Girl Before a Mirror (10 page)

I tilt my head back and just sigh. I push him back into his room and it's a blur. The door slams behind us. The phone is dropped, the purse is dropped, my mind whips back to whether or not I hung up and is this going to be the longest long-distance phone call ever or the shortest? Or . . . And then I'm underneath him on the king-sized bed and I can't get his suspenders off fast enough, which does nothing except pull them down around his shoulders and kind of trap his arms to his body for a few hilarious seconds. A panicked thought about my workhorse nude-colored bra and then the thought is gone. Who cares about that bra—Lincoln sure doesn't. My fingers run through his hair once
again and I get lost in his smell—this oaky clean, outdoorsy scent that I didn't even know I missed.

“You're trying to remember if you hung up your mobile, correct?” he asks, his voice breathy. He leans his body on one of his arms and pulls back from me.

“Yes. Goddammit, yes. And maybe a little bit about the dessert,” I say, sliding my hand up the side of his body—the blue shirt underneath my fingers. He laughs and gets up. He kneels at the foot of the bed and as I leap up he gives my ass a smack. Which makes me giggle like a teenager. I find both of our phones, various items of clothing hanging off me. “They're both still on!” I hold them up in the air, shutting them both off.

“Well, hurry up and get back over here,” he says, untucking his shirt and pulling it off. Which is when I see them. He stands and drops his shirt to the ground, standing in front of me bare-chested. His entire upper body is scarred and mangled, shrapnel wounds and burns clearly from an explosion on his left side. “Afghanistan.” He lifts his left arm up and turns to the side. “An IED. Do you know what that is?”

“Of course,” I say, holding both of our cell phones. Resigned, he begins to put his hands in his pockets, but before he can I've dropped our phones on the desk and pushed him back onto the bed once more. The relief in his face almost brings me to tears. He flips me over easily and I'm underneath him once again, his smell infusing my everything. “Yes,” I whisper once more.

Yes.

I wake up to a slant of light and distant tapping. A slow, blinking awakening gives way to a panicked oh-my-God-what-time-is-it start within milliseconds.

“It's early yet. Not to worry,” Lincoln says, sitting in front of
his open laptop in nothing but his boxers, holding a steaming cup of tea. I'm in Lincoln's hotel room. Shit shit shit. I'm in Lincoln's hotel room. I fumble around on the bedside table trying to find my phone, but my dried-up contact lens eyes thwart my search. “It's over here. I plugged it into my charger.” Lincoln sets his tea down, unplugs my phone, and walks it over to me. I thank him, all the while trying to hide my early-morning crustiness: mood, breath, everything. He sits on the side of the bed, and the quiet of a still sleeping hotel surrounds us. Insulates us.

“I'm not quite awake yet,” I say, looking at the time: 5:43
A.M
. I have to be in Helen Brubaker's suite by seven
A.M
. Flashes of last night besiege me in swirls and waves and my body reacts—flushing, tingling, and immediately feeling embarrassed. Who was I last night? Even now, as I hitch myself up in bed, my hand effortlessly rests on Lincoln's hip, a few fingers on fabric and a few on his now goose-pimpling skin. The same skin that's burned and scarred by a history I have yet to ask about.

I think about leaving his hotel room and I die a little, but at the same time there's the comfort of a reunion with what's familiar about myself. Because within these walls, around this man, I am unrecognizable. No thought. Just want. Lincoln leans down and is just about to kiss me.

“You've already brushed your teeth,” I say, sitting up in bed.

“I have,” he says. Closer. Closer.

“So, that's officially cheating,” I say, my fingers idly threading through his morning tangle of hair.

“How is that—”

“You're all minty and I'm still the little stinky engine that could. Pass,” I say, landing a kiss on his neck before getting out of bed. The warm bed. His warm bed. He stops me, taking my
hand in his. It takes me about two seconds to realize that I am standing there completely naked. I remember when I was little some of the neighborhood kids dared me to go on the high dive. Eager to make friends, I obliged. I climbed the ladder, terrified, but I was so distracted with the newness of it all that I walked the length of the platform, reached my arms over my head, latched my thumbs together, and dove right off the end headfirst without thinking. They hadn't dared me to dive, just jump. I remember swimming up to the surface of the water, not realizing what I'd done. Why I dove. It was just . . . instinctual.

