Page 51 of The Romance Line
Class ends, and I hustle to my gym bag and pull on sweats, leaving on the workout tee. No heels tonight, so I just pop on sneakers, thank Kyla and head out with my friends.
They know why I dress like this. I’ve told them about the car accident, and the scars that travel down the left side of my body, covering a large swath of my back, my hip, my upper arm, and my shoulder.
I don’t hate them. I just don’t want people to see them and stare. To see them and feel sorry for me. I’d rather nothave their pity. I had enough of it from my own parents after it happened. “I feel terrible this happened to you. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost my best friend, and some of my skin,” my mom had said.
Thanks, Mom.
Besides, I work in a world where image matters. I don’t want people to construct their own image of me as someone to feel sorry for.
And then, there’s simple self-protection. The more people who see them, the more I have to tell the story ofwhy. The more I have to go back in time and relive the worst night of my life and feel that pain all over again.
Sometimes—no, most of the time—it’s easier to cover them up and move on.
We head out into the October night to a nearby diner, the one we usually go to after class.
“I seriously can’t believe you got me addicted to pole,” Maeve remarks as she pulls open the door.
“Really? You can’t believe it?” Josie asks Maeve. “Pole was made for you.”
“Why’s that?” I ask.
“Because our dear friend Maeve is not, as you might say, shy,” Josie says.
“Facts,” I say, then tell the hostess we need a table for four. As we slide in, I’m feeling a little emotional, like I often am after class with them, since I’m so damn grateful to have friends to do this with, so I add, “And I’m glad none of you are shy either. I’m really glad you all said yes to taking this class with me.”
“Of course we would,” Josie says, heartfelt.
“Are you kidding? Like I’d miss the chance to make a fool of myself physically,” Fable says.
“Please. You’re doing great. You’re making such strides,” I say to my redheaded friend.
“If by strides you mean I can walk around a pole in heels without tripping, then yes, sure I have.”
“Do not underestimate not tripping,” I say.
“Truer words,” Maeve adds, then we flip open our menus and order when the server arrives.
Once she’s gone, Josie taps the table, her eyes excited. “So, update time. How’s the makeover project going with the man who’s, ahem,admittedly handsome?”
Maeve scoffs, waving a hand. “I want to know how the dick project’s going.”
I furrow my brow. Does she mean because Max is a dick? Or something else? “Am I doing a dick project?”
She stares at me like I should know. “You were supposed to check out the guy’s dick. Your physical therapist.”
A laugh bursts from me but it’s chased by a kernel of guilt I’ve been feeling today. I’m not even sure how to deal with it, but I don’t have friends to keep things from them. “I’m seeing Lucas in a few days. But is it weird that I feel sort of…uncertain?”
“No, it’s a date. If you didn’t feel uncertain that’d be weird,” Josie says.
But that’s not it. I’m not experiencing normal dating nerves. “It’s more like…” I pause, take a breath, then confess, “I keep having really inappropriate thoughts about the man who’sadmittedly handsome.”
Maeve sets her chin in her hand.
Josie bats her lashes.
Fable gazes at me eagerly. “Well, well, well.”
“I know,” I whisper-groan. “So should I cancel with Lucas?”