“Fair enough.”
Graham leaned forward to look at Shanty, his toe tapping the ground. “What’s this demonstration?”
“It’s to raise awareness for body shaming. It’s basically me holding a sign in the middle of the Westgate Mall . . . in my bikini.”
Jason grunted, and his gaze traveled down Shanty’s full figure.
Her head snapped toward him. “What was that for? Don’t look at me like you don’t know what I’m talking about. I may be fat, but I’m not deaf. You just made a sound, and I wanna know what you meant by it.”
Al shook his head. “Now you’ve done it, man.”
Jason gave her a court jester grin. “It’s just that women like you don’t usually wear bikinis.”
“Women like me? Don’t wear bikinis? Maybe not this time of year, but I’ll have you know I wear my bikini all the time in the summer. In the yard doing my grass, to the pool, sometimes we go up to Lake Meredith. I wear it quite often and don’t think twice about it.” Now her head jerked toward her husband. “Ain’t that right, Al?”
“I’m staying out of this one, but she does enjoy wearing the thing.” He took a large bite of barbecue, then talked around it. “Won’t hear me complaining, though.”
“Al, you’re one of my favorite people in the whole entire world,” said Jason. “But honestly, if women weren’t so obsessed with their appearance, they wouldn’t take things that personal.”
Shanty gripped her plate so fiercely, I thought it might flip off her lap and onto the grass, but she seemed to calm herself when Al patted her back, and she spoke slowly. “It’s a little more complicated than that. Women didn’t just decide one day that they wanted to be beautiful. Aw, no. It’s how God made us. We have a deep need to feel attractive and cherished, and that’s natural. But then the fashion industry comes along and exploits the entire concept, telling us we need these clothes and that makeup and those hair products. And after a while, a girl starts to look around and compare herself to supermodels and actresses and airbrushed photographs. And the men . . . like you . . . go along with it, and treat us like we’re inferior if we don’t happen to look that way.”
Jason leaned an elbow on one knee and frowned at her. “Well, Shanty, you’ve got to look at it from a man’s perspective too then. Sex sells. And it’s not just the fashion industry that knows it. Beautiful women are in front of us 24/7.”
Al seemed all too ready to jump in and soothe the conversation. “That’s true.” He said the words with a calming rhythm. “It’s all over sports channels. Men are constantly being brainwashed—not only into thinking their women should look a certain way, but also believing that we deserve a woman who looks like that.”
“Well, don’t we?” Jason’s mouth was full.
“Dr. Harper?” Shanty pointed at Graham and shook her head. “I may need to move my appointment up. I have a lot of frustrations I’m trying to work through right this very minute.”
Graham smiled. “It’s a sticky subject for men and women both. Society has a lot of us confused about the natural order of things. But, Shanty?” He smiled at her. “You’re doing a world of good with your blog.”
“Thanks to you, I’m not going crazy while I do it.”
Fortunately, the conversation shifted to something less controversial, but my mind stayed locked in place. A tightness had formed across the back of my shoulders, and I knew I’d need a hot bath later in order to relax. But something else was nagging at me, and it took a few minutes for me to realize what it was.
Shanty had mentioned in our group that she went to counseling occasionally for a tune-up, but today she’d made it sound as though she might be going in sooner than later. And Nina was almost definitely Madam X, so clearly she went to Graham for counseling too.
This puzzled me. Granted, Nina may have been a little further over the edge than I was, but Shanty certainly wasn’t. If anything, she was healthier, and that’s what didn’t make sense. If Graham had no problem counseling Shanty every so often, why did he not want to counsel me?
Was he hiding something?
Chapter Twenty
WHO WORE IT BEST?
FIVE CELEBRITIES SPORT THE SAME DESIGNER SWIMSUIT!
CLICK HERE TO CAST YOUR VOTE!
