Thinking maybe something went wrong with his brain, all I could do was stare at him.
“By the way, I want something to be clear between us,” he said, holding my wide gaze. “There is not a single moment in the last two weeks that I’ve looked at you and seen the little girl I used to throw in the pool. I see a woman—a beautiful woman. Don’t tell yourself otherwise.”
* * *
That night, as I lay in bed, unable to force my brain to slow down long enough to fall asleep or to get engrossed in the book I was reading, I stared up at my ceiling, slightly obsessing over what Brock had said to me before I left.
It wasn’t the beautiful part.
Brock tossed out flattery like it was going out of style. Considering what had happened to my face, I wasn’t bad. I could be passably pretty on a good day. Beautiful I was not.
No, it wasn’t that at all, even as nice as it had sounded coming from those well-formed lips. It was the part where he said he didn’t see a little girl when he looked at me, and all I could think about was the day I’d thought I was going to change that between us.
Standing in my old bedroom, I didn’t need to look around to see that it looked exactly like it had when I left three years ago.
Little girl bed.
Little girl dresser.
Little girl nightstand.
Posters of my favorite books that had been adapted into movies were tacked to the wall. An old teddy bear sat on the window seat, nestled between blue and pink throw pillows, their colors still vibrant as the day my mom had placed them there. Bookshelves lined the entirety of one wall, breaking only in two sections to allow entry to the closet and the attached bathroom.
Hundreds of books were stacked into those shelves, meticulously organized by genre and then by author’s last name. Mom had started my love of reading when I was a teen, and I devoured historical romances, and those old, musty-smelling paperbacks were stacked one on top of the other, three rows deep. An entire bookcase was dedicated to young adult and then another held all the adult romances I’d collected, or hoarded, ranging from sweet to downright blush-inducing steaminess. The final, the fourth bookcase, was half-full. It contained a few thrillers and old textbooks I didn’t sell back, but also didn’t have room in my dorm at Shepherd to store.
Being in this bedroom brought back a lot of good memories. Me curled up on the window seat reading. Me lying on my side in the double bed late at night with only the small lamp casting just enough light to read. Me standing at the other window, the one that overlooked the driveway, watching Brock drive away after he was over for one of the many family dinners.
Being in this room also made me feel like I was still that little girl that was never going to grow up and leave, but I wasn’t her anymore. I’d done just that.
I walked over to the dresser, where I placed the Saint Sebastian medallion I’d found in a hippie store in Shepherdstown. It was about the size of a quarter, dangling from an old sterling silver necklace. I’d once read that he was the patron saint of athletes, so whenever I came across one, I always picked it up for Brock. Carefully gathering it up, I placed it in the little zipper pocket inside my purse.
Stepping in front of the full-length mirror, I barely recognized the person staring back at me. I’d left my hair down, spent about an hour with the curling iron so the thick hair fell in waves. I’d managed to coax my bangs to the side and they were held in place with about a can of hair spray.
I was actually wearing eyeliner, which had taken about five tries to get right, and I still wasn’t sure I’d applied it to my upper lid correctly after watching several thirteen-year-olds giving tutorials on YouTube.
Nothing makes you feel inept more than seeing a tween apply makeup better than you.
But shimmery lilac eyeshadow warmed my brown eyes, the red lipstick made my lips look fuller, and the bronze highlighter on my cheeks complimented my darker skin tone.
Gone were the usual baggy, shapeless shirts and skirts I usually wore. I’d bought this dress specifically for tonight, and I’d never worn anything like it before. It was black and tight around the chest, showing off what I normally hid. The waist gathered under the breasts and was loose around the belly and hips, camouflaging the rounded hips no amount of cardio would get rid of. The flirty hem of the dress skimmed the top of my thighs.
I was even wearing heels—black heels with all these straps.
There was a good chance I’d break my neck tonight, but I felt . . .
I felt pretty. Maybe even . . . sexy.
Heat invaded my cheeks, and I rolled my eyes at myself. Fiddling with the bangle around my wrist, I turned and checked the time. I’d need to leave soon. My stomach dropped a little, and I forced myself to take a deep breath as I turned back to the mirror.
Tiny little balls of nerves filled my stomach. I’d spent so much time with Brock, years really. Spending time together in the pool in the backyard, when the summer days were long and the nights even longer. Sharing dinners with my family and sitting side by side on the porch swing. Chasing after him and my younger uncles when they left to play ball or headed to the Academy to train. Katie had been right earlier. I had been Brock’s shadow since I was eight and he was fourteen. Most boys his age would’ve been annoyed with a girl snapping at his heel every waking second he was around her, but Brock never made me feel like I was unwanted or that he was annoyed.
In spite of our age difference, he’d become my closest friend. When my uncles or cousins didn’t want me tagging along, he was there to stand up for me and always made sure I was included. He talked to me about things—about his father and his mother—things I knew he spoke to no one else about, especially the girls he hooked up with. We shared secrets and stories. When high school became . . . became hard, he was a shelter whenever I saw him. He never treated me a certain way because of who my father was or what my family did. And when every guy at my school had been too afraid to ask me out because of said crazy family, it had been Brock who had escorted me to my senior prom after I’d said I wasn’t going.