Girl Before a Mirror

  So what happened? How does that same little girl then settle for “You know, he makes a good living and my parents really like him,” which are the exact words I said about Patrick weeks before I married him?

  Patrick O’Hara was the right kind of partner. Every box was checked. He was whip-smart and curious. I will always love a man who asks questions. We were friends first. I thought I was happy. Patrick was always a good man, thoughtful and considerate. He was never cruel. But as our marriage eroded we both became versions of ourselves that neither of us were proud of. Bratty is the word that comes to mind as I think back on us now. Because our needs were so far from being met, we devolved into tantrumming toddlers who never respected the other’s wishes in any meaningful way. In the waning months of our eleven-year marriage, we became more like feuding siblings than beloveds. Fighting about what was fair and that you got that so I get this and you said that so I get to feel this for this amount of time and on and on, stopping just short of putting a line of duct tape down the center of our home.

  There are moments I miss him, but now I realize I miss the promise of him. What I thought married life would be. Who I thought I’d be as a wife. What I thought it would be like to finally set down roots. Be a family. Have a home of my own. A home I could stay in for longer than eighteen months.

  I pull out my phone and begin sending a text to Allison. And then I delete it. How do I even . . . Do I just say it? Do I even know what there is to say besides “Hey, screw the yearlong Time-Out, I just made out with a complete stranger in the hotel elevator. P.S.: I love the movie Ladyhawke. LOL.” Jesus. I exit out of the texting screen and tuck my phone back into my purse.

  Somewhere along the line—probably in the septic tank that was my adolescence—I stopped believing I was the hero of my own story. Or that my story was worthy of a hero at all. I settled because that’s all I thought I deserved. The Lincoln Mallorys of the world became those I dabbled with in the same way I learned not to splurge on sweets or any of the finer things. Moderation in everything and when I did allow myself to indulge—whether on a big meal or an expensive piece of clothing—the guilt that set in within seconds made it never worth it in the end. In choosing to be good, cautious, and efficient, I talked myself right out of amazing.

  In becoming someone’s anyone, I became no one’s only one.

  But then I think about the chocolate fountain at the Opening Night Bacchanalia. I was hungry so I dipped and ate and reveled in the opulence of it all. I felt no guilt. However, the nausea that followed probably speaks to my inability to moderate my own newly found freedom. About a lot of things. Hm.

  I pull Lincoln’s business card from the depths of my purse. Of course all this introspection is based on knowing pretty much zero about Mr. Mallory and is absolutely because I can’t think about Audrey and her looming interest in the Lumineux campaign. But that’s why this is so jarring. It’s not about Lincoln at all. It’s about why I deny myself everything in the name of knowing what’s best for me. As if I’m not strong enough to handle it if the waters get a bit rough for a change. I’ve always known I’ve had problems with trust, but I’ve never asked the biggest question of all: Do I trust myself? And why do I need my life to be so very calculable?

  “You gonna call him?” Sasha asks, walking up to where I’m sitting.

  “I think so,” I say, tucking the business card back into my purse.

  “I mean, why not, right?” Sasha asks, scanning the now crowded lobby and excusing herself to a pack of ladies on their way to one of the many workshops just down the hall. “We should probably get going.” Sasha motions to the crowds of women heading to where all the conference rooms are in the belly of the hotel. I stand and we join the throng.

  Signs on easels announcing craft workshops, publisher spotlights, social media how-tos, and author talks stand sentry in front of every door as far as the eye can see. Getting into Helen’s one-day workshop was definitely a perk of this ad campaign. Our two spots are highly coveted by the women who are scrambling for something else to do on the first morning of RomanceCon. While Helen is not in charge or connected with RomanceCon in any way, she is certainly this year’s biggest draw. Which is exactly why we’re here.

  Sasha and I settle into a couple of seats in the very back row on the aisle. She and I both pull out our notebooks. There are about thirty women in this smallish conference room. Decanters of water, tea, and coffee are set up in the back along with various nosh—muffins, fresh fruit, etc. . . . I set my notebook on my chair and head to the back for some much-needed tea.

