Page 76 of Under the Influence

“What happened then?” I ask, remembering the rumors floating around the school. Were they really covering up a pregnancy?

“It’s stupid. It was really stupid.”

“Avery, just tell me what happened, look at me,” I demand. “Do I really look like someone who is going to judge you? Or turn around and tell Perez Hilton?”

She laughs at my reference. It's sad, but still, even a little giggle makes me happy, “I’ve learned not to underestimate who can have connections.”

“I’m not like that, and you know it.”

“I can’t sleep. I haven’t really slept since my mom died. I don’t eat, and I don’t even like to look at myself in the mirror. For just a couple minutes, it was too much, and I messed up. All I wanted to do was go to sleep.”

She continues explaining, “I wasn’t trying to die, not really. I just wanted to feel at peace.”

Rehab. Her dad wants to send her to a recovery program. Alone.

“Is that the best thing for you? To go to therapy alone?”

She shrugs, “They’re going to take my phone. I came here to give you my address, and I was hoping maybe you’d write to me, but now that I’m here, I realize that might be weird.”

I can feel her slipping away when she picks up her purse, rummaging through it for a piece of paper. I can sense how anxious she is by how frantically she is digging. I stop her, placing my hands over hers.

“Avery,” I whisper, and she pauses, her gaze focused on our hands. “Avery, look at me, please. You need to breathe. You’re having an anxiety attack.”

“I’m sorry,” she rushes out, her breathing labored.

“Sit down,” I instruct, pointing to the futon at the edge of my room. “Just calm down for a minute.”

She does as I say, finally pulling the paper from her purse she was searching for, followed by lip gloss that she opens right in front of me to put on. She paints her lips like her life depends on it, and I’ve had just about all I can take.

I jerk her up by her arm, pulling her into my bathroom and situating her in front of the mirror. The way she looks at herself nearly guts me.

I open the cabinet and pull out a washcloth, wetting it under the faucet, “Take it off.”

She looks at me completely horrified, scared even, but I know that without someone to show her that she doesn’t need the makeup she hides behind, she’ll continue to use it as a mask, so I push her. Maybe even a little too hard, “Avery, take it off.”

She pulls the fake lashes from her eyes, trusting me, little by little, “Madden…”

“No,” I snap. “You don’t need makeup. You never have. Take it off.”

She hesitates, her hand trembling as she makes the first swipe, the makeup melting onto the white washcloth. Her tears are hidden by the water she’s using to clean her face, but I know they’re there, and they’re necessary, so I hand her some soap. She continues to wipe her face, the black mascara flaking and streaking down her perfect cheekbones.

“You don’t need any of it. You don’t need the clothes,” I pull my hand to her zipper, undoing it, watching the dress fall around her ankles, her black lingerie fully on display.

“You don’t need the shoes,” she kicks out of the dress, pulling her boots off too. “You are beautiful, without any of it.”

She sobs, slamming the washcloth into the sink, every ounce of makeup gone from her face. She covers herself with her arms and I can sense that she feels exposed.

Naked.

Insecure.

I hand her one of my legacy T-shirts and a pair of sweatpants, which she slips on. They’re big and swallow her, but she sinks into them.

She can’t even look me in the eye, so I tilt her chin up. “This,” I brush her tears from under her eyes, “is the girl I want to write to.”

I place my rough hand, scarred from my guitar strings, into her perfectly manicured one, pulling her closer. “Stop hiding and just be yourself.”

From the outside looking in, I’m sure we don’t fit, but right now, I’ve never felt like I’ve belonged to anyone like I do with her. I dream about what her body would look like intertwined with my inked skin. Perfect and imperfect. Every inch of each other.