Public Relations

Chapter 23: Mia

The water scalds my skin unforgivingly, but it can't wash the embarrassing evening from the reality of time. Instead, I let it turn my skin an angry red, so hot I can't even feel it anymore. I can only see the streaks it leaves down my skin like tiger stripes.

I run a sudsy loofa over my body once, twice, three times before I resort to just standing still in the stream. The steam clouds the bathroom like an oppressive rain cloud, and the thicker it gets, the lighter my head feels.

Eventually - reluctantly - I shut the water off. If I stand there too long I'll pass out. And right now I can't afford any more humiliation.

My brain stutters as I think back to Brett meeting Sean, how he looked between us dumbly, grasping for any sense of the conversation. It short circuits as I think about the breakdown, how Brett held me all that time and said nothing until I was ready.

And I'd told him about my dad.

It's a sore subject, the relationship between my father and I. Or perhaps, it's more accurate to say lack thereof.

I yank the yellow towel from the rod beside me and wrap myself in it lazily, relishing slightly in the way the air freezes my skin as it evaporates each drop. I shiver, tucking myself into a ball on the ground.

I can do my skincare from the ground. And it doesn't make me any less of a functional adult.

In the kitchen, Brett clangs a pot around like he's fighting off a particularly clever cartoon mouse. I can faintly hear a colorful string of words fall from his mouth. Something salty and rich permeates the air, even in the humid bathroom sauna I've create. 

My serums kiss my skin gently, which is swollen and raw from how hard I'd sobbed earlier. I blindly swipe my hand around the counter top above me until my fingers wrap around the gua sha tool. I massage some lotion on my face, then vainly drag the jade stone over my cheeks and down my neck. 

It does occur to me several times that I have big emotions brewing somewhere in the pits of my organs, real as malignant tumors, but I continue to choose not to deal with it. I convince myself that the crying was cathartic, not indicative of more to come. After all, I feel much better than I did this morning.

So I stay on the ground, hugging my knees so tightly to my chest that I lose feeling in my toes from the lack of circulation. I brush my hair with my fingers. I put oil on my split ends. I tell myself in the mirror - my frail, fragmented reflection - that everything is fine. That I love my job, that I'm excited for my future, that things will work out.

That's what Elizabeth would tell me. She's the kind of person who falls upward - not to discount any of the blood, sweat, and tears she pours into her career. But she'll find herself in the right place at the right time more often than not. She's the person who wins those sketchy online giveaways and always shows up at restaurants when there's no wait.

With the confidence Elizabeth would be forcing me to have about the state of affairs, I peel my limbs from the hollow of my abdomen, fold my body into some pajamas, and open the bathroom door.

The apartment smells magical and lemony. I hear sizzling and humming and, strangely, my TV. When I round the corner, Brett shouts, "Break a leg!" but he's facing away from me, and Vanna White is delicately touching the Wheel of Fortune puzzle board to reveal letters.

Brett doesn't notice me as I pad into the living room; he's busy rejoicing to himself when the answer to the puzzle is revealed and - lo and behold - he was right.

I clear my throat.

Brett whips around, his hair in its signature mussy disaster, a wooden spoon in his right hand. He smiles softly at me, like a cloud I could fall into, and I feel my spirits lift.