From the Jump(87)
I avoid the calls from the Bears in Captivity manager and return Marian Hammersmith’s call from when I was in St. Lulia. She sounds friendly, despite the fact that it’s taken me far too long to respond to her message. Rather than offering lunch again, she suggests I meet her in her office on Friday morning. Nervously, I agree.
When I go to buy new work clothes, I discover I no longer fit into my size. I stare at my body in the dressing room, trying to decide how many meals I’ll need to skip to get back into it. A prolonged juice fast will probably do it. But the longer I stand there, the harder it is to imagine a time when I liked my ribs poking through my skin. I look healthier now. My skin is glowing in a way I never was quite able to mimic with makeup. Resolutely, I ask the attendant to bring me the next size up. I leave with several options that will allow me to eat something other than a nutrition bar while wearing them.
I feel so elated on the walk back to the hotel that I change as soon as I get in and head back out for a run. It doesn’t feel the same without Deiss, though. I miss the sound of his steps next to me. I miss the way we’d get so wrapped up in a conversation that I’d be shocked when he’d slow in front of his building, thirty minutes gone in the blink of an eye.
Nights are difficult as well. As hard as I try to get my body back on its old schedule, it refuses to adjust. Nine o’clock hits, and it gets fidgety for decadent food and bad TV. My legs slide around the bed as I try to read, like they’re so used to tangling with Deiss’s that they can’t help searching for contact. When I turn out the light, I lie there, blinking in the darkness, unable to sleep.
It’s Thursday night that’s the worst, though. It’s the third Thursday of the month, and for the first time since we graduated seven years ago, my friends and I don’t meet up. Or maybe they’re out together somewhere, and they’ve just neglected to invite me. I haven’t heard from anyone since the concert Saturday night. Five of the longest days of my life.
I’ve texted Phoebe, telling her how sorry I am, but she hasn’t replied. I’ve texted Deiss, too—long, rambling messages full of apologies and declarations of love—but I haven’t sent them. I’m back on the rules, and they insist if a man wants to hear from you, he’ll reach out. And while my reading hasn’t unearthed any details on my particular situation, I can only trust that this includes the kind of scenario where you’ve outed a former child star and unleashed a torrent of amorous tweens on him.
As much as I’ve convinced myself that I’m back to my old self, Friday morning proves me wrong. I wake up later than planned after tossing and turning and incessantly checking my phone for We decided to meet up after all! Please come! texts that never came through. When I attempt to prepare myself for my meeting with Marian Hammersmith, I discover my makeup no longer matches my skin. Weeks of running outdoors has given me a tan.
I cringe at the sight of the contoured cheekbones with the pasty-looking foundation on top of it. I look three-toned, like a little girl who has discovered her mother’s makeup and mistakes eyeshadow for blush. It’s unfathomable that I haven’t realized this before now. Has it really been so long since I made myself up? The last time must have been two weeks ago, when I went to visit my mother with Deiss. It was off then, but manageably so. How is it possible I didn’t wear it to the concert last weekend? Washing my face clean, I try again with just mascara and blush, trying to convince myself that the natural look goes better with my grown-out highlights anyway.
Outside, smog has rendered the sky hazy, like the sun has risen but hasn’t yet shaken off its slumber. The walk to work takes longer than I remember. There are no greetings from neighbors. The air smells of exhaust and impatience.
Icy air-con hits me as I enter Infinity Designs. “Morning, Sal,” I say to the security guard.
“I thought I’d seen the last of you,” he says.
“Never,” I say. “Someone’s got to make cod-liver oil fashionable again.”
He laughs and waves me on, but the tiny bit of camaraderie bolsters me. I belong here, I remind myself as I wait for the same elevator I’ve gotten into every morning for the last seven years. This is where I thrive.
My conviction falters as the elevator zips upward. It must be because I skip my floor and go straight to Marian Hammersmith’s level, which feels a lot like showing up at school and being immediately summoned to see the principal. Her assistant greets me politely, though, and offers me a bottle of water before opening the door. I resist the urge to pat at my skirt.
“Olivia,” Marian says, her smile surprisingly warm. She waves me toward the two chairs in front of her desk. “It’s lovely to see you again.”
“It’s lovely to be back.” I slide into a seat, crossing my ankles. “I feel like I’ve been gone forever.”
“As do I.” She places her hands on the desk and tilts her head calculatingly. “Bob said he felt the need to offer you six weeks of unpaid leave. That is quite . . . unprecedented. Might I inquire as to what precipitated such an offer on his part?”
I have to admire the delicacy with which she’s phrased the question. We both know there are several reasons a person might need a block of time like that off—mental or physical health issues, some form of rehabilitation, or a death in the family—and all of them are fully within my right to keep to myself. Still, I don’t mind. She’s given me the opportunity to defend my actions, and I’m willing to tell her exactly what she wants to hear.