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I snort. “No? I wore pastels and spoke nicely, huh?”

At this, she laughs.

“I enjoy swearing. I find the words to be eloquent and expressive.”

“Great. Whatever makes you happy.” She smiles, but it soon fades. “But you were never a doormat. Don’t think that. You just used to be more polite about how you told people to go fuck themselves. And I am glad he was there for you today, that he’s being helpful. Just be careful. There are different degrees of assholishness, and Ed might not be as bad as some. But, Clem, you were gaga about him. You wouldn’t have left unless you were a hundred percent certain that he’d screwed you over.”

“Understood.”

For a moment, she’s silent. “Guess I’m mad at myself for thinking he was a good guy. My radar is usually better than that.”

“Hmm.”

“Like I said, it was great that he could help out in an emergency,” she says. “But hopefully that won’t happen again. Pizza and TV?”

“You read my mind.”

We turn onto the highway, heading toward the suburbs. Bit by bit, the painkillers kick in, easing the tension inside my head. The aching in my face. It might not have been the best of days. I definitely wouldn’t recommend having a seizure as a good time. But with Frances getting a little more real with me, talking some more to Ed . . . things were achieved. I feel like I might be getting somewhere. Not that I have any real idea where that somewhere might be.

As for staying away from the man, I just don’t see that happening. There are bound to be questions about me only he can answer. And after all, it’s not as if he can hurt me when I have no real feelings for him. A little lust doesn’t mean anything.





Chapter Three


Swelling from the bruises alters the shape of my face. I study it in the bathroom mirror, taking in all of the differences. The scar looks to be about the same, a heavy red line cutting across my forehead. Best hidden away beneath my bangs. Most people have a lifetime of seeing their own reflection. Of knowing what they look like and making peace with themselves. Not me. If not for the way the pain of my bruises matched up with the marks on my reflection, I could be staring into the face of a stranger. Mostly, I think I’m about average looking. I’m okay.

I pick up the scissors and start hacking into my ponytail. Warmer weather is coming and I hate the feeling of all the hair sitting heavy against the back of my neck. Giving myself bangs wasn’t so hard, but this is trickier. No way will I be able to get it straight. I settle instead for cutting out some layers. An edgy look, maybe. Or maybe it will just look like I stuck my head in a blender. Oh well.

It’s cathartic, changing my appearance.

One of the things I admire about Ed is how at ease he seems with himself. How comfortable he seems in his own skin. Then again, I like a lot of things about the man. His scent and his voice and his strong, solid presence. And why wouldn’t I? I’d fallen for him once already. Frances has a point about me needing to be careful. Given everything, the last thing my mess of a life requires would be a love interest. I have to sort things out on my own.

Time to put down the scissors before I make things worse. Actually, the result isn’t that bad. Similar to a short, sort-of-fucked-up bob. It certainly feels better. I grab a garbage bag and broom and clean up the bathroom. First job done.

Next, with more bags in tow, I start cleaning out my closet. Gone are the pastels. Blue jeans are fine, along with a couple of pairs of black slacks and shorts. But the happy-happy joy-joy colors have to go. A therapist would probably say something along the lines of me feeling the need to reinvent my wardrobe in an attempt to distinguish myself from my former identity. To control my outside appearance since I can’t control the inside of my head. At least, that’s what the internet tells me. And it’s right on both counts. Clear as can be, I draw a line between now and then. Me and her.

Out go the floral dresses and pretty vintage-style tops with shiny buttons. Gone are the baby pink, violet, and soft sunshine yellow. One thing I have learned in the last few weeks of life, I can only do what I feel to be right. And asserting my own identity, starting over from scratch, feels good.

“What are you doing?” asks Frances, appearing at the bedroom door. Her gaze takes in my new hairdo, but nothing is said. Same goes for Ed’s T-shirt, which I’m still wearing for some reason. I haven’t even washed it because that would get rid of his smell.

“Get off work early?”

“I don’t like leaving you on your own.”

I frown. “You’ve already had to use up some of your vacation time because of me.”

“Not a big deal,” she says. “Want to answer the first question?”

“I’m having a clean out.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Arms crossed, she leans against the doorframe. “Why don’t I put it all in storage for now? In case you change your mind . . .”

I just shrug.

“You’re not throwing out the books, are you?” Her voice sounds vaguely horrified. The colored clothes lay in a heap beside the boxes from the basement. “They were your favorites.”

“No. Not without reading them, at least.”

“Good.” Her shoulders slump in relief. Can’t blame her for being worried. From a distance, self-destruction and reinvention probably look a lot alike. “Clem, how’s your head?”