people avoided bringing him up, and I steered clear of anyone would might talk about him. He was a hot topic in our little municipality. Townie who’d made it big. He was a specter, always around the corner, the memories on everyone’s tongue. But they dared not share those with me.
I considered my form in the mirror. I was wearing a camisole and boy shorts and was sprawled, arms askew, over what must have been every piece of clothing from my suitcase. I took in my arms, my neck, my legs dangling off the bed. I rolled over so I could properly face the mirror.
I had changed in my twenties. My hips had grown fuller, and my hair was shorter than I’d kept it in high school. I pressed a finger against my cheeks, pushing them in. I had gained some weight over the years—not enough to concern me, but enough to be noticeable. I had been thin in high school, and my cheekbones back then had been as harshly prominent as Nicolas’s, but now my face was a bit more filled out, softer in contrast to the angles of my youth.
I sat upright and stared into my eyes of my reflection. I supposed those hadn’t changed. I had intense blue eyes that always drew plenty of comments. My irises were a light shade, but rimmed in a deep violet, the strong striations that surrounded my pupil just highlighting the variance.
Alistair had never told me I had beautiful eyes. I wrinkled my brow. Now that I thought of it, I didn’t think he’d ever told me he found me beautiful.
But I knew how he felt about me, something that was indescribable.
And he wasn’t just handsome to me. He was the ultimate. He was the only.
I got on my knees and inched towards the mirror. My brown hair just grazed my shoulders, and besides the eyes and my generous lips, I supposed I couldn’t see anything especially remarkable. I brushed a strand of hair from my cheek and turned my head to the side. I knew I wasn’t heinous looking, but suddenly a pang of self-doubt slammed into me.
I had been good-looking enough to win Blueberry Queen of the Year or whatever back in small-town America St. Haven, Michigan, but here in New York City, next to all the willowy blonde socialites of the Upper East Side and the starving hipster models stacked up four deep in Greenwich Village, I didn’t stand a chance. Hesitancy gnawed at my core.
My hips were too wide. My ass was too big. I was too short. My legs were long in proportion to my body, but I stood a foot shorter than the glamazons that ruled this town. My waist was narrow and trim, but I wasn’t a size double zero.
Thought after wild thought raced through my brain. Alistair probably had a girlfriend. He wasn’t married, I knew that much based on the sparse media reports I’d found of him online. Somehow the thought of some perfect specimen of a woman dangling off his arm angered me.
Alistair was no longer mine. Perhaps we had never been each other’s and were just forced together in our small town. Still, I loathed the idea of him settling down with some vapid fool of a woman.
I shook my head and then stood up quickly to walk to my closet. Alistair deserved better than the shallow gold diggers who were probably breaking down his door, but it was his business who he mixed with. Whomever he dated, if he dated, was none of my concern. My arm shot out angrily to push aside the tiny selection hanging in my too-big closet. If Alistair wanted to dumb himself down, if he found what he was looking for in some towering model, then good for him.
Good for him.
My actions became harsher, more frenetic as I shoved every hanger in front of me from left to right and then back again. I spun around on my heel and glared at the clothing mountain sitting on my bed, mocking me with its mess, screaming that it held nothing I needed.
I snatched at a pair of jeans and yanked them on. Forget it. I was going shopping.
* * *
As I exited the taxi, I decided to myself that living in New York City definitely had its perks. After two hours
I considered my form in the mirror. I was wearing a camisole and boy shorts and was sprawled, arms askew, over what must have been every piece of clothing from my suitcase. I took in my arms, my neck, my legs dangling off the bed. I rolled over so I could properly face the mirror.
I had changed in my twenties. My hips had grown fuller, and my hair was shorter than I’d kept it in high school. I pressed a finger against my cheeks, pushing them in. I had gained some weight over the years—not enough to concern me, but enough to be noticeable. I had been thin in high school, and my cheekbones back then had been as harshly prominent as Nicolas’s, but now my face was a bit more filled out, softer in contrast to the angles of my youth.
I sat upright and stared into my eyes of my reflection. I supposed those hadn’t changed. I had intense blue eyes that always drew plenty of comments. My irises were a light shade, but rimmed in a deep violet, the strong striations that surrounded my pupil just highlighting the variance.
Alistair had never told me I had beautiful eyes. I wrinkled my brow. Now that I thought of it, I didn’t think he’d ever told me he found me beautiful.
But I knew how he felt about me, something that was indescribable.
And he wasn’t just handsome to me. He was the ultimate. He was the only.
I got on my knees and inched towards the mirror. My brown hair just grazed my shoulders, and besides the eyes and my generous lips, I supposed I couldn’t see anything especially remarkable. I brushed a strand of hair from my cheek and turned my head to the side. I knew I wasn’t heinous looking, but suddenly a pang of self-doubt slammed into me.
I had been good-looking enough to win Blueberry Queen of the Year or whatever back in small-town America St. Haven, Michigan, but here in New York City, next to all the willowy blonde socialites of the Upper East Side and the starving hipster models stacked up four deep in Greenwich Village, I didn’t stand a chance. Hesitancy gnawed at my core.
My hips were too wide. My ass was too big. I was too short. My legs were long in proportion to my body, but I stood a foot shorter than the glamazons that ruled this town. My waist was narrow and trim, but I wasn’t a size double zero.
Thought after wild thought raced through my brain. Alistair probably had a girlfriend. He wasn’t married, I knew that much based on the sparse media reports I’d found of him online. Somehow the thought of some perfect specimen of a woman dangling off his arm angered me.
Alistair was no longer mine. Perhaps we had never been each other’s and were just forced together in our small town. Still, I loathed the idea of him settling down with some vapid fool of a woman.
I shook my head and then stood up quickly to walk to my closet. Alistair deserved better than the shallow gold diggers who were probably breaking down his door, but it was his business who he mixed with. Whomever he dated, if he dated, was none of my concern. My arm shot out angrily to push aside the tiny selection hanging in my too-big closet. If Alistair wanted to dumb himself down, if he found what he was looking for in some towering model, then good for him.
Good for him.
My actions became harsher, more frenetic as I shoved every hanger in front of me from left to right and then back again. I spun around on my heel and glared at the clothing mountain sitting on my bed, mocking me with its mess, screaming that it held nothing I needed.
I snatched at a pair of jeans and yanked them on. Forget it. I was going shopping.
* * *
As I exited the taxi, I decided to myself that living in New York City definitely had its perks. After two hours
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