Under Rose-Tainted Skies(42)
He’s not going to refuse.
How could he?
Why would he?
It’s not like I’m ever going to be the girl that runs her hand up and down his arm, cajoling him into going for coffee, right? And he knows it, must be thinking it. It’s too much, the final nail in my inadequacy coffin. I’m done.
Islink back inside the house and close the door. I’m angry.
Not at her, not really. Not at her, not at him, not at them. I’m angry at myself for wanting to touch him so badly and remembering that the last time he put his hands on me, I almost had a stroke.
The fear of going through Luke’s Hub profile is dust. Curiosity is maniacal, controlling me from the inside. My phone is out of my pocket before my butt even hits the couch. I open his page, don’t hesitate to scroll down the screen and find any ‘connection’ announcements. As suspected, Amy ‘Queen’ Cavanaugh is in the first group of connections he made. I hit her picture and it takes me to her profile.
Fate could save me from the torture I’m about to inflict on myself. Her page could be locked and I wouldn’t see anything but the promo stuff she pins.
Fate hates me.
Her profile pops up and I hit her photo tab. There are pictures of Amy sunbathing with her friends, riding horses, cuddling lions on safari in Africa. Pictures of dinners out, of pool parties and boat parties. There’s even a photo of her sitting on the back of a motorcycle. I narrow my eyes, lift the phone for a closer look. The guy she’s straddling in the motorbike pic looks like Grammy-winning rock god Brock Samson. No. Effin’. Way.
My self-esteem packs its bags and quits me completely. She’s grinning like a Cheshire cat in every shot. Loving her life. Living it.
I blink green, breathe green, taste sour grapes on my tongue.
I don’t know what has me more jealous, the Hollywood-esque life that she has or the fact that I never went horseback riding before I got sick. I didn’t have time to catch a tan that wasn’t filtered through windows. I never went to a concert, let alone snuggled up to a lead singer on the back of his bike. There was always going to be time for that later. Always.
My hands are shaking. I flick back to Luke’s profile, blow up a picture of him, and spend a few seconds staring at it. My thumb touches down on his face. Maybe he was smiling at me because he felt sorry for me. Maybe it was just to piss Amy off. Maybe he wanted her to think there was something between us so she’d leave him alone. I pick at the cuticle on my thumb, peel it back and make it bleed.
I’m done with today, I decide, tossing my phone on the coffee table and curling up into a ball on the couch. I’m all pout, being devoured by my diva counterpart as I tug a patchwork throw from underneath me and cocoon myself in a blanket fort.
Except it’s too stuffy. My breathing is coming thick and fast. It feels like someone’s got a fire going under here.
It’s frustration is what it is. I can’t close down and shut the world out like I could before. Great. Something else I can add to my ever-growing list of new experiences. Except this isn’t one of those times when it feels like I just won a blue ribbon. Shutting out things is essential; it’s my Swiss army knife, my flask of water, the compass that points me home.
I’m pissed off. I throw the blanket off. I may not have a horse at hand or a buff rocker and his bike, but the sun is blazing right now. There is no reason why I can’t step out into the backyard and snap a selfie of me catching a few rays. I’m always whining about how pale I am. Maybe some colour will make me look more alive.
Light bulb. Maybe I can use this urge, this growing mound of motivation, to create a new root, a different thought pattern. Right?
Right, I decide, and march up the stairs.
I know I have a bikini top somewhere. It doesn’t look like Amy’s; all white with a gold, half-moon-shaped, fancy-button thing on the front.
The first place I look is my underwear drawer. It makes sense I’d keep it here because a bikini top is not unlike a bra. I dig through bunches of socks, maybe a million pairs of tights, briefs that are anything but, and a couple of sports bras before I become acutely aware of how comfortable and safe everything I own is. Everything is white or black, no frills or patterns because that’s what’s comfortable. And I can’t be worrying about itchy lace or a cutting thong while I’m trying to manipulate the big bad world.
God. That’s a depressing thought pattern. How did I not notice that my illness has taken over my wardrobe too? I pick up a pair of once-white leg warmers that have gone a gross shade of dishwater grey. This. This drawer is a visual representation of my life, I think, as I volley the leg warmers into the trash can at the end of my bed.
I find the bikini top scrunched up amid thick woollen socks. It’s plain black and clips around the back of my neck. I think I got it free with a magazine. I know I haven’t bought one while I’ve been sick, and I didn’t have any boobs to put in it before that.
Leaving the safe, warm fabric of my sweater, I slip the top on, handling the clasp like I’m wearing Mickey Mouse gloves. I pull my hair back into a bun and head to the bathroom for sunscreen.
We have two different kinds stockpiled in the bathroom cabinet, one with SPF 20 and one with SPF 50. I read the backs of both bottles like they’re how-to guides on defusing a bomb. I opt for smothering myself in the stronger stuff and head back downstairs fifty shades whiter than I was when I went up.