Flawless

by JD Hawkins

  Zoe nods. “Of course. I had someone with vitiligo on my show a few months back.”

  “Jess’s much more self-confident now, but when she was fifteen, sixteen, even senior year, she felt super insecure about her skin. Her classmates made fun of her endlessly. They called her giraffe, monster, other names.”

  “Kids can be so cruel,” Zoe says, shaking her head.

  I nod. “At one point it got so bad that she told me she thought about taking her own life. I convinced her to try talking to a therapist I found who specialized in victims of bullying, and we got her transferred to a new school, and things started to get a little bit better. I also ended up doing a ton of research about foundation and concealer and bought all sorts of makeup products for Jess to try. My sister was just so miserable, and I wanted so badly to be able to help her. In any case, it’s always been this idea I’ve had on the back burner, that I wanted to create this app for teenage Jess and anyone else who’s ever felt the same way she did. That’s why your YouTube show really resonated with me.

  “Because you don’t talk about using makeup to hide flaws, or to be glamorous 24/7—and for Jess it was never about those things—but about being able to see yourself, and have others see you, exactly the way you truly are on the inside. Your show really spreads the message that makeup can be a form of empowerment, not just a tool of oppression or a product of cultural pressures promoting unrealistic beauty standards.”

  Zoe finishes chewing a bite of salad and swallows. “Thank you for sharing that, Liam. People like your sister, they’re exactly why I do what I do. And your involvement makes way more sense now. I knew it couldn’t just be about the money.”

  I refill her coffee and take a breath. “You can ask me more questions if you want. I don’t want to be a mystery to you anymore. I just want to be a person.”

  She laughs. “Okay. How about this house? And the helicopter? I know your businesses have done well, but this property isn’t exactly a little getaway cabin in the woods. I mean, it’s gorgeous, and who wouldn’t love this place, but it seems odd that you have a helicopter in New York and a house in the Hamptons given that you’re from LA and currently living in Austin. You don’t strike me as the frivolous, materialistic type. Or are you…?”

  “I do like nice things, but no, I’m not the type to buy up all the toys and cars and houses. The truth is…” I look down at my hands. They’re clenched into fists. “Look, I don’t really tell people about this part of my life. It’s not a happy story, and it sucks to talk about.”

  “Oh, Liam.” Zoe puts her hand on my arm, smiling gently. “You don’t have to do this. We can talk about it another time. Or never. No pressure.”

  “No, I want to. I trust you, and I want to share this with you. The thing is, growing up, my family was incredibly wealthy as a result of my father’s real estate investments. I had all the material privileges I could have ever wanted. We had it all, and on the outside, we were the American Dream.

  “But my father was also an awful womanizer, and he cheated on my mom blatantly and frequently. When they fought about it, he was verbally abusive, but my mother never seemed to want to leave. As I got older and realized what my father was doing, I was just totally disgusted with him, and I wanted so badly for my mom to get out of the marriage—and honestly, I was angry knowing that she wouldn’t. We lived in the same house, but I didn’t talk to him from the time I was thirteen until I said goodbye to him on his deathbed, a few years after Jess was born.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Zoe murmurs.

  “I wasn’t. I was angry. He’d had a heart attack while he was visiting a sex worker in Hong Kong. He flew home to the best medical care money could buy, but it was too late to save him. He never recovered. And then he was gone, for good, and my mom and Jess and I were left with the insurance money and a massive inheritance. After Jess went off to college, my mom sold the house and moved up to Oregon where nothing reminded her of my father.”

  “God. I’m sorry you had to go through all of that,” Zoe says, standing up and hugging me tight around the shoulders.

  “So, that’s the explanation behind the helicopter and the house in the Hamptons. They were my father’s. Now they’re mine. Almost all of his other properties have been sold, the money going to charity. The helicopter I keep mostly for the pure joy of flying it, but this house—my mother and Jess and I used to come here for a month every summer, and it was like our sanctuary. My dad was always elsewhere.”