Up until this moment, I had yet to dive off another platform.

“Not fair,” he says, his eyes licking over every inch of me. And then it's just me and this feeling again. I'm not my body or my résumé or the new kid in school—I'm just me. And it feels like uncontrollable falling.

“When I emerge from that bathroom, I want to know what you've done with that dessert you promised. And?” Lincoln stands. “It better not be metaphorical for . . .” I scan his body and then back to his eyes. “You know.” I punctuate with an arched eyebrow.

“I am not a man who trifles with the clarity of what dessert means,” he says, then takes a sip of his tea.

“Good. Good,” I say.

I grab my purse, underwear, and bra from the floor and go into the bathroom, closing the door behind me. I don't turn on the light. Not yet. There is a night-light on the far wall, and that's about the level of illumination I can take right now. I put on my bra but then realize I've grabbed a pair of already-worn underwear and quickly shove it into my purse, hoping Lincoln doesn't think I'm a dirty underwear–wearer. I find a gray
T-shirt of his on the bathroom counter, smell it—sighhhhh—and put that on instead. I dig through my purse for something, anything to help . . . help with all this.

“Lumineux should come up with some kind of morning-after survival kit is what they should do. Just Be . . . Presentable,” I say, finding an almost empty package of tissues in the bottom of my purse, which I use to wipe away last night's mascara. I also find a single peanut M&M, which I pop in my mouth. “Kind of hypocritical, though . . . Be you, only better.” I scan Lincoln's toiletries.

“Who are you talking to in there?” he asks from outside the bathroom door.

“Myself,” I say, as if that's completely normal and I'm not absolutely mortified right now.

“Ah,” he says, and I hear him walk away. I am clearly rusty at this whole dating game. I take a little of his toothpaste and use my finger to give my teeth a cursory brush.

Is this bathroom getting smaller? I finally look at myself in the mirror, illuminated by the night-light in this ever-shrinking yet noise-amplifying bathroom. I look . . . different. I lean closer. I feel lighter, but . . . that uncontrollable falling feeling is still here. I shut the water off and walk back out into the hotel room.

“It's sweet potato pie,” Lincoln says, motioning to the Styrofoam takeaway container with two forks sticking out of it. I quicken my pace. “It's from Mrs. White's Golden Rule Cafe. I found it . . .” Lincoln trails off, thinking. “Last year? Year before? I don't know. I needed to find something in Phoenix besides golf and room service.” He motions for me to try the pie. “Nice shirt.” He hands me a cup of tea and I take a careful sip.

“Thank you. The whole walking-around-naked thing was getting a bit . . .” I make a face.

“For you maybe.”

“No one's stopping you from stripping down,” I say. He smiles. “Now . . .” I take a bite of the pie. “Oh my God.”

“I know,” Lincoln says, taking a bite.

“Mrs. White is a genius,” I say. We stand there, hovering over the pie, taking orgasmic bites for untold minutes. The morning haze seeps in through the gauzy curtains. We finish the pie too soon and it takes everything I have not to lick the takeaway container it came in.

“And what does the day hold for you, Ms. Wyatt?” Lincoln asks, sitting back down on the side of the bed.

“We're meeting Helen Brubaker at seven
A.M
. at the conference hotel. She's the woman who wrote that book I was reading at the bar,” I say, finding my skirt and sliding it on. Lincoln motions for me to turn around and I oblige. He zips me up, tapping the top of the zipper when he's done. I turn back around, a little uncomfortable that I'll apparently be breakfasting with Helen Brubaker whilst ever-so-classily going commando. “That
Be the Heroine
book?”

“Sure,” he says.

“You know it?”

“Yes, of course,” he says, not elaborating as much as I'd like. I take another sip of tea.

“So, we thought, how can we tap into that audience for the Lumineux campaign? There was something about that book—
is
something about that book—that women are really connecting with and we came up with—”

“If I may?” Lincoln asks, standing. “It's quite urgent.”

“Sure,” I say, pausing.

“You've brushed your teeth, you've had pie . . . ,” he says, stepping closer.

“Yes,” I say, staying put.

