The Makeover Surprise (Surprised by Love Book 2)

by Laura Burton

  I lean back against my chair and exhale slowly as I lose myself in the dream.

  Lucy Scott, columnist for Young and Me magazine.

  “So… All I have to do is sit through a makeover?”

  Helen nods, and leans so far forward we’re almost nose to nose. “Right. Just a little makeover, a few pictures and the column is yours. Besides…” She leans back. “Isn’t it about time you pay more attention to your image? Wouldn’t it be nice to look pretty for once?”

  Her words cut me surprisingly deep and I frown at the sting. Helen is known for her brutal honesty, but sometimes it comes out of nowhere like a poisoned dart.

  I can’t help but wonder if this is a cruel joke. What if I’m ridiculed for my before picture, or worse, what if people in the office start to pay me compliments on my after picture? That’ll make me feel even worse about myself when all I’ve done so far is be true to myself.

  “I need to think about it.”

  Helen puffs out her cheeks and leans back. “Lucy, what is there to think about? You get a free makeover, your very own column, and you can even keep the clothes the stylist puts you in for the shoot.”

  I bite my lip and stare at my knees. “Let me mull it over in my head. I won’t keep you waiting, I promise.”

  I meet Helen’s unimpressed stare with a hard gaze of my own until she sighs again. “You’ve got twenty-four hours.”

  Chapter Two

  Wyatt

  “Wyatt, why don’t you put that book down and talk to your mother?”

  I lower my book and take a breath. My dad’s face comes into view as a vision of Frodo scrambling to toss that blasted ring into the fiery pit fades away.

  I love my dad, but his timing is the worst. I feel my face tense up into a scowl.

  My Dad glances at the book in my hand before he gives me a strange look that I can’t read.

  Surprise? Irritation? I’m not sure.

  “Near the end, huh?” My dad asks. His voice is less stern now. “How many times have you read The Lord of the Rings? Sixteen, seventeen times?”

  “Thirty-five,” I correct him, putting the book in my bag. “But who’s counting?” I make an effort to turn my scowl into a grin as I follow him into the next room. The aroma of garlic and cheese is so intense; it takes everything in me not to gag.

  My mom’s cooking is undoubtedly one of the perks of swinging by my parents’ house every week, but the smell of her ingredients can be overwhelming.

  When I was a kid, my parents used to tell me my sense of smell was a superpower. I believed that for a while… The truth is I just have a super sensitive nose.

  My mom gave up on using her favorite perfume because one whiff of the musk always gave me an intense headache.

  I gave my parents nasty scares more than a few times, when I thought I could smell gas in the house.

  And to this day, I can’t put new furniture in my home without storing it in a warehouse for at least a week so it can air out first.

  Now that I’m in the kitchen, I see my mom’s shoulders are a little higher than normal. I glance at my dad, sensing that something isn’t right, but I'm not sure what it is.

  Did I forget their wedding anniversary? No… That’s not for another month.

  My mom’s birthday? No.

  Did she get a new haircut? I don’t think so...

  I put on my best smile and roll my sleeves up as I reach the sink. “Need any help, mom?” I ask, washing my hands.

  When she turns to me, I get a good look at her blotchy face; her eyes are red and swollen and it looks like she’s been crying for a long time.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Nothing, dear.” She sniffs, shakes her head, and turns her attention back to the cutting board.

  That’s when I spot the onions. “Oh. I see.”

  She always cries when she cuts onions. I relax, figuring that solves the mystery.

  My dad is setting the table, so I pick up a few dishes to help.

  “How are things going at work?” he asks.

  I despise small talk. We both know he’s not even remotely interested in the current stock and share prices. My dad is a landscape gardener. He could talk happily, for a whole day, about all the different types of stone for a patio. But financial market numbers are definitely not his thing.

  That’s why I take care of all of his business accounts.

  Still, it’s the same string of questions every time I come here.

  How’s work? How’s New York? Met anyone lately?

