by Lea Santos
It was almost as hard for Gia to remember herself as an angry young bully as it was to remind herself she wasn’t one anymore. She’d transformed, and she had her high school art teacher, Mr. Fuentes, to thank for her changed demeanor. Though rail thin and openly, proudly effeminate, Fuentes wouldn’t be bullied. He’d never once flinched when he faced the angry young Gia toe-to-toe, and yet he never made her feel worthless, either. On the contrary, Fuentes made Gia believe in her painting, in her talent. He’d shown her how to channel all that pent-up rage into art and made her understand that true happiness came from inside a person, not outside. Even though Gia hadn’t gotten to the point where she could fully support herself with her painting, she’d had a couple of shows, made a few sales, and, at age thirty-four, she still believed in herself.
Fuentes had won Gia’s respect, later her admiration. She’d thanked the man on more than one occasion over the years, but she’d never gone back and outright apologized to any of the people she’d bullied and hurt. Perhaps a turned-around life was penance enough, but the open-ended guilt of her youth hung around her heart like an anchor. She might not be able to assuage it with one apology, but it was a step in the right direction. And any steps that carried her closer to Dr. Emie Jaramillo were ones she definitely wanted to take.
If she was honest with herself, it wasn’t just the chance to set things right that led her to the slight professor with the short, silky hair that just begged a woman to run her fingers through it. Something far more instinctual pulled her as well. It had taken one fitful night of remembering Emie’s gentle lavender scent, seeing images of her bright, dark eyes behind those glasses, hearing her wind-chime laughter, before Gia knew she had to see Emie again. If she didn’t, Emie’s memory would be with her forever, like a war wound. Reminding her now and then, with a stab of pain, what could possibly have been.
She glanced back down at the crinkled map in the passenger seat, brushing aside the wadded Snickers wrappers covering it. If her navigation was correct, she should be knocking on Emie’s door in no time. And, if fate was on her side, the doc would be willing to hear her out.
*
Three hellish days had passed since the ill-fated appearance on The Barry Stillman Show. Emie—bundled in voluminous sweatpants and feeling like lukewarm death—slumped cross-legged on the floor of her living room across from her best buddies, Iris Lujan and Paloma Vargas. Between them, on the dark brown patterned area rug, sat serving dishes filled with various comfort foods: enchilada casserole, mashed potatoes, chicken mole, and a half-frozen Sara Lee cheesecake. Not to mention the pitcher of margaritas. Their forks hung limply from their hands as they took a collective break from gastronomically comforting themselves.
Emie leaned back against her slip-covered sofa and laid her hands on her distended abdomen with a groan. If only Gia Mendez could see her at this moment, she thought acidly. How beautiful would the makeup artist claim she was now?
Emie’s eyes were still tear-swollen, and she’d broken out in a rash on her neck from the stress. Her hair was smashed on one side, spiked out on the other, since she’d spent most of the last two days lying listlessly on the couch channel-surfing through shows she didn’t know a thing about (ah, the irony) to kill time between her crying jags. Now she was bloated, and she simply didn’t care. The entire TV-watching universe was already focused on her appearance rather than her groundbreaking scientific work. No sense trying to “pretty up.”
Oddly enough, a memory far removed from her being humiliated on television kept popping into her mind, squeezing her heart. She’d been just a little girl, one who loved playing dress-up and watching Miss Universe on TV. She would close her eyes during commercials and picture herself accepting the crown for the USA in English, then thanking her parents in Spanish. At that point, she still believed it could happen. At that point, she still wanted it to happen.
But one summer afternoon, her aunt Luz and her mother were sharing iced tea on the front porch while Emie played with dolls in her room. Her window was open, inviting a breeze that carried the voices of Mama and Tía Luz.
“Look, Luz. Photographs of the children from the church picnic last week.”
The sounds of Tía Luz thumbing through the prints came next, and Emie’s ears perked when she heard, “Ah, there’s little Emie.” A pause. “Such a smart girl.”
“Gracias,” murmured her mother, and Emie could hear the smile on Mama’s face.