“No longer the—how did you put it—the stinky—”

“Little stinky engine that could,” I finish.

“The stinky engine that could,” he repeats. I smile just as Lincoln leans in and kisses me. The smile on my face is at once both spontaneous and inconvenient, as it precludes me from really diving into him. And yet I can't stop smiling. He pulls away from me with a smile of his own, tucking one of surely a thousand rogue hairs gently behind my ear. “Please. Continue.” Lincoln picks up his tea and sits back down on the side of the bed.

“The book is empowering women to be the heroines of their own stories.” I take his gray T-shirt off, find my shirt flung over the back of a chair, and begin to button it up.

“But it's to find a hero, though, right? So is
empowering
the right word?”

“I know, I thought the same thing.”

“Seems like bollocks to me.”

“I know. That part of it is bollocks.”

“Do you even know what
bollocks
means?”

“It's not good, right?”

“No, it's not good.”

“But Helen—”

“We're calling her ‘Helen' now?” Lincoln asks.

“Ha, no . . . I mean, I would never to her face. Mrs. Brubaker said that she didn't even want the hero part in the title. That the publisher made her do that,” I say, becoming newly defensive. “I think the book could have just as easily been a self-help book
rather than a dating guide.” I pick my cup of tea back up and settle in next to him on the bed.

“Still based on romance novels, though?”

“Yeah, I know,” I say, uncomfortable with being anything but clinical about the books—and their content—even now.

“I don't have a problem with romance novels.”

“This coming from the man who went to . . .”

“Oh, every posh school you've ever heard of.”

“Eton?”

“No, the other one.”

“Did you, Lincoln Mallory, wear a boater hat?”

“They're officially called Harrow Hats, thank you very much. And yes, I did. When forced. Which is how I know that the pompous wankers who look down on romance novels and the women who read them are actually full of shite. You know, having been one myself,” he says.

“Been. In the past tense,” I say.

“Ah yes, on top of being in Alcoholics Anonymous, I'm also a proud member of Wankers Anonymous.” I can see him realize what he's said. It's slipped out and he can only avert his eyes. “So, to recap: you've just shagged a posh, ex–boater-hat-wearing git who was happily off his face for far too many years after being blown up overseas.”

“Try finding a meeting for that,” I say, and Lincoln throws his head back and laughs. “Although I think you'd find a very different kind of meeting if you actually did attend Wankers Anonymous. Because I do know what
that
is.” Lincoln laughs again. “Anyway, Helen said she'd meet with us. Which is really great.” I check the clock. It's 6:15 now. Lincoln also checks the clock and I can see him deflate just a bit.

“And how does she fit into this whole thing?”

“I don't know yet.”

“Does she have to fit in?”

“I would hope so.”

“But it's the book that's the inspiration, right?”

“Right. The Just Be campaign that we're pitching is so women can connect to that empowerment.”

“Just be. That's good. That's really good.”

“Thanks. Speaking of . . .” The last thing I want to do is leave this room. There's this rumbling fear that I won't be able to have this again or something. That whatever we have is fleeting and of its moment. And when I leave . . . the moment will have passed. But it's not every day that Helen Brubaker has you over for breakfast. “I should be going. It's another long day with another ridiculous themed party tonight.” I rest my hand on his thigh and lean in close to him.

“A few parameters on these last few moments, if I may?”

“Sure,” I say, flustered.

“One. I'm going to want to finish anything you start.” He eyes my hand on his thigh. A crooked smile and his eyes are once again fixed on mine. “Two. I would love to see you again after your . . .” He trails off.

“Mermaid Bash.”

“Naturally.”

“That'd be nice.”

“And three. This isn't farewell.”

“No,” I say, and I can hear the relief in my voice. Like out in the world and not just inside my own head.

“No,” he says. I slide my hand to his back and pull him into me. He lets me. I'm beginning to get used to him. His body. His
kiss. His smell. Something about this terrifies me. Why wouldn't it? We're in this weird alternate universe at some random hotel in Phoenix with none of our usual responsibilities or stresses or any dishes to do or any reality for that matter. And as I get lost in him once more, the time ticking away, I worry about what the real world will do to us. Or more aptly, the version of me in the real world. What will I think of all this come check-out time?