  “Mrs. Brubaker would like a word,” one of Helen’s assistants instructs me as I’m pouring hot water into my paper cup. This assistant is a wiry young man who looks like he spends most of his life pushing his glasses farther up his nose. I nod and finish, finding the lid to the cup and following him out into the hall. I motion to the assistant as Sasha gives me a concerned look. I’m taken into an anteroom just off where we were and am met with an entirely new level of luxury. I imagine this is what people call a green room. Beautiful white couches and fresh flowers line a room anchored by an exquisite Persian rug. Helen Brubaker lounges on a silvery-gray chair over in the corner and motions for me to approach. This is the closest I’ll ever come to meeting the queen.

  “Anna,” Helen says, motioning for me to sit on the couch just next to her.

  “Mrs. Brubaker. I’m very much looking forward to your workshop,” I say, holding on to the paper cup that is slowly burning my fingerprints off. I quickly scan the side table. No coaster. Dammit. I switch it to my other hand. And back again.

  “So, we’re thinking breakfast tomorrow morning, is that right?” Helen looks up to her assistant and he nods, tablet in one hand and smartphone in the other.

  “That would be great. Thank you so much for taking the time.”

  “My assistant will give you the details,” Helen says.

  “Thank you. I look forward to it,” I say.

  “It’s time,” the assistant says.

  “Thank you, Hector,” Helen says to the wiry young man. She stands. I follow.

  “A piece of advice, Ms. Wyatt?” Helen says, stopping the herd of Team Brubaker in its tracks. I brace myself. “When something is burning your damn hand, say something.” She eyes my tea and then makes eye contact with me.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say. Helen waits . . . a cocked eyebrow. “Something is burning my damn hand.”

  Helen laughs and I am supplied with a fresh cup of tea in a real teacup within seconds.

  “Now that wasn’t that hard, was it?” Helen asks with another slap on the back—which I am ready for this time and make sure not to spill the hot tea on my damn hand. I follow behind Team Brubaker back into the workshop. The span of, say, twenty feet between the green room and the workshop room all of a sudden feels like a gauntlet. Fans want autographs, their books signed, and pictures of Helen Brubaker or with Helen Brubaker. Her assistants and team control the mob as much as they can, but the distance that took me less than a minute to walk is now going to take Helen Brubaker more than fifteen. I wend my way through the horde and head back into the workshop.

  “We’ve got a meeting,” I say, settling back in next to Sasha.

  “Are you serious??” Sasha asks.

  “Tomorrow morning. Her assistant is supposed to get me the details,” I say, finally taking a sip of the tea. This is definitely not the same tea that I got from the workshop.

  “Any word from Preeti?” Sasha asks.

  “Not yet,” I say.

  “Okay, well. If nothing else, this Brubaker meeting is a good sign.” Sasha is doodling in her notebook: the workshop room, the chairs, the shoulders and heads of the women in attendance.

  “That’s really good,” I say, nodding toward the notebook.

  “Oh, thanks. I’m just bored,” she says.

  “When I’m bored I doodle arrows and stars, so . . .” Sasha laughs and continues doodling. The women she’s drawing look like
every woman we know. Different sizes, different hairstyles, different ages. Everything that I noticed about the gala last night. And what Sasha has captured gives me another piece of the puzzle.

  “What if the woman in our ad was just . . . and I know this is going to come off as revelatory . . . what if she were just normal?” I ask, pointing at the women in her doodle. “Like these women.”

  “Real,” she says.

  “Right.”

  “I like that,” she says, looking from me back down to her sketch.

  “Of course, the guy has to be phenomenal,” I say, knowing how hypocritical that is.

  “I’m comfortable with that,” Sasha says with a sniff. I laugh and am just about to continue speaking when the door to the workshop room is swung open and Team Brubaker pours into the small space. The hubbub outside infests the quiet workshop room and then is just as quickly silenced when the door is closed by conference volunteers.