“Thank God for her brains. She certainly didn’t get the looks. With those skinny chicken knees and thick glasses, she may never find a husband, but she’ll always find a good job.”
Emie froze, a crampy feeling in her stomach like when she’d eaten too much raw cookie dough the week before. She set down her dolls and curled up on her side on the floor, hoping her tummy would stop hurting. It made her want to cry. She tried to stop listening, but she couldn’t help herself.
Her mama tsk-tsked. “Don’t be cruel, Luz. Not everyone can be beautiful, nor does everyone need a husband. She’ll grow into her looks.”
“We can only hope she’s a late bloomer,” Tía Luz added.
But she hadn’t bloomed at all, no matter what Gia had claimed about her looks. If she had, she wouldn’t have ended up as a guest on Barry Stillman’s horrific bookworm makeover show. And after that day, hearing Tía Luz’s unintentionally cruel comments, she’d stopped caring about society’s notion of beauty, stopped watching Miss Universe. She focused instead on academics and eschewed the notion of ever finding someone to love. This wasn’t the damned Ark; people didn’t have to live in pairs. And she’d been happy. Perfectly satisfied with the life she’d built…until that asshole Barry Stillman came into her life. Still, the memory of that long-ago day hurt as if fresh. She pushed it from her mind, scratched at the red bumps below her ear, and hiccuped.
“You still have those?” Paloma asked.
“I get them when I’m under—” hiccup “—stress.” She nudged up her glasses, then took to scratching the other side of her neck. “They’ve come and gone since the—” hiccup “—fiasco. I’m probably just gulping—” hiccup “—down my food too fast.”
Paloma got up, stepped over the smorgasbord, then plopped herself onto the couch behind Emie. “I’m gonna plug your ears, and you drink your margarita. It may not get rid of ’em, but after all that tequila, you won’t care.”
Emie let out a mirthless chuckle, then did as she was told. It worked. She smiled up at Paloma, who’d begun playing with Emie’s unruly hair, and absentmindedly brought her fingernails to her neck again.
“Honey, don’t scratch your rash. You’ll make it worse,” Iris told her softly. “Did you use that cream I gave you?”
Emie nodded and rested her hands in her lap. If anyone knew what being judged for one’s looks felt like, it was Iris. She and Emie understood the concept from different perspectives, though. Iris, a natural beauty with wavy, waist-length black hair and huge green eyes, had gone on to a great modeling career after being named Prettiest Girl in high school. At thirty, she was one of America’s most recognizable Chicanas, having graced the pages of Cosmo, Vanity Fair, Latina, Vanidades, and Vogue, to name a few. In looks, she and Emie were polar opposites, always had been. But in their hearts, along with Paloma, they were soul triplets.
If only I’d looked like Iris onstage. Maybe then Gia would have felt something for her other than pity. Iris never lacked in attention from gorgeous women.
No.
No.
That’s not who Emie was, nor who she wanted to be. And The Barry Stillman Show damn well wasn’t going to shake the core of her self-esteem.
Emie closed her eyes against a fresh wave of embarrassment as she relived, yet again, the now infamous filming fiasco in Chicago. On the airplane home, she’d felt as if everyone was staring at her. Look! There’s the bookworm professor!
The mere thought that she’d been internalizing such superficial crap demoralized her. She’d self-medicated with sever
al tiny bottles of cheap screw-cap wine during the flight, and had finally convinced herself that not only was she being overly paranoid, but she didn’t care. Still, it had taken every ounce of her courage to walk through Denver International Airport with her head held up, even with Iris and Paloma flanking her for much-needed moral support. Of course people had seen her. The Barry Stillman Show had 30 million viewers, she’d since learned via a Google search. She just wasn’t sure who had seen her, and that’s what scared her most.
It had felt so good to finally walk into her comfortable home in Washington Park and deadbolt the door behind her. And after a half hour of quiet, she’d started to feel better, thinking maybe no one had seen the show. Then her phone had begun to ring. It seemed everyone she’d ever met in her life had seen the goddamn show. Her voicemail had been clogged for two days with uncomfortable messages of sympathy and pity—just what she needed. A local full-service beauty salon had even sent a courier bearing a gift certificate, much to her utter dismay.