  My answers are always the same. Fine. Fine. No.

  I oblige, and we go through our usual routine. But as soon as I reply the final question, my mom sniffs and slams her knife on to the counter. A bunch of sliced onions fly into the air.

  I swipe a cloth from the table and I’m at her feet cleaning up the mess before she can react.

  “Sorry,” she says, her voice sounding strange.

  I shoot my dad a wary look and glance up at my mom, wondering what I’m not picking up on.

  We’ve done this for years… Every Monday night, I drive to my childhood home in Snowdrop Valley and have dinner with my folks. Mom makes a casserole, or Italian food, and we try to act like a normal family, making eye contact and talking about the week.

  Tonight though, my mom is acting strange. Stranger than usual, anyway.

  My mom is an artist. She keeps her dark hair long, and calls her wispy grays “silver streaks of wisdom.”

  When she’s mad, we all know it; she has a short fuse. But as soon as she’s blown up, she goes back to being sunny again, like nothing happened.

  When it comes to her other emotions – sadness, disappointment, worry – the expressions all look the same to me, so I have no idea what she’s feeling until she tells me with her words.

  But she’s unusually quiet tonight. “Did I do something wrong?” I ask, rising to meet her teary stare.

  She tuts and touches my cheek with a cool hand. “No. Of course not. It’s just…” she looks at my dad for a second. “I’m worried about you.”

  My dad rises from the table and walks over to us. “We both are,” he says.

  I tense my jaw. Just like that, I’m a fourteen-year-old boy again. I know that’s how they see me still.

  I step back to escape the heaviness of their sympathetic stares. “I’m fine. I don’t understand why you would…”

  “Baby, you’re almost thirty-five. And well, you still choose to hang out with us every week.” My mom is stirring the sauce now, but with a little too much zeal, and a dollop of it splatters on her hand. She swipes it away like it’s a mild inconvenience, even though it must have felt like molten lava on her skin.

  All I can suddenly think about is how absurd it is that my parents are worried about me.

  To be fair, they’ve always had a lot of concerns about me.

  I’m on the Autism spectrum, and my parents had a million worries about my future.

  Would I ever be truly independent? Would I be able to work with people? Would I make my own living? Drive a car?

  I reach for logic and start to list reasons why their concern is unwarranted.

  “I’ve got my own business, more cash in the bank than I know what to do with, a nice place in the city…” My parents nod along like dogs.

  “But we’re getting older, my darling,” my mom says carefully. “And you’re still…”

  Single. That’s what my mom’s thinking, but for some reason she can’t say it out loud. She clears her throat instead.

  “Really? You’re upset because I’m not seeing anybody?”

  I look to my dad for some explanation. So what if I haven’t yet settled down with anyone?

  “It’s just… We don’t want you to end up lonely. And all you do is work and read.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with reading,” I cut in, ignoring the ache in my chest.

  My dad plants a hand on my shoulder. “Reading is good, son. But you only read the sa
me three books. Over and over and over again. It’s like some kind of ritual or something.”

  I swallow hard. “People read the Bible over and over.”

  For some reason, my parents throw back their heads with a laugh. Like I just told the best joke.

  “Wyatt,” my dad says when they’re done cackling. “We’re concerned you’ve built your own little reality that only consists of numbers and Arks.”

  “Do you mean Orcs?” I ask, squinting. My dad raises a palm and looks at my mom. She looks back at him and wriggles her dark brows, and I know the two of them are having another one of their telepathic conversations.

  Several moments pass by, and the sauce starts to bubble on the stove. My mom sniffs.

  “There’s just so much more to life than work and fiction,” she says, her shoulders sagging. “And honestly? I had kind of hoped I’d be a grandma by now.”

  I stiffen and blink at my mom as the words land on me like a thunderclap.

  She’s sad because I haven’t had any babies?

  I shake my head in disbelief. Seeing the disapproval on my face, my mum launches into a full on rant about piano recitals, family trips to Disneyland, and vacations in the Bahamas with my imaginary wife while they watch the fictional kids.