  Zoe rests her head on my shoulder. “You deserved better,” she says simply. “You all did.”

  I shrug. “It all worked out in the end. Hell, growing up like that is probably what drove me to fight so hard all my life—and focus on supporting the kinds of companies and projects that can change the world, and that I really believe in. Maybe I should be thanking the old man.”

  “Maybe,” Zoe says. “But you know what I think?”

  “What’s that?”

  “That you’re a good man. Working to make the world a better place, one tiny step at a time.”

  “I’m trying.”

  And then I lean in, and Zoe and I kiss for a very long time.

  Later that day, after a luxurious nap, Zoe and I walk along Coopers Beach, skirting around hulking dunes and enjoying the feeling of the white quartz sand beneath our bare feet. A breeze picks up and I have this sense of lightness about me, like all of my responsibilities have faded away, at least in this very moment.

  “So with that Marketing degree from Emerson, how’d you end up getting into makeup?” I ask Zoe suddenly. “You could have done anything, gone anywhere.”

  She squints over at me through a pair of huge, Jackie O-style sunglasses. She’s wearing a cute black romper that highlights every curve of her body in just the right way.

  “Honestly, my origin story is much less interesting than yours. After I graduated from college, and I decided to move back home because of my mom getting sick, I applied to as many jobs in Austin as I could. But the places who were calling me for interviews were all centered on women’s beauty and cosmetics. It was never by design.

  “Believe me, I sent my resume out to tons of different types of companies. Marketing is a pretty broad field, and the internships I’d had in Boston were at big advertising firms where I worked on campaigns for everything from green energy to athletic sneakers. But that’s what seemed to be available.”

  “Did you love it right away?” I ask. “Or did you grow into it?”

  Zoe shrugs, “At first, I didn’t mind much that I had been pushed into this niche. I was offered a position doing market research in cosmetics and I was mainly just excited at the size of my paychecks, which seemed huge at the age of 22. Plus, I liked makeup. I was knowledgeable and capable. It wasn’t a stretch. Later, because I had experience in the cosmetic industry, that’s what I was most qualified for with my next job, and so on and so forth.

  “I’ve always wondered, if I’d had the same resume coming out of college but the name at the top had been a guy’s name, I would have heard back from more companies. By the time that started to bother me, I was already too far into my career. I took some time off, which I could afford to do because I was in a relationship with someone who could be financially supportive, and I thought I’d try to get back into marketing in a different sector of the field.

  “Instead, while I was applying to new jobs, I created Makeup for the People and realized that I could use my expertise about marketing and cosmetics to do something that I did have a passion for. I just had to take a different approach. Is this boring?”

  “You’re never boring.”

  I take Zoe in my arms and swing her into the air, give her a kiss and then set her back onto the sand. “In fact, after we finish working on the makeup app and Amanda returns from maternity leave, you should start your own consulting company. Your cut of the app’s profits should cover your living expenses so that you can pick and choose the clients and projects that make you happy. And if
you need more capital, I’d be happy to invest in your company. I believe in you. You’re too brilliant to be wasting your time working for somebody else.”

  Zoe blushes. “Thanks Liam, but it’s a lot to think about. I’m not even sure what my next step is.”

  “There’s no rush, Zoe. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. And I want to be there at your side, no matter what you choose.”

  We pause, gazing into each other’s eyes.

  Zoe gives my hand a squeeze. “I’d love that.”

  19

  Zoe

  I stand in the elevator next to a skinny accountant and a corporate type woman trying to rifle through the briefcase that’s balanced on her knee. Monday morning, back to the grind.

  New York City, the weekend in the Hamptons with Liam—all of these things feel impossibly far away, like the kind of dream you replay so often in your head that you start to believe it was real. Except it all happened. It wasn’t a dream.