The phone rang again, and Emie glared at it. “I swear, I could kill that thing,” she whispered to her friends, chugging down another healthy dose of margarita. She wiped salt from her lips and added, “Who could that be now? The president? I think he’s the only one who hasn’t sent condolences for the untimely death of my dignity.”
Iris clicked her tongue and cast a beseeching look at Emie while Paloma reached over and switched off the ringer. “When we realized what they were doing, we tried our hardest to get backstage to warn you, Emie, I swear,” Iris told her, for the millionth time.
“They wouldn’t let us,” Paloma added, digging her fork into the cheesecake. “Rat bastards. Your mama laid into them with a barrage of Spanish cuss words unlike anything I’ve ever heard before. Made my hair stand on end. I think they didn’t know quite what to do with her.” She popped the bite into her mouth and chewed, her eyes fixed apologetically on Emie’s face.
“I don’t blame you guys. I just wish someone in my circle of friends watched that ridiculous show so I could’ve had some warning. It was my fault for walking into their trap.” She furrowed her fingers into her hair and laid her head back against the couch. And what a trap they’d set, with a juicy enticer like Gia Mendez to lure women in. Or men, for that matter. She couldn’t imagine a soul on earth who wouldn’t find Gia Mendez sexy. God, I’m so stupid.
“It’s unconscionable what they do to people, Emie. You should complain,” Iris said, dishing up another serving of enchiladas.
She shook thoughts of Gia from her mind and graced her friend with a wan smile. “Eh, it wouldn’t do any good. Besides, I just want to forget it ever happened.” To forget that I entertained even one thought that a sex goddess like Gia Mendez would look twice at a lab rat like me.
“How much time off do you have before the new semester starts?” Paloma asked.
“A little over a month.” A little over four weeks until she had to face Vile Vitoria again. The thought of Elizalde made her want to fistfight. “God, that arrogant whore,” she said. “Who does she think she is, anyway?”
“That’s right,” Paloma said, wrapping her arms around Emie’s shoulders from behind for a hug. “As if you’d ever give her the time of day.”
Emie didn’t think she’d go that far, but she only said, “I’ve got to think of some way to get back at her.”
“Oh, revenge.” Iris nodded. “That’s always a good, healthy way to recover from trauma.”
Recognizing the sarcasm, Emie rolled her eyes. “In any case, I’m hoping by the time I go back it will be old news to everyone and my own embarrassment will have waned. I want absolutely no reminders of that debacle.” Especially none of a brown-eyed artist with fingers that could make a woman scream for edible body paints.
The doorbell chimed. Twice.
Emie looked from Iris to Paloma and frowned. “Who could that be? TMZ?”
“Very funny. It’s probably your mama,” Iris said, standing. “I’ll get it.”
“No, wait.” Emie groaned to her feet. “Let me. It’ll probably be the only exercise I get all week.” Padding across the room in a tequila-induced zigzag, Emie made her way to the dark front hall leading to the door. Lord knew, she needed some fresh air.
July in Colorado heated right up, but the temperature dropped with the sun, bringing cool breezes in with the moon. Maybe she’d sit with Mama on the porch instead of bringing her inside. The darkness would hide some of the puffiness around her eyes, and staying outside would prevent Mama from witnessing their little pity party on the living room carpet. Mama would be aghast that they were eating so much food from dishes set right on the floor. She was nothing if not proper.
Emie stopped in the dark hallway, leaned against the wall, and pulled in a long, deep breath. Just the thought of seeing her mother brought on renewed feelings of shame. Oh, her parents had handled everything much better than she had. It didn’t matter—she still felt guilty. She knew, deep down, they had to be embarrassed that their daughter wound up in such a shameful public position. No matter how long it took, she was going to put the incident to rest for all of them, just as soon as her anger at Vitoria Elizalde dissipated.
Emie flipped on the porch light before she threw the deadbolt back and pulled on the heavy, carved wooden door. She started speaking as the hinges squeaked.
