by Zart, Lindy
“Exactly. It’s better than acting. It’s you proving to the world that you’re strong, mentally and physically. You dictate how your life is going to be, and it could be the best opportunity for you to show that. You’ll inspire people.”
“Routinely being in the public eye didn’t work out well for me the last time I tried it.”
Lance tapped his fingers against the tabletop. “I know. I went to see you at the hospital the night you were admitted.” The smile he offered was black and bled with regret. “They wouldn’t let me in.”
“I know.” She swallowed. “I told them not to.”
He nodded, eyes trained down. “Did you hear me outside the door to your room before I was told to leave?”
Maggie closed her eyes, taking a slow breath. She’d never forgotten the sound of his voice, beseeching, broken, panicked, and terrified, as he called out to her from the other side of a door that would not open.
“No,” she choked out, the lie pulled from her without conscious consent.
Lance’s expression told her he didn’t believe her, but all he said was, “It’s just as well. I embarrassed myself big time that night.”
Desperately needing to talk about something else, Maggie said, “I’m sorry you’re having money problems right now.”
Lance didn’t look up, but she caught the wince and tightening of his jaw. “Yeah. Not exactly something I like to admit.”
When he stood, pride had his shoulders back. His stance said it was time to end that particular line of conversation.
“So . . . um . . . you know how when you put your arms up over your head, like this?” Maggie demonstrated, watching as interest came to life in Lance’s eyes.
“Mmm-hmm,” he murmured.
“It would be nice if my stomach could be like it is now at all times, when my arms are raised up.”
Lance shook his head, a faint grin taking over the gloom. “I suppose you could walk around like that all the time. Sounds like an awful lot of work to make your stomach look smaller.”
“It could work,” she insisted, dropping her arms.
“Okay.” His tone said Maggie was delusional.
“Or when you lie down on your back, and all the fat goes to the sides, so your stomach looks skinny, even though it isn’t,” she continued.
“You’ve put a lot of thought into this. Why don’t you lie down and lift up your shirt and show me?” he offered, the shadows all but gone from his visage.
“And serving sizes. What’s this about stuff?”
Lance lifted his eyebrows.
“On some things it says a serving size is about this or that. That’s just asking for trouble, because you know what I do?”
“Please.” He gestured with a hand. “Fill me in.”
“If it says five or six or whatever of something is about a serving, I add about three or four more, because it doesn’t specify, so that means it’s up for interpretation, right?”
A grin took over his lips. “I suppose you could argue that.”
“I used to think a whole package was the serving portion. I didn’t understand the nutrition facts on the packages. I just thought, you know, what you got was what you were supposed to eat. And hey, if I ate less than the serving size, being the whole container of doughnuts or whatever, then I was winning, because I consumed hardly any calories. When I figured out what the nutritional values were for, it was a really sad day for me.” Maggie schooled her features into disappointment.
Lance laughed, walking across the room to her. He set a palm on her shoulder and leaned down to meet her eyes. “Thank you. I needed that.”
Maggie smiled back. “I did too, oddly enough.”
LANCE—1996
“HI, MAGGIE.” HE felt shy, an emotion he couldn’t recall experiencing prior to Maggie Smiley.
She glared at him from where she sat in a chair as a makeup artist colored and blended her face, changing it from average to exotic. Her long hair was lassoed into a side braid with fiery locks of hair left out around her face and ears, small pink flowers threaded through it. Dressed in a flowing, strappy white dress, Maggie reminded him of a fairy, or some other mystical being.
“Hi.” The greeting was cold and curt.
It was the morning of their appointed sunrise photo shoot. Other than when forced to be near each other for the show, Maggie had strategically ignored him the past couple of weeks. When he went to see her at her apartment, Judith informed him she was either sleeping, not there, or busy. By the seventh time he stopped, even she seemed empathetic to his plight, firm though she remained.