  My phone vibrates and I hold up a finger. “This is work,” I mutter. My mom doesn’t seem happy about the interruption, but I’m immensely grateful.

  I lied. It’s not work at all. But I’ve lost my appetite and the air is stifling in my parents’ kitchen.

  “Sorry, I have to go.”

  I dash out the back door and take the call.

  “Hey, are you free tonight?”

  My mouth tugs into a smile at the sound of my best friend’s voice.

  “Absolutely.”

  Chapter Three

  Lucy

  The rest of the day at the office goes by like a strange dream. Finally, getting my own column is within reach. I’m so wrapped up in visions of the future me––successful, valued, definitely not goofy––that I don’t bat an eyelid when one of the guys in accounting makes an inappropriate joke. Nor do I snap at Marty when he loses my pen and asks to borrow another one.

  And when the fire alarm goes off, I simply roll back on my squeaky computer chair, walk to the exit and patiently listen to Andy––the health and safety guy––rant about emergency protocol for forty minutes.

  Heck, the whole building could go up in flames and I wouldn’t notice. There are so many scenarios to play out in my head.

  I agree to the makeover and it’s a total disaster. I become the laughing stock of the office… maybe the whole city… and I’m forever labeled something horrible like Ugly Betty.

  It goes so well; people actually start to notice me in the street. Men give up their seats for me on the subway. Girls whisper as I pass by, “Look, Mommy, it’s a real life princess!”

  One thing is certain: if I don’t agree to the makeover, nothing is going to change. Not any time soon at least.

  “Good night, everyone,” I say with a regal wave as I march out the office at the end of the day. There’s a collective “Bye” that sounds like a groan.

  Helen gave me strict instructions should I decide to go ahead with this makeover. She wants me to eat as much junk food as possible, and come in my ugliest clothes for my before picture.

  I don’t need to do much to prepare for this. In fact, I’ve been training for this shoot my entire life.

  Nobody talks about preparing for their before picture. Eating all the food, not bothering about rolls or lumps and bumps. Got a zit on your nose? Even better! No need to wrestle with curling irons or bobby pins. Just let the hair be wild and free. I have to say, getting ready for it sounds far more fun than the after picture.

  “Chessy, I’ve got news,” I announce into my phone as I join the crowds of people heading for the subway station. “You’ve got a boyfriend?” she asks with a squeal.

  “What? No.” I grimace.

  “There’s a new guy at work?” she says, trying again.

  I roll my eyes and wait for her to go through her long list of options while I wonder why she doesn’t just let me finish. When she asks me if I bumped into a sexy stranger, I can’t take it anymore.

  “No. Why does everything have to be about men with you?”

  “All right. I give up,” my sister says. She’s not even trying to hide the disappointment in her voice at the fact that my news doesn’t involve a meet cute.

  “I might be getting my own column at the magazine,” I announce, my chest squeezing at saying the words aloud.

  The sharp intake of breath on the other end of the phone is just the reaction I’m hoping for. Whenever I have good news, I tell Chessy first. She’s the dramatic one. The one who gasps and jumps up and down when I tell her that Sephora is having a sale.

  “That’s so cool, Lucy! Look at that! My sister, a columnist.”

  “What did you have to agree to do to get that gig?” Leila asks. I frown at my phone and notice I’m on a three-way call and hadn’t noticed. Chessy must have dialed her in.

  Leila is almost as skeptical as me. She knows all too well that nothing good comes without a price. I chew my lip, clutching the phone a little too tight. I didn’t want to tell them about the makeover photoshoot. Not yet. Not while I’m sitting in a cramped subway car at least. I wanted to wait until I was in the safety of my living room, with a strong drink in hand.

  “I haven’t agreed to anything yet. They want me to do this one thing and the column is mine.”

  “What thing?” they ask simultaneously.

  Now I regret making this call in public.

