Page 121 of Power Play

Charm

The mirror never lied.

It didn’t care how many compliments I had collected that week, how many papers Professor Brown had finally praised, or how many evenings Ryan spent convincing me I was smarter than I had ever believed. The woman staring back at me still looked too soft through the waist, her thighs too thick beneath the hem of the camo denim skirt, and her skin somehow dull despite the expensive makeup spread across the vanity.

“You’re a mess,” I whispered to my reflection.

The words came automatically, as familiar as breathing.

My gaze drifted toward the measuring tape lying beside the makeup brushes.

Tonight was supposed to be different. Ryan had planned it without telling me what he was doing, remembered a drunken conversation about the summer carnival from three months earlier, and made it clear whatever we had been doing over books and coffee didn’t cover this. He was picking me up at seven because he wanted to take me somewhere, and knowing that should’ve made getting dressed fun.

Instead, I had changed four times.

The first skirt made my legs look enormous. The second outfit made my stomach impossible to ignore. The sundress I had loved when I bought it somehow showed every place my body had failed between the store and my bedroom. Now I was back in the camo skirt, fitted white tank, cropped denim jacket, and white Vans Ryan would probably approve of because he had specifically warned me against wearing shoes I couldn’t walk in.

He was leaving for Flint tomorrow.

That thought had lived beneath my skin all day. I had gotten too used to him. His name appeared on my phone before breakfast, his books covered my table, his truck waited outside, and his hand reached for mine whenever we drove anywhere. Even knowing he was coming back didn’t stop my brain from treating the change like something dangerous.

Flint meant different schedules, practices, games, teammates, distance, and a thousand opportunities for this strange, beautiful thing between us to become harder than it had been while he was twenty minutes away.

Ryan had already told me there was no one else. I had told him the same, but apparently my anxiety had heard every word and decided evidence was optional.

I turned sideways and pulled the hem of the tank flatter over my stomach. The fabric followed the curve I hated, and disgust rolled through me so quickly I had to look away.

The measuring tape waited beside the brushes.

Relief came before I touched it, and that was becoming its own kind of horror.

I picked it up and wrapped it around my waist, positioning it where I remembered measuring the last time. The number was the same as it had been that morning, but the mirror contradicted it, so I tightened the tape until it pressed into my skin.

The number changed.

I measured again.

My waist came first, followed by my hips and thighs. I told myself I would stop after one measurement of each, but the smallest difference between my legs made me start over. The right thigh measured larger, although it looked smaller in the mirror. When I repositioned the tape, the left became larger instead.

Nothing settled the argument.

“I hate you,” I whispered.

I wasn’t sure whether I meant the woman in the mirror or the mind that refused to let me tolerate being her.

A knock sounded from the living room, and my entire body jolted.

“Charm?”

Ryan.

I wound the tape too quickly, shoved it into the vanity drawer, and closed it just as I heard the front door open. I had left it unlocked for him, another ordinary intimacy that had felt sweet until I remembered what he could walk in and find.

“Mi hada?”

“Give me a second!”

His laugh carried faintly through the apartment. “I was told seven.”