When the blond told Maggie she was finished, Maggie got up from the seat and walked toward the photography crew that was set up near a boulder. Lance fell into step beside her, sand sliding between his toes as he walked. He wore a white buttoned-down shirt with the collar up and the buttons near the bottom of it left undone. White slacks straight and crisp, they’d been rolled up for him so that his ankles showed. Lance’s hair was styled high and floppy, a chunk of it hanging over his forehead. He’d pushed it back once and was scolded. He hadn’t touched it since.
“Can we start over?”
“Start what over?” she asked suspiciously, crossing her arms and picking up her pace. “There has to be something first, and then that something has to end, for there to be something to start over.”
“Don’t wrinkle your dress,” the photographer barked as she glanced up from readying the lens.
Black metal contraptions were set up around them like a photography prison, people rushing around to fix or change things with the setup. It was interesting how much work it took to make something seem simple and flawless.
Maggie dropped her arms like her dress was on fire, her expression abashed.
Lance gave the photographer a glower, which she returned with a lifted eyebrow, and turned back to Maggie. “Everything. I want us to be . . . whatever we were . . . and more. I’ve had plenty of time to think these past weeks while you’ve pretended like I don’t exist—”
She snorted, looking at the ocean in the distance. Lance followed her gaze. It built up, crashed down, only to rise again. He looked at Maggie, staring at her profile like his eyes had the power to make her give in to him.
“—and I realize I did and said things I shouldn’t have, and . . .” Lance swallowed thickly. “I miss you. Can we start over? Please?”
They were at a privately owned part of the beach, and Lance was positive it cost the magazine company a pretty penny to be allowed to have the photo shoot there. The sky was gray, not yet ready to wake up. Lance was tired as well, his mind foggy and slow. Maggie didn’t seem to have the same affliction, but he imagined she’d probably slept better than he had. He hadn’t gotten a full night of sleep since the evening of the road trip, all because Maggie wouldn’t talk to him—and maybe some residual guilt for the way he’d acted and talked to her.
A cool wind flared up, washing over him like an invisible wave. He hunched his shoulders against it as it drove through the thin material of his clothes to icily stab at his skin.
“Why?” Maggie demanded as she stopped moving. “Why should we? It’ll just be the same thing again, like it has been every time I get too close—you push me away. You can’t have it both ways, Lance. You can’t want me when you want me and then treat me like dirt when you don’t. I deserve better.”
“You’re right, you do deserve better, and I know I’m asking something I shouldn’t, but . . . will you take me anyway?” Lance reached for her hand and she closed hers, refusing to let him hold her hand. He hung on to the limb anyway. He had to touch her, to feel her warmth. “I . . . Maggie . . .”
“Are you two about done? I know your conversation is more important than the whole world, but we do have pictures to take. The rest of us have a schedule.”
“Give us two minutes,” he snapped, glaring at the woman the popular fashion magazine had hired to photograph them.
Short and compact, but wit
h a ferocious look on her face, Denise Zanders reminded him of a Chihuahua—especially when she bared her teeth at him. Even her short brown hair seemed to bristle as she frowned. He knew her sharp attitude wasn’t personal, but it still irked.
“I’ll give you one,” she stated firmly, stomping off to check something with lighting.
He was running out of time, and not because of the photo session. Every day Maggie slipped farther away. He’d seen her talking to Jeff Mitchell a few days ago and he’d had to leave so he didn’t deck the guy. Instead he’d slammed a fist through his bedroom wall. An uneven hole now graced the wall beside his door.
Lance spoke in a rush. “You told me you care about me. I care about you too. A lot. More than I wanted to admit. It terrified me, okay? It still does. But I’m trying to . . . accept it.” He inhaled deeply, staring into her wide eyes. “I’m telling you now because I can’t stand being away from you anymore. Please, please, Maggie, can we start over?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Yes? You’re sure?” He wanted to believe her, but it seemed too good to be true.
“Yes.” Maggie nodded. “We can start over. But this is it, Lance. Push me away again and I’m done.” Her words were firm, and when Lance looked into her eyes, he knew she meant them.