The man felt as though he was hiding when he shut himself in his bathroom, but he’d had a long day, and it felt good to lock the door, figuratively leaving his problems out in the hall. It was a welcome break from the letters he’d just read, and the implications they held. He’d have to ask his lawyer if the accusations held any merit, but regardless, they were clearly designed to cause damage.
He peered at himself in the mirror and wondered when the dark circles had appeared beneath his eyes, causing him to look older. Tired. Defeated.
Like a loser.
Reaching for the cold water knob, he splashed his face. Then he leaned his elbows on either side of the sink and watched the water churning in the basin before it swirled down the drain. When had life gotten so hard? A few short months ago, he had thought himself quite successful, but now things were spiraling out of control, and no matter what he tried, he couldn’t stop the frenzy.
He shoved the faucet off, but didn’t stand up straight. Instead, he groped for a hand towel, dried his face, then lowered himself to his knees. He was on all fours for a moment before shifting to sit on the tile floor, leaning against the door. Habitually, he reached for his phone, not willing to go more than a few moments without checking his messages. Too many people were depending on him.
There were only two fires that needed putting out, and he addressed them with short explanations, then he opened the app for his favorite news website. Most of the articles didn’t apply to him, and none of them related to his personal life or his career, but he found himself scrolling through them daily, reading the ones that caught his interest, learning tidbits of information that came in handy in conversation, getting a glimpse into lives that were different from his own. It was a calm distraction from his troubles.
His thumb swept the screen slowly from bottom to top, and then a woman appeared, scantily clad but not all that beautiful. He zoomed the picture and studied her. Stringy hair, girl-next-door face, incredible body. He hadn’t taken the time to see what the article was about, but he didn’t really care. The way she smiled set off a spark inside him, not of lust, but of confidence. It was stupid, really. He knew she wasn’t smiling at him. She was looking into a camera lens, but his mind and body felt as though he had gotten his first drink of water after thirty days in the desert. And he was so thirsty to believe in himself that a picture of a random stranger boosted his self-confidence.
He enlarged the image a little more, then considered finding a better picture. Maybe of another woman, not quite as homely. Not a naked woman—that was wrong—just another image to give him another boost. He typed a few words in his search bar, and a grid of eight images filled the top of his screen. Eight women who didn’t require anything from him—and they were all smiling as though his life were uncomplicated, as though he hadn’t made a mess of things, as though he were competent.
A grid of eight women. And in tiny font were the words see more images.
Without hesitating, he tapped the link and began scrolling through the crowd of women, and as they swirled through the shadowy places of his mind, they filled him with boldness, self-assurance, and renewed purpose. It had been so long since he felt at ease with himself that the sensation surprised him. And it surprised him how good he felt. And it surprised him how easy it was.
Chapter Twenty-One
Group text from Cecily: I keep listening to Brett’s voice on my phone. I’m a psycho.
Nina: prob not a good idea ouch
Shanty: Girl, don’t do that to yourself. DELETE THAT THANG THIS INSTANT! I thought you said you were over him?!!
Cecily: I’m over him. Honestly. This is more like self-torture.
Nina: oh yea i do that 2
“Cess, how man
y bingo cards do you want?”
“One’ll do.”
Bingo had never been my thing—it was all chance and no strategy—but I agreed to go along with Dad because the proceeds were going to a good cause: helping a town south of us that had been hit by a tornado the previous fall.
The gym at West Texas A&M hummed with voices as we made our way to seats at one of the long tables. I’d actually only been on campus a handful of times, and compared to UCLA, it seemed small and well worn, but the smell was the same and brought back memories of college. And Brett. When I thought of him, I glanced down, realizing I hadn’t taken the time to change clothes after work, or to freshen my makeup, or even to comb my hair. I probably looked like a tornado victim myself.
Dad and I helped ourselves to hot dogs and cake while I deliberately shoved thoughts of Brett from my mind—per Shanty’s instructions—but twenty minutes later, the shadow of his memory was still a cloud over my mood. We sat alone at a table, waiting for the game to start, and when Dad lifted his hand to wave at someone across the gym, I leaned forward to see who it was.