  Team Brubaker settles itself in the front of the conference room. Helen’s smoky laugh fills the room quickly as microphones are tested, papers are straightened, and bottles of water are kitted with straws. As they busy themselves, I set my tea under my chair and pull my phone out of my purse to text Ferdie.

  So, I think I met someone. Don’t know much about him, but . . . I don’t know. I stare at the rambling, everywhere text for a second and add, I know this is out of nowhere, but as you’re well aware I’m starting mid-thought, so . . . I hit send before I think better of it. I also know that Ferdie won’t be up for hours, so I feel safe in just . . . his text swoops back into my screen.

  you’ve been gone a daym.

  hahahahahaha

  minus m, Ferdie corrects. why not see where it goes?

  My fingers hover over the keypad. How to begin. My fingers zip and flash over the letters, unleashing the kraken of reasons, when Ferdie’s text swoops in.

  Stop. Erase whatever screed you just typed.

  My fingers pull up from the keypad. Another text from Ferdie swoops in.

  Erase it. I’ll wait.

  I delete everything I just wrote.

  Fine, I text in its place.

  see where it goes.

  He’s not . . . I’m not sure . . . I think he might be a player, you know? I get a player vibe from him. And I kind of attacked him in the elevator. I mean . . .

  The conference volunteers buzz and move around the room. I’m running out of time. Ferdie’s text swoops back in.

  you’re not attack in the elevator kind of kid.

  I know.

  you’re not you and this might be good, Ferdie texts.

  Good for you maybe, I text back.

  finding people who fall for your bruce wayne side is easy. finding people who fall for the batman side is hard.

  What. Are. You. Talking. About.

  Attacking someone in elevator is your batman side. real you. bruce wayne is cool billionaire, you know . . . ordering salad and laughing at his jokes. Fake. Everyone falls for that.

  right, I text, feeling my face flush again. Every time.

  So, let him in the bat cave a little.

  That’s not a double entendre is it?

  No. A moment. And gross. A pause. A terrified, now-that-I’ve-talked-about-it-with-Ferdie-this-is-real pause. And now you’re overthinking it.

  ahahahahahahah, I text back.

  “Welcome to the Be the Heroine, Find Your Hero workshop with the one and only Helen Brubaker!” the moderator announces. The workshop erupts in applause.

  Gotta go. Thanks, I text to Ferdie.

  no problemo, he texts back. I slide the phone back into my purse and pick up my notebook, which I set under my seat, next to that damn tea.

  Helen Brubaker’s workshop is nothing short of amazing. It’s a roller coaster ride on a clear day with your hands raised high into the air. It’s a church revival and you’ve got the tambourine. It’s that first cup of tea in the morning and there’s a breeze coming through the kitchen window. She is beyond clever and makes me yearn for a time when women bonded around a kitchen table or a fire instead of just liking one another’s photos on social media. My notebook is lousy with notes with not an arrow or star to be seen because there is no time for doodling. Helen ends the session with the bombshell that the publisher made her add the line about “finding your hero” to the title of her book.

  “Frankly,” Helen says in that raspy voice of hers, “finding your hero doesn’t deserve top billing. I’m a huge Nora Ephron fan. That’s where this whole idea started. Be the heroine of your life, not the victim.” Sasha nudges me and I smile. See, I gesture. See?? “Nora said that and it got me thinking. And then it got me writing. Living passively versus living actively. That’s what’s at the heart of my book, no matter what the title would have you believe.” I hear myself mutter a “yeah” as if I’m intoning an “amen” in church. Living passively versus living actively.

  More pieces of the puzzle come together for the Lumineux campaign. How can we make women feel powerful enough so they don’t just read the book? How can Lumineux embolden women to become the heroines of their own stories in real life? Can it even do that? Can I?

  And on that note:

  The Pirate Booty Ball.

  7

  I’m standing, once more, on the fringes of the party, holding yet another club soda with lime. Preeti Dayal, the Lumineux executive, stands next to me. She’s said maybe two words since she arrived earlier this afternoon. I’ve been trying not to loom. I don’t think it’s working. Sasha is on the dance floor with Helen Brubaker. I’m still on a high from the workshop and am on the verge of doing something very stupid with Lincoln Mallory after this party ends.

