesn’t bother to answer my blatant lie. Instead she says, “Come on, slowpoke,” as she wraps a hand around my wrist and pulls me along. “Maybe we’ll get you a whole makeover. My treat.”
“I don’t need a makeover,” I tell her even as I allow her to drag me up to the MAC counter.
She snorts. “Sweetie, you need something. Might as well be this.”
She’s right. I know she’s right. I’m an absolute, total mess and I don’t have a clue what to do about it.
It’s been two weeks since I last saw Ethan. Two weeks since my heart broke wide open for the second time. He hasn’t called, hasn’t texted, hasn’t emailed. He hasn’t even sent any of the care packages I’d gotten so used to in the time we were dating—little boxes filled with seashells and tea and other myriad things that made him think of me or that he thought I’d like.
No, there’s been no contact from Ethan whatsoever. I know it’s a good thing, know he’s only respecting my wishes. I’m not one of those women who says one thing and means another. I told Ethan I couldn’t be with him and I can’t.
But that doesn’t stop me from missing him, all day, every day.
It’s only the nights that I don’t want him around, when my dreams are filled with nightmares of Brandon and the rape and the terrible months and years that came after it. Even worse are the dreams where I think it’s Brandon holding me down in the front of his car, think it’s Brandon raping me, only to find myself staring into Ethan’s face when he finally lifts his head.
I know it’s not true, but each time I have that nightmare I end up a little farther away from Ethan and a little closer to crazy.
To combat it, I’ve pretty much given up sleeping. It’s been days since I’ve gotten more than an hour or two of rest. I’m exhausted and miserable and jumping at nonexistent threats around every corner. Every noise behind me is an attacker conjured up by my paranoid mind, every shadow is someone just waiting to hurt me.
Add to that the fact that Ethan’s absence is a gaping wound inside of me that hasn’t even begun to scab over, and no wonder Tori thinks I need therapy of some kind. I really am only one small step away from being a total basket case.
“So, what can we get for you today?” asks the man behind the counter. He’s wearing more makeup than I even own and to add insult to injury, he looks absolutely gorgeous. Sometimes life really is unfair.
“She needs a makeover,” Tori tells him, pointing at me. “A whole new look.”
“Oh, yes, she does, doesn’t she?” he says, and though the words are rude, the tone and his expression are nothing but kind. “Come on over here, sweetheart, and let me get a look at you. I’m Sam, by the way.”
“I’m Chloe. And my crazy friend over there is Tori.” We both watch, bemused, as Tori randomly picks five or six different eye shadows off the display and starts applying them one on top of the other. She does this, of course, without taking off any of the rock star makeup she’s already wearing.
“She does like color, doesn’t she?” he says. It doesn’t sound like a judgment, exactly, but the man is dressed from head to toe in black. Even the gauges in his ears are black.
“You have no idea.”
After another minute of staring at Tori gone wild, he leads me over to a trio of makeup displays that are set up behind the counter. “What look are we going for exactly?” he asks after I’m settled in the chair.
I shrug. It’s not like this is my idea.
“We’re going for anything that makes her look less dead,” Tori chimes in as she bounces over. I expect her to look like a clown after everything she just put on her face, but instead she manages to look better than ever. Just another reason why I should hate her.
“Hush!” Sam says. “She just looks a little tired, that’s all. We can fix that.”
“Bad breakup,” Tori whispers loudly enough to be heard in the shoe department all the way across the store.
“Oh, you poor thing,” Sam clucks sympathetically. “I’m recovering from a breakup myself. It sucks.”
“You seem to be handling it a lot better than I am,” I tell him. It’s true. He looks absolutely gorgeous.
“That’s why you need a makeover,” he says. “A good lipstick can hide a multitude of sadnesses.”
“See! I told you!” Tori crows, clapping her hands triumphantly.
And that’s how I end up spending the next ninety minutes in Sam’s beauty/therapy chair. He powders, applies, spritzes and blends until I’m certain I am wearing enough makeup to outfit an entire Cirque du Soleil production, all the while delivering little tips on how to survive a breakup.