An electric charge went through my chest when I saw that it was Graham. He smiled at Dad, then looked at me and grinned, and I found myself wishing he would come toward us, wishing he would talk about his biking or his parents or his work, wishing he would sit down with us and play the game. Just wishing.
My gaze followed him to the edge of the makeshift stage, where he stopped next to Mirinda. I hadn’t realized they knew each other, yet there they were, deep in conversation. Not small talk where you smile and look around the room at other people and take a step away before going to talk to someone else. It was the kind of conversation where both foreheads are strained and the people alternate between looking at each other and studying the ground, as though an answer to their dilemma might be found in the stain of the hardwood floors. Graham and Mirinda must have known each other fairly well.
Dad waved to someone else.
“Who are you waving at?” I asked.
“Only Olivia.”
His coworker stood just inside the door with her daughter and grandson. She was holding the little boy, bouncing him on her hip, and I decided Olivia didn’t look old enough to be a grandmother.
As they moved to find seats, Olivia’s gaze flitted back to us. To Dad, really.
I bumped his shoulder with mine. “Should you go talk to her?”
He arranged our bingo cards on the table and positioned the paint marker between us. “Olivia? Why? I saw her a few hours ago.”
And I had seen Graham a few hours ago, but clearly it didn’t make a difference to me. Maybe it ought to. “I think she might be interested in you.”
“Olivia?”
Sometimes Dad could be obtuse. “Yes, Olivia. She was looking at you just now.”
“Probably because I waved at her. People tend to do that, you know.”
“But she looked at you again. After that.”
His gaze returned to the spot he had last seen her, and he chuckled. “Not Olivia. We just work together, Cess.”
“Or . . . maybe you’re stuck in the past.”
He gave me his can-we-talk-about-something-else glare.
“Graham says to think positive thoughts and get on with living life.” I smiled, realizing I had started feeling differently about Graham’s advice. And it had happened at Shanty’s cookout.
“I know what Dr. Harper says,” Dad snapped, “but it’s easier said than done.”
His quick reply startled me, and proved that he knew just how hard it was to purge one’s mind of negative thoughts. Even if they were the result of years of happy memories.
“That reminds me . . .” I turned in my seat to frown at him. “You’ve got to stop talking to Graham about me, and for goodness’ sake, stop calling Brett.”
He rubbed a knuckle across his chin. “If I stop interfering in your business, will you stop interfering in mine?”
“You mean Olivia?” I noticed the wrinkles around his eyes. “Maybe.”
“Okay, then maybe I’ll stop talking to Graham and Brett.”
“Give me a break. At least stop calling Brett. That’s not helping anything.”
His eyes became slits, but then a grin slid onto his face. “Agreed. He’s a turd.”
I looked past Dad to a group of college girls who could have stepped off the pages of an American Eagle brochure. Their shirts were flowy, and their jeans had holes in the knees in that perfect way that said money, not poverty, and they all had exactly the same hairstyle. Shoulder length, layered, and board straight.
No wonder Graham hadn’t come over to talk to me. My look said, I don’t care what people think.
Just then, the university president called the room to order, thanked everyone for coming, and introduced Michael Divins.
Dad leaned toward me. “Mirinda’s supposed to help him.”
Well, of course.
Michael stood on stage, holding a microphone in one of his oversized hands, thanking us for coming. His untucked dress shirt gave him a refined, untouchable appearance as he explained that the proceeds were going toward tornado relief—as if nobody knew. Then Mirinda joined him, and the two of them began the process of calling out numbers, Michael spinning the cage of balls, Mirinda pulling one out and handing it to him, then Michael announcing the number.
Mirinda wore a tight T-shirt with Tornados Suck printed across her chest, and once again I thought of her as a Barbie doll. Plastic, stiff, and—should any defect ever be found—fully refundable by Mattel.