  I make myself small, sinking real low in my seat and muttering into my phone in the vain hope that nobody around me can hear. “A makeover thing. They wanted someone from the office to do it, and apart from Helen, I’m the only––”

  A high-pitched scream blasts out of my phone like a siren and the people in the subway shoot me odd looks, some of them even cover their ears. I want to crawl under my seat and die as I feel the heat of their stares on me.

  “You’re going to be famous, Lucy! Who’s photographing you? What designer are you wearing? Will you have your own team of stylists?”

  In the midst of my embarrassment, the corner of my mouth tugs upward at the sound of Leila’s excited voice. A year ago, she was just as clueless about this stuff as me, but now she’s dipped her toe in the fashion world, and suddenly, she’s a pro at this business.

  Chessy bursts in with more questions and the heat rises to my face as I’m well aware that my sisters’ voices are screeching in the subway carriage. I give one-word answers the best I can and ignore the rest in an attempt to hurry up and finish the call so I can ride the subway in peace. And when I say peace, I mean sitting quietly, not drawing attention to myself while Eddie––the homeless guy––mutters to himself in the corner.

  “Listen, I haven’t agreed to it yet, I’m just thinking about my options,” I whisper.

  “What is there to think about?” Leila asks, and if I happened to be anywhere except in a packed subway train, I’d laugh. I’m the biggest over-thinker on the planet. She knows that. What isn’t there to think about?

  “You want your own column, right?” Chessy asks. The question sounds so simple coming from her mouth. I wonder why it seems so complicated when I think about it. I clear my throat. “Yes. Of course.”

  “Then what is there to consider?” Leila pitches in. I suck in a breath and hold it.

  “It’s risky,” I say through an exhale. “It might go badly.”

  “What. The makeover shoot?” Leila asks. Her voice comes out all squeaky and high. Even though I can’t see her, I know she’s making that scrunched up facial expression that she makes when she’s in disbelief.

  “Lucy! When are you going to start taking risks? Stop overthinking this and just go for what you want,” Chessy’s voice is hard and direct. “It’s time to stop playing it safe. Show the w
orld who Lucy Scott really is, and shine like the diamond you are!”

  I end the call feeling sick inside. To my sisters, this predicament isn’t even a predicament. And maybe my mind is playing it safe. But I have to think about how much I want this column. Am I desperate enough to sell my soul to the devil?

  On the way home, I stop by the grocery store to pick up as much junk food as possible. But I lose myself in my head, going over the list of pros and cons. Next thing I know, I’ve walked right into a tall, burly woman with her arms crossed. She towers over me and stares down with a look that could probably crush Sprite cans.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, are you going to pay for those?”

  I blink a few times to process the situation. The woman is easily a foot taller than me and stands with her thick legs spread apart. Her thin lips form a perfectly straight line and I follow her dark eyes to the bag of Cheetos in my right hand. On my way out, I must have grabbed them on autopilot.

  “Sorry, I––”

  The woman takes a step toward me and I close my mouth, trying not to gag on her garlic breath. It’s overwhelming!

  She hovers so close to me, I can see the enlarged pores on her nose.

  “Thought you’d pick up a free snack, huh?” she asks. Her nose is hovering less than an inch from mine and I wonder if we’re both going to faint from the garlic fog that now surrounds us. She doesn’t wait for a reply. “Well, it’s not your lucky day, my shady friend. You know what I do to thieves like you?”

  “I’m not a thief! It was an honest mistake––” The woman slaps her thigh before I can finish and I’m reminded of a whip crack in an Indiana Jones movie. “I chew them up and spit them out like tobacco.” That’s not the only thing she chews in her spare time. My nose is sucking in garlic fumes and it’s all I can do to keep from gagging. Her beady black eyes narrow on me like I’m a cockroach on a dinner table. Any second now I expect her to take a giant hand and swat me away. I should be afraid. Or insulted, at least. But the situation is so ridiculous, I can’t help but crack a smile, garlic fumes and all.