Virtuous(10)

She’s spraying more crap in my hair that now looks nothing like my hair. It actually resembles hair in a picture she found in Vogue that she said would be similar to what he’d expect. As if she somehow knows what he expects.

I don’t know who I’m trying to be, but it’s not me, and I can’t do it. “Leah. Stop.”

“What do you mean, stop? We’re not done.”

“Yes, we are.” I pull the towel off my shoulders and turn to her in our cramped bathroom. “I look like a freak. It’s all wrong.”

“What’re you doing? Natalie! He’s going to be here in half an hour!”

I have just enough time to do this my way. “I need the bathroom, Leah.”

Throwing up her hands, she storms out, and I move faster than I ever have in the shower to wash all the crap out of my hair and off my face. I dry my hair in record time, but don’t bother to straighten it the way I normally would before a big event. A bit of mascara, a touch of lip gloss, and I’m done.

I emerge from the bathroom just as Leah is about to leave for work. She takes one look at me and shakes her head, her dismay apparent. “Don’t forget to bring him by the bar.”

“I won’t.”

“Have fun, Nat, and don’t be a total prude. Let your hair down a little—for real.”

“I can have fun without getting naked.”

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, girlfriend. I’m out.”

I want to tell her that virtuous and prudish are not synonymous, but she’s gone before I can get the sentence out of my mouth. I’m not a prude. I don’t judge others for their choices. I don’t expect anyone to embrace my beliefs, nor do I try to inflict them on others. I’ve never said to Leah, for instance, “You shouldn’t sleep with every guy you date,” because that would be prudish and judgmental.

Yet she finds it perfectly acceptable to tell me I need to let loose and get naked with someone I don’t even know. It’s a double standard I could defend all day except I’m down to ten minutes until Flynn will be here. I still cannot believe I’m casually having that thought. Flynn will be here.

In my room, I put on the one black dress I own along with thigh-high hose and high-heeled black boots. I hope I don’t regret the heels, but I’m also hoping we won’t be outside for long, because the temperature has dropped into the teens. Feeling rushed and not at all ready for a date of this magnitude, I fill a small purse with the essentials, adorn my wrist with silver bangles and insert fake diamond stud earrings to complete my ensemble.

I take an assessing look in the mirror, and while I could never compete with the casual perfection of the women I see on the streets, at least I look like me—for better or worse. The buzzer sounds, and I jump a foot, which startles Fluff into a barking frenzy.

“Stop it.” I bend down to pat her furry head and kiss her furry face. “I’ll be back later. Behave yourself, and I might give you a treat.”

At the word treat, she sits and looks at me expectantly.

“Oh, all right.” I fear I’ll be an awful mother to my future children, and it’ll be Fluff’s fault. Fully manipulated by the woeful eyes of a twenty-pound dog, I dole out a couple of treats and grab my coat and purse. Pushing the button on the intercom, I say, “I’ll be right down” and end the connection before he can reply.

My hands are shaking again, and I hate that I’m so nervous. He’s just a man. A man who puts his pants on one leg at a time, as my grandfather would say. On the stairs, my heel catches on one of the rubber treads, and I stave off disaster by grabbing the banister. I strain a muscle in my arm in the effort to keep from pitching down the stairs. That only adds to the remaining aches and pains from my fall in the park this morning.

Humbled by the near miss, I stop and take two very deep breaths. Just a man. One leg at a time. Just a man. A person like anyone else. In through the nose, out through the mouth. While I’m standing still, I finish buttoning my red wool coat and pull on my gloves. Holding on to my composure, I go slowly down the remaining stairs and open the door to Flynn Godfrey himself. He’s wearing a black overcoat that he’s left unbuttoned, which is how I can see a crisp white dress shirt that he’s worn without a tie. I briefly home in on that triangle of exposed skin above his top button.

In that moment, I realize I expected him to have a driver. Movie stars don’t drive themselves around the city, do they? Apparently this one does.