Dad tapped the tabletop next to my bingo card. “Stop staring at Michael and mark B-8. You’ve got it top left.”
Snatching the marker, I crossed out the square and felt my face warm. I wanted to explain that I hadn’t been staring at Michael, but what could I say? That I’d actually been staring at Mirinda? I bit my lip, trying—and failing—to think good things about the woman. All for the simple reason that her look, her body, and her movements were exactly the standard I had always measured myself against.
The dark shadow hovering over my mood now tightened around me, pressing against my good intentions and threatening my ability to be part of this normal, insignificant social activity. My eyes stayed focused on my bingo card as I tried to make sense of the weight that seemed to be holding me down, dampening my spirits until the phrase Think happy thoughts was no more feasible than winning a blackout in the first round. In the past twenty minutes, my emotions had gradually transitioned into melancholy. But as much as I hated to admit it, I knew Mirinda Ross wasn’t the cause.
It was Graham Harper, and yet again I was placing my happiness in the hands of a man.
When would I ever learn?
An hour later, I was making my way back from the ladies’ room when I looked across the gym and saw Michael and Mirinda standing at our table. Dad caught my eye, and his gaze fell to the floor momentarily.
Bless his heart. I gave him too much grief about getting over Mom. He may not have been gallivanting around town every evening, but he had a good life, and somehow his friends included a former football star. I straightened my shoulders and marched toward them.
As I approached, they finished their conversation—something about Michael’s NFL contract and his lawyers—and they turned toward me. Mirinda clung to Michael’s hand with a fake smile Scotch-taped to her face, but Michael looked at me with genuine friendliness even though his gaze held a trace of hesitation.
I smiled warmly yet generically to let him know I had no hard feelings.
“Michael,” said Dad, “this is my daughter, Cecily.”
Michael’s eyes widened, enough to let me know he hadn’t put two and two together yet, but not enough for my dad to notice. “We’ve met,” he said.
“Oh, right.” Dad nodded. “At Midnight Oil. You’ve got a nice shop there, Michael.”
“I’m having fun with it. You enjoying the bingo game, Cecily?”
“I am.”
“I’m
ready to win a prize,” said my dad. “Seems like the fella calling out the numbers could do a better job.”
“It’s all her.” Michael poked his thumb toward Mirinda. “She’s the one choosing the white balls, not me.”
“I’d be more than happy to trade places,” Mirinda said in a sing-song voice.
Dad was carrying on with Michael as though they were good friends, and Mirinda didn’t seem surprised at their familiarity.
Her eyes bounced between them, but when her gaze cut toward me, she squeezed Michael’s bicep and pressed her torso against his side, prompting him to smile down at her like a kid with a new red bike. “Time to draw some more numbers, baby,” she said.
“Duty calls.” Michael shook Dad’s hand.
“Like I was saying,” Dad added under his breath, “you’re welcome to come out and look around the place. I can give you directions.”
“I think I might”—Michael glanced at me—“know where it is.”
Dad nodded. “Come by any time then.”
“I’ll come this week. Good to see you again, Cecily.”
As they returned to the stage, Dad and I returned to our seats, but my mind was no longer focused on Mirinda and her snarky behavior. “What did all that mean?” I knew the answer even before he replied, but I couldn’t quite believe it. At all.
“It’s just business, Cess.”
Dad shifted uneasily in his folding chair while I tried to find something else—anything—to look at. If I turned my head toward him, I might slap him. How could he consider selling our property to Michael, who might someday move Mirinda—Brett’s sister!—in with him? The thought made me want to throw up.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Group text from Shanty: Your beauty should not come from outward adornment, such as elaborate hairstyles and the wearing of gold jewelry or fine clothes. Rather, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit. 1 Peter 3:3-4
Cecily: Heard that one before.
Shanty: Agree or disagree??
Cecily: It sounds good, and I suppose I believe it, but the lies are way louder.
Looking Glass Lies Page 11