Soaring (Magdalene #2)(33)
Author: Kristen Ashley

But I couldn’t share, not that, not the ugliness that I’d perpetrated against my family. I wanted them to keep liking me, not think I was the whackjob my son called me.

No, right then I needed someone who knew me. Who got me. Who understood where I’d been and where I was going.

Robin understood the first part.

The last, I wasn’t sure she had that in her.

But right then, I was no longer sure I shouldn’t give her the chance to try.

And right then what I was worried about was that the longer I didn’t offer her that opportunity, the less likelihood I’d learn she had it in her to give it to me.

More, I had it in me to give what I could back.

“One day at a time,” I whispered to the steering wheel. “One challenge at a time. One thing at a time. Keep moving, Amy.”

I blinked at the steering wheel and abruptly sat straight.

I’d never called myself Amy because no one had ever called me Amy.

Until now.

“Oh God, now I’m torturing myself with absurdities,” I snapped at the windshield.

What lay beyond came into focus and I remembered I was challenging myself to go see a movie. To keep building a life. To learn to be comfortable with me.

Sitting in my car, doubting myself while talking to myself meant I was failing.

Resolutely, I turned the ringer off on my phone, threw it into my purse, grabbed my bag and got out of my car.

I was in my seat in the theater when I realized none of that was hard.

In fact, it was not only easy, it was great.

Sure, asking for one ticket was a little tough.

But then I got to buy whatever concessions I wanted, knowing I didn’t have to share. So I got myself a vat of popcorn, a box of Milk Duds and a Diet Coke so big it could quench the thirst of an army.

And when I hit the theater, I found that I didn’t have to take anyone’s preferences but my own into account when selecting a seat.

I didn’t have to sit in the middle of the row in the middle of the theater because Auden liked close but Olympia liked far. I also didn’t have to sit way at the back, where Robin demanded we sit because she enjoyed people watching more than movie watching.

I got to sit where I wanted to sit, behind the handicapped railings, knowing no one would sit in front of me and I could rest my feet on the railing without bothering anyone.

Okay, so it was off to the side.

But it was awesome.

I sipped. I munched. I bested nearly all the trivia that flashed on the screen and freely judged (mentally) the ridiculous ads, enjoying myself immensely, looking forward to losing myself in a movie, finding something I actually liked to do spending time with just me.

Then it happened.

The lights were already lowered, the trailers coming on, and I saw movement at the opposite entrance to where I was sitting.

I glanced that way, expecting only to glance, but I didn’t just glance.

This was because the latecomers were a couple.

And one half of that couple was Mickey.

My stomach got tight, my muscles contracted, and I stared as he walked in, his arm flung around the shoulders of a very tall, very buxom, very pretty redhead who looked not one thing like me.

The lights were dim, I couldn’t study her to get a lock on her age, but many things were clear.

She was way taller than me.

She had way better hair than me.

She was way better dressed than I’d ever be.

She was way, way prettier than me.

And, smiling up at a smiling-at-her Mickey, the biggest hit of all…

She was out on a date with Mickey.

I jerked my eyes to the screen, feeling like throwing up and hoping, hoping, hoping that he would not see me all alone at a cinema to watch a movie.

Not long after, the theater went dark and I waited. I actually counted the seconds.

When I figured the time was right, I carefully, quietly set my snacks on the floor (even though the sound system could drown out an exploding bomb). I grabbed my purse then bent double (even though the theater wasn’t close to full and I wasn’t obstructing anyone’s view, I still made myself as miniscule as I could) and I dashed to the stairs and around, running down the side hall and out of the theater.

I forced myself to slow to a walk, a swift one, one that took me through the lobby, out of the cineplex and directly to my car as quickly as I could get there.

I got in.

I dumped my purse in the passenger seat.

I started up.

And I got the fuck out of there.

I drove home and I shouldn’t have. I should have breathed deep. I should have gathered my thoughts. I should have calmed myself.

I didn’t.

But by some miracle, I made it home safely.

And when I got home, I didn’t want to. I’d been avoiding it. The last thing I wanted to do considering the fragility that was me was that.

But as had become their wont, my feet decided for me.

So I found myself in my bathroom, flipping on the lights and positioning myself in front of my mirror.

I looked at myself. I had to. I couldn’t avoid it.

But I did it being absolutely certain I didn’t actually see me.

Right then, my eyes refused not to take me in.

And it was worse than I expected it to be.

Not worse than it could be. My mother had drilled a regime into me since my fourteenth birthday, when I was allowed to wear light makeup.

So I cleansed. I moisturized (daily and nightly). I exfoliated, and twice a week did this deeply prior to slapping on a facial.

But other than that…I didn’t look after me.

My shining, brunette hair had strands of gray. Silvery-gray that may, when it took over, be stunning.

Right then, it made me look like I didn’t care.

I had lines at my forehead, but not many.

But my skin was sallow. My cheeks were sunken. My eyes looked huge and not in a good way. My makeup was there, but it was uninspired, doing absolutely nothing for me.

And I already knew my clothes were conservative, high-quality and older than my years. I wasn’t a spry twenty-something and they were still older than my years.

I looked past it.

I looked like I gave not…one…shit.

Because I didn’t.

I had not gone for a proper facial since moving to Magdalene. I had not had a manicure or a pedicure. I had not had my hair cut even before I’d moved to Magdalene. And I’d never dyed it, the gray started coming in when Conrad left me (and, incidentally, I blamed each strand on him regardless of the fact that, at my age, it was time) and I’d left it at that.

Robin had said things, cautiously, sensitively. Mother had said them too, not cautiously or sensitively.