“I’m allowed into your personal space? I promise not to try to cook anymore—and I’ll carry a pillow around with me at all times, should you request it. I’m pretty sure I’ll be needing it anyway.” Half of his mouth lifted.
She burst out laughing and Lance smiled, pressing a kiss to her neck as her arms went around his neck.
“Will you be my girlfriend?” Other than yes, there was no acceptable answer.
Maggie turned motionless. “I don’t know, will I?”
“Yes,” Lance responded without hesitation.
“Then I guess you’ll be my boyfriend. Is that what you want?”
“Yes.” Lance’s pulse tripped and sputtered, but not in fear. It was with gladness.
Her arms tightened around him. “Yes. I’ll be your girlfriend.”
Lance’s stomach swirled and he swallowed, unable to speak. It felt like he’d just proposed, or spliced his heart to hers for the rest of his life.
“Oh, for crying out loud!” Denise shouted. Exasperated resignation lined her words. “Can we just—”
He released Maggie and clasped her hand in his as they both looked at the photographer. Even her sour expression couldn’t dim his mood. Joy split his face in a grin and it felt like the sun radiated through him. Lance glanced at Maggie. She smiled with her heart in her eyes.
Whatever she was going to say died on Denise’s lips. She stared at them, eyes tripping over Maggie and then moving to Lance. She leaned forward and put out a hand. “Don’t . . . move. That look, I have to capture that look. Don’t move!”
Fingers locked around Maggie’s, Lance looked at the camera as it clicked away.
“Move around, look at each other, do whatever feels natural,” Denise commanded, waving her hand at them.
“She’s so indecisive—move, don’t move,” he muttered to Maggie, who smiled and shrugged.
Lance gripped Maggie around the waist and lifted her to the large gray rock as the sun peaked on the horizon behind her. Even without being able to see her eyes, he knew she stared down at him, her palms resting on his shoulders. Light played peek-a-boo with her body, making her glow and appear to be on fire. He tipped back his head and drank in the sight of her.
“You’re so pretty,” he told her, meaning it.
Maggie’s face went pink, a shadow of doubt darkening her eyes.
“You are,” Lance stated resolutely.
The unsureness faded from her face and she smiled shyly. “Thank you.”
Then he swung her around and down, smiling as she yelped in surprise. Maggie let her head fall back and lifted her arms to her sides as Lance turned and lowered her feet to the sand. The click of the camera was background noise, the people nearby only vaguely existing. Lance knew they were there, that he and Maggie posed for them, but it was as if they were alone. And the words they said to one another—those were for Lance and Maggie.
Maggie set her hands on his biceps and looked into his eyes.
“Spend New Year’s with me and my dad,” he invited impulsively. Lance went still at his own words, wondering at what point his mouth decided to work without his brain. New Year’s was two months away. A lot could happen in two months. But as he saw her eyes light up, Lance knew he’d said the right thing.
“Are you sure?” Maggie asked, a small frown line between her eyebrows.
“Yes.” And when he said it, Lance believed it.
“Okay. And you’ll come to Christmas with me in Iowa—if you want.” The sun rose, blanketing Maggie’s face in shades of pink, purple, and orange.
Lance opened his mouth to say no, and found himself instead saying yes. He didn’t commit to things unless he initiated them. Giving that control to others was loathsome, except with Maggie, it didn’t feel like he was giving her power over him. It felt like he was trusting her to take care of his heart. It felt good, not bad.
“Enough lollygagging, children,” Denise said brusquely, breaking into their world. “Lance, stand against the rock. Maggie, stand in front him but look off to the side. Lance, get your hands on her hips and stare down at her like she’s everything and more to you. Perfect.”
He found it wasn’t hard to do.
MAGGIE—2010
HALF ASLEEP AND fighting to keep her eyes open against the blinding light overhead, she entered the bathroom and directed her gaze to the mirror. Maggie’s brain registered what she thought was blood. A small, cutoff scream shot forth and she went still, blinking her eyes to get them to work properly. They wanted to cross with sleep and also figure out what she was looking at.