  Just yesterday Liam and I sat on the beach together in the crisp early morning air, digging our toes into the sand one last time before we had to head to the airport. We bonded, bared our souls, said the kinds of things to each other that you can’t take back. And I’d never want to. But at the same time, I can’t afford to think about those things right now. Our app is set to launch in just days, and it has to be perfect if we have any hope of keeping the investors in New York fully onboard.

  When I step into LoveLife, it’s the same as usual. I get offered an ancient grains protein bowl in the kitchen, a byproduct of the nutritional team’s research, and like always, I eat it because it’s free food. Liam already told me he’d be stuck in meetings all day so I don’t imagine I’ll run into him. Instead, I make the rounds to check on the progress of the app.

  I start in the Tech Lair. “Hey, Zo-baby!” I hear someone shout out, and just as I’m about to turn around and tear that person apart, I realize I know that voice.

  “Kiley, can you please not call me ‘Zo-baby’ in the office? It’s not the most professional nickname ever.”

  “I kinda like it,” Peter says, the head of the tech team, and I shake my head as he and Kiley give each other high fives. One week of working together and they’re already bros.

  “What about me?” I ask. “Am I going to like what I see going on up here?”

  “You’re not just going to like it. You’re going to love it. Sit down over there.” Kiley points at a chair in front of a large strip of floral wallpaper. The lighting is okay but not great—a little dimmer than ideal, and the bulbs themselves seem to give off a slightly yellowish cast.

  “Okay, I’m sitting. Now what?”

  Kiley points to the lights. “You’d agree with me that these aren’t necessarily ideal conditions for a photograph, right? The background is busy and the lighting is mediocre at best.”

  “Sure,” I reply.

  Peter positions himself about five feet in front of me and holds up his iPhone.

  “Say cheese.” I hear the sound of a vintage camera snap and Peter checks the picture on his screen.

  “Looking good,” he says.

  I stand. “Now what?”

  “Three minutes,” Kiley says. “And then, magic! Or, okay, not magic, but the fruits of several very productive all-nighters in the past week.”

  When the three minutes are up, Kiley shows me the phone. The app looks exactly how I’d imagined it. The design is sleek and appealing, MAKEUP FOR THE PEOPLE written across the top of the screen, and the font they’ve created is both elegant and simple.

  “I’m liking what I see so far,” I say, starting to get excited.

  Peter swipes left and I see the photo they’ve taken of me. It’s not particularly flattering and has no filters or editing. Peter swipes left again, and frankly, I’m astounded. The photo has been stripped of all of its superficial elements and zoomed in solely on one half of my face.

  Scrolling down, the app shows data from its facial analysis—color, hue, temperature, deviations, etc.—each with a letter and number next to it, like 3250-C or 24-L. I may not know what the numbers mean, but when I swipe to the next page, I discover the recommended shades of makeup and skincare products as well as brief explanations of each item. The recommendations appear to be spot on. They account for the warm, ever so slight olive undertones of my skin, the natural pinkness of my cheeks, and the eyeshadow suggestion looks almost identical to the one I use almost every day.

  “This is amazing,” I say. “It even suggested a moisturizer with 35 SPF!”

  Peter grins. “Glad you like it. As you can see, the photo analysis function is working much more smoothly now, thanks in large part to Kiley’s expertise and some suggestions from your colleague Adam. In fact, I’m thinking about poaching him from your department.”

  “That might actually be a great move for him,” I admit. “We should discuss it with HR after the app launches.”

  Kiley smiles. “I just suggested a few tweaks to the built-in photo editing and analysis that the app was doing, and then Peter and the rest of the team worked with Adam on adding a sort of ‘law of averages’ code to the facial recognition programming. Easy peasy.”

  “Riiight,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m just glad it’s finally working.”

  “We’re going to start beta testing the app on focus groups tomorrow,” Peter says. “Assessing for accuracy, ease, and user satisfaction. But we’re feeling good about this.”