  “Did you know that eighty-five percent of people who buy books are women?” Preeti says, scanning the room. Tonight, the cover models are swarthy rogues. Ryder Grant, last year’s Mr. RomanceCon, is chatting up Sasha now that she’s stopped dancing in the safety of Team Brubaker.

  “Not sure of the number, but that sounds about right,” I say.

  “As true as any of those statistics are,” Preeti says.

  “Well, whatever the number, the gist is that a lot of women buy books,” I say.

  “And most of those women are buying romance novels,” she says.

  “That’s definitely true,” I say. The women here are dressed up in their eye-patched, parrots-on-shoulders best. One of the cover models approaches Preeti and me. I think this one’s called Josh. With pitch-black hair and piercing blue eyes, he’s not as gym-fit as the others; he’s more lumberjack-fit. Like he could actually lift something besides a dumbbell. Unlike Blaise, who is just wearing a tiny pair of red-and-white-striped short shorts with a gold codpiece (?!), Josh is wearing—

  “You’re the Dread Pirate Roberts,” I say, smiling up at him.

  “It’s my daughter’s favorite movie,” he says with a shrug. “I kind of had to.”

  “It’s fine if you want to make up a daughter and not admit that The Princess Bride is your favorite movie,” I say. Josh and Preeti both laugh. “Josh, right? This is Preeti Dayal; she’s the executive in charge of the Lumineux campaign.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Josh says, clearly a bit taken off guard by Preeti’s position and what she could do for his career. I can see him getting flustered, and I’m relieved when a couple of fans politely ask if they can take their picture with him. “Excuse me. It was a pleasure.” Josh shakes our hands once more and gets absorbed back onto the dance floor.

  “It’s like he’s not even real,” Preeti says, taking a large gulp of her soda.

  “I know,” I say.

  “Why am I surprised that he has a daughter?” Preeti confesses.

  “No, I was, too. I think I imagine them in their little Ken Doll boxes, and they’re only taken out to go back and forth from the cologne store to the gym or something,” I say.

  “Standing in front of whatever fan they can find on the way,” Preeti says, laughing.

  “Clothes being ripp
ed from their oiled-up bodies,” I add.

  “Leaving a wake of orgasming women behind them,” Preeti says. I throw my head back and laugh.

  “Secret babies abound,” I say. Preeti laughs, barely able to catch her breath. We stand there laughing for several minutes, just enjoying each other’s company. We watch as the dance floor fills up with women.

  “God, I haven’t danced in years,” Preeti says.

  “Maybe at a wedding a few years ago,” I say, trying to sort through my memories of the last time I danced. Sad. Preeti and I are quiet. “Shall we?” I say, only realizing a bit later that those were Lincoln’s exact words.

  “When in Rome,” Preeti says.

  “That was actually last night, but . . . ,” I say, smiling.

  “Why not, right?” Preeti and I set our drinks on the table and walk out onto the dance floor, where Sasha has finally disentangled herself from Ryder.

  “Hey!!” she says, raising her hands into the air. “Oh my God!! I can’t believe you’re out here!” she yells over the thumping music. The colorful strobe lights swoosh and whip around the dance floor. Everyone is hooting and hollering to the beat. Helen Brubaker shimmies her way back over to our little corner, her two assistants behind her.

  “Well, well, well. Look who decided to start having some fun,” Helen says, looking from Preeti to me. We both laugh and nod like the party poopers we are.

  It starts with some embarrassing rhythmic swaying. Maybe some shoulders. Maybe a foot shuffle here and there. Then there’s some premier dancing face and a flurry of very incisive pointing. There are squeals of joy when that one song I haven’t heard in forever bumps on. And then I whip out the lasso. Maybe a little sprinkler. And now the hips are in action. The head is down and I’m feeling the beat and the smile can’t be wiped from my face. Preeti’s blazer is now a scarf around her neck and Sasha has backed up into Helen, who’s thrown her head back and is laughing.