She stepped into the yellow and gray room and focused on the letters painted with red lipstick instead of what she’d thought was blood. She swallowed as she stared, unable to do anything else. The message was simple.
Every time you look in the mirror, tell yourself you’re strong.
Picturing Lance perfectly in her mind saying exactly that, Maggie smiled and whispered, “I’m strong.”
Doing what she went to the bathroom to do, Maggie washed and dried her hands and marched for Lance’s room. The murky dark blue that shone in from the window at the end of the hallway let her know it was really late, or really early, and that he was most likely in bed. The door was cracked open, and she took only a few steps inside before she tripped on something and fell face-first into the wooden bench at the foot of the bed. Maggie’s forehead smacked the corner and she groaned as she slid to the floor.
“What the hell?” a voice thick with sleep demanded.
“Why is the bed over here?” Maggie asked through clenched teeth. The place on her head she’d hit throbbed, faint but noticeable.
The lamp flipped on near the bed, and Lance was awarded a view of her sprawled out on the floor clothed in a tight blue shirt, minus a bra, and short pink shorts with hearts, clutching her head of snarled hair.
He slowly walked toward her, staring down at her. “Why? Are you trying to seduce me? If so, your aim is off. Although, you definitely get points for your outfit. Love the no-bra look on you.”
“That’s not where the bench or bed is supposed to be.”
“I know. I was making myself more accessible to you.” When her expression remained unchanged, Lance added, “The bed was too close to the wall behind it. It bothered me. If I’d known you were going to sneak in my room in the middle of the night, I would have told you.”
Maggie dropped her hand from her head and glared at him. Lance jerked, eyes widening with something that resembled horror, and fell to the floor beside her. She didn’t understand his inclination to be near her until she felt something wet and warm slide down the side of her face.
“You dented your forehead,” he said in bafflement.
“It’s fine. I’m fine.”
Lance yanked his shirt over his head and pressed it against her temple. “You’re bleeding. You’re not fine.”
His eyes met hers, hair rumpled and jaw unshaven. The warmth and smell of his skin lingered on the article of clothing and proceeded to make her dizzy. She looked down and swallowed. Lance removed the shirt and checked the wound.
“You have a perfect hole in your temple,” he mused, looking torn between humor and dismay.
“Is it done bleeding?”
“Yes. I don’t think stitches are required.” He smiled. “If I may ask, what were you doing?”
“You left a message in the bathroom for me.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. There also is not one on the mirror in the basement, in case you decide to exercise in the middle of the night or something. Fair warning.” His feigned innocence was ruined by the tipped up corners of his mouth.
Lance got to his feet, the view of his toned body making her throat parched, and left the room. He returned a minute later with a bandage.
“I just want to know, out of morbid curiosity more than anything, where you got the red lipstick? Or is that something you carry around for your nefarious dealings, like the bobby pins?”
Lance paused. “Nefarious dealings,” he repeated slowly. “I like that, but alas, I cannot take credit for the lipstick. It was in your medicine cabinet.”
She couldn’t recall the last time she’d applied makeup, and having no idea what she did or did not have for cosmetics, what he said was probably true. “You’re such a snoop.”
Meeting Maggie’s eyes as he crouched before her, he carefully brushed back her hair and placed it on her forehead. “There. All better.”
“I appreciate the note, but I’m not cleaning up the lipstick,” she told him, trying to sound firm but weakening when she looked at him. Those words were sweet, and needed.
Lance shrugged. “Okay. I just thought you could use a reminder. It’s not a big deal.”
They sat beside one another on the wood floor, the coolness of it seeping into her bare legs. The silence was unusually peaceful. Maggie had decorated the guest bedroom with softened masculinity in mind. The furniture was dark wood, the paintings on the walls those of forests and creeks. The bedding was chocolate brown and Lance’s scent was present—expensive cologne and soap. He’d overtaken the space, but she didn’t resent that, like she would have a few weeks ago.