I let out a long, slow breath, looking at myself in the full-body mirror. A long, thin crack slithered up from the bottom right corner, skewing the image that reflected back at me. I didn't look like me. I'd braided my hair earlier this morning in hopes that it would make my hair wavy-my curling iron had officially kicked the bucket-but now it frizzed around my shoulders, like a lion's mane. And not an attractive lion's mane. No, it wasn't sexy or natural or at all pretty-looking. I more resembled someone who'd stuck a fork in an outlet.
The dress I wore helped my esteem, but just slightly. It was the only one I owned, a pretty green summer dress with thin straps and an asymmetrical hemline. Probably the girliest thing I owned. Dresses were all nice and fancy, but when push came to shove, I needed more outfits that could be mixed and matched. Staple pieces, Mom used to call them. Jeans, t-shirts, dress pants for work.
"It's just a date," I told my reflection, my mismatched eyes looking back at me. "Just one date. It's nothing important."
Then why is my heart about beating out of my chest?
I couldn't remember the last time I'd been out on a date. Before the accident, of course. Most of my life happened before the accident.
I glanced down at my wristwatch, drawing in a shaking breath. It was just a date. And it wasn't even our first one-it was our third. But I couldn't stop myself from being nervous, almost as if anxiety was my second skin. Though we'd been out a few times with each other, I couldn't let myself get too comfortable. I was used to being on my own-for over a year now, it's just been me. Adding someone to the mix was just an opportunity for my world, my perfectly crafted world, to crumble down into a thousand pieces.
But I couldn't deny the fact that I really, really liked talking to Beck.
I never thought I'd feel that way with someone. Like their every word was special, important, and just listening to them talk hours on end was the idea of a perfect night. Beck just had that air about him. He wasn't much of the conversationalist-more often than not he keptme talking-but when he did talk, I found myself entranced.
Ugh, listen to me.
I grabbed my purse and headed for the door, a full three steps until I grabbed ahold of the handle. The perks of a crappy studio apartment were few, but the small space did have on advantage: It was homey, comfortable. A little claustrophobic, but it was like the walls gave a constant hug. For a girl who lived alone, who lost both her parents in a car accident, a hug is a pretty important thing.
"So, tell me again, you don't have a cell phone?"
Beck's lips twitched a little at my stunned tone, strange eyes settled on mine. They seemed almost purple in the low light of the restaurant, sparkling in the dimness. Our empty plates had been cleared from the table a while ago, but we still lounged and talked with one another, each sipping at our drinks. A part of me felt bad for holding up a table-as a server myself, this was one of my pet-peeves-but I couldn't bear the thought of saying goodnight just yet. "I always end up breaking the things. It never fails."
"How do you call anyone?" I asked, leaning onto the table. "Your parents?"
"I don't." He released a breath. "If anything, I like the solid form of communication-letters. They're a little harder to send, but I enjoy the cathartic quality of it."