  “It sounds like you have everything under control.”

  “By the way,” Kiley says, “Shanice is over at manufacturing today, finalizing the product list and doing a randomized quality check on all the stock. The app’s customization feature is unique, so it sounds like you guys are only able to have the main 200 shades on hand, at least initially.

  “That’s right,” I tell her. “Any custom blends will need to be formulated at the time that those orders come in. Hopefully we’ll have everything we need on deck.” I let out a huge sigh of relief. “Thank you so much for all your help. If you ever decide you’re sick of the gallery, I’d be more than happy to put in a word with HR.”

  Kiley gives me a quick hug. “This was super fun, and I’ve loved jumping back into photo editing. I’d never give up my day job, but if you need me to come in and consult again, I’m in.”

  Just then my cell phone vibrates in my pocket. The number looks familiar, although it’s not in my contacts. “I should probably take this.”

  “Go, go.” Kiley gives me a quick side hug. “By the way, Shanice is going to send you some photos from the warehouse anytime now. Keep an eye on your email.”

  I step into the hallway, but the caller hangs up before I have a chance to answer. I make my way back to my office and sit down, studying the number in my missed calls and racking my brain for who it could be. The area code is local, the number still vaguely ringing a bell. A family member? Or an old friend from college who got wiped from my contacts list in the last purge?

  I turn my monitor on and pull up my work email, anxious to receive Shanice’s photos. So far, nothing. Then my phone buzzes against the top of the desk. It’s the same number.

  “Hello?”

  “Zoe, please don’t hang up.” I immediately recognize his voice, the way he enunciates the letters in everything he says.

  “Jonathan?”

  I hear him take a shuddering breath on the other end, and I suddenly realize he’s holding back tears. I never saw Jonathan get emotional when we were together, besides his occasional road rages. Something must be really wrong.

  “My mom’s sick, Zoe. She’s dying.” His voice cracks, and my stomach drops. “She was having these migraines and insomnia and we all assumed it was stress but…it turns out she has tumors everywhere. Not just her brain. Her lungs. Her liver. Her pancreas. They’re not even going to attempt chemo or radiation. The doctors put her on hospice. They think she has three, maybe four weeks left. I didn’t know who else to call. I know you went through this w
ith your mom, even though she got through it, but…fuck, I don’t know what to do.”

  I feel like I just got the wind knocked out of me. I can hardly believe this. Jonathan’s mother is so young, barely in her mid-fifties, the kind of woman who speaks multiple languages, runs marathons, and cooks beautiful family meals every Sunday night, all while working as an RN at Houston Methodist, one of the state’s best hospitals. She and Jonathan have always been close, and in some ways, I was sadder to lose her after the breakup than Jonathan.

  “I’m so sorry,” I tell him. “I know how hard this is, and I wish there were something more I could say.”

  Jonathan pauses. “Look, I know you don’t owe me anything, and I know we broke up and that this is my shit to deal with, not yours. But I’m flying back to Houston tomorrow to stay with my mom for a few days, and if there’s any way you’d be willing to see me tonight…”

  “Of course. I’m here. Just let me know when and where.” As the words come out of my mouth, my initial gut response is that I might be making a mistake. But then I imagine if this were happening to my own mother again, and how much of a wreck I would be—and no matter how badly Jonathan fucked up, I still feel empathy for him.

  “Okay, great,” Jonathan says, audible relief in his tone, “I have to get cleaned up for a meeting with a client, but I’ll text you later. Thank you, Zoe. This means a lot.”

  As I set my phone back down on the desk, trying to process everything that Jonathan has just said to me, I hear a knock on my door.

  “It’s me,” Liam says.

  “Come on in,” I reply.

  Liam enters with a gorgeous vase of flowers and closes the door behind him. “These just arrived for you at the front desk,” he says, placing the vase down in front of me. “The receptionist thinks they’re a thank you gift from a client. But they are, in fact, from an admirer.”