“It’s late, Mama, you shouldn’t be ou—” Her words cut off as her mind grasped the realization that the lean, muscular woman looming larger than life on her porch bore no resemblance whatsoever to her mother.
Emie wasn’t sure if her heart had stopped or was beating so fast she couldn’t feel it. Either way, she looked like hell and had a guacamole smear on her sweatshirt, and here she stood face-to-face with— “Gia—” hiccup “—w-what are you doing here?” Amazingly calm question considering her life had just passed before her eyes. Emie hoped she wouldn’t fall down, because she could no longer feel her feet. And, physiological impossibility aside, she’d just proven that a person could exist without a heartbeat or the ability to draw air into the lungs.
Gia Mendez? HERE?
“Emie. Forgive me for…just showing up.” She spread her arms wide and let them drop to her sides, as if searching for what to say next. Her long, silky hair hung free of the ponytail Emie remembered, and the yellow glow of the porch light made it shine like a sheet of black gold. Gia looked just as good in dark jeans and a well-worn University of Chicago sweatshirt as she had the day Emie’d met her in her Stillman work attire.
Looking at her, Emie fought the ridiculous urge to sit on the floor. Instead, she stood stock still and bunched the avocado-stained front of her sweatshirt into her fist. With her other hand, she poked her glasses up on her nose. “I…I thought I made it clear you should—” hiccup “—leave me alone.”
To her dismay, Gia flashed a devastating, sweet smile that pulled a dimple into her left cheek. Emie hadn’t noticed that the other day. “Don’t tell me you’ve had those hiccups since you left Chicago.”
She shook her head and hiccuped again.
“Emie, we need to talk.” Gia took a step forward, and Emie eased the door partway closed, hiding half of her body behind it. Gia stopped, stared at her. Her gaze dropped to Emie’s neck as she swallowed.
“No,” Emie said. “We don’t need to talk. I want to”—she held her breath for a moment and staved off a hiccup—“forget everything about that day.” God, she wanted to be angry at Gia Mendez. She didn’t want to feel her heart beating in anticipation at the mere sight of her, or worry that Gia had noticed her disheveled hair. She didn’t want to smell the woman’s pheromones on the night air or yearn to feel Gia’s strong arms around her for comfort. “Denial is my drug of choice. I’m going to pretend it never happened.”
“It shouldn’t have happened, Emie.” Gia laid her palm high up on the door frame, leaning toward her. “I feel just—”
“Don’t.” Emie held out her hand. Attraction or not, Gia had been a part of the ruse; Em
ie couldn’t forget that. “Don’t apologize now, after the fact, because I really, really thought you were a nice woman, Gia Mendez. An apology will only make me want to slug you, and I’ve had too much trauma and too much—” hiccup “—tequila to resist the urge.”
Gia paused to chew on her full, sexy lip. “It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
Her pointed gaze, filled with inexplicable affection, flamed Emie’s cheeks. She expelled a sigh and hung her head. How much could one woman take? It had been a long time since her Tía Luz had pointed out her flaws, and though her glasses weren’t as thick these days, her knees were just as knobby. She couldn’t let a woman like Gia, a woman solidly out of her league, affect the way she looked at herself or led her life. It would only bring her more pain. After a moment, she raised her gaze. “Look. You were only doing your job, okay? I understand.”
Gia opened her mouth to speak, but Emie waved her words away, reminding herself to be angry. Gia had tricked her. She’d shamed her. She’d left her face corpse-bare, even knowing what kind of trap Emie was walking into. “It’s fine, Gia, please. Just…leave me to my life and go back to yours. There are a lot of other Stillman Show guests to dupe, I’m sure.”
“Emie?” called Iris from the front room. “You okay?”
“Fine,” she yelled back, a little too sharply, her eyes never leaving Gia’s face.
“Slug me if you want, but I am sorry. More than you’ll ever know. You probably don’t believe that.”
“Did you come here to convince me or yourself? Because you’ve already told me one lie. You’ll have a tough job on your hands if you’re working on me.”
“Emie,” Gia breathed her name, a pained gaze imploring.