“Why on earth would you ask that? You know I don’t care if I see him; nor do I care where he is.” Blue eyes flash in my memory, I shake my head to dispel the disrupting thought. “Holy baby Jesus, Erika. I’m not hooking up with an undergrad. I must go. I’ll text you when I land.”
When I’m walking to the door of the small coffee shop we have been sitting in, she shouts, “Well, at least get laid, would you? Stimulate that stupid part of the brain and stop being such a bitch.”
Heat claims my face when all eyes turn my way, I throw a backward wave to her, ignoring her final comment. She’s right. I am a bitch. But, in my life, being a bitch is the only good thing that keeps me warm at night.
A familiar sadness closes in on me while I drive, reaching my driveway I frown to my empty house. A beautiful home, once full of children and laughter, now an empty shell that provides shelter and a place to rest my head at night. A two-story, Brady Bunch style home, covered with periwinkle blue siding, a huge bay window brings in glorious rays of light during the day and a wonderful view of the stars at night. The picturesque American Dream to someone on the outside looking in. Looks can be, and usually are, deceiving. I spent many of my nights sitting at this window, staring at the stars, knowing what I had done all those years ago but still wondering how I could love my children so much but never let the ice melt enough to love my husband. I tried. I wanted to make it work, despite knowing the truth of my past decisions. No matter how hard we tried or how many counseling sessions we attended, he could never garner my love. My coldness sent him right into the arms of another woman. The one true love in life I still believe in is the love for my children.
Sighing, I pull my tired body from the car and head inside to my office. Scattered on the large oak desk are the stacks of papers from my current clinical trials. Hanging my purse on the back of my chair, I sigh in relief when I kick my heels off. Moaning as the cool air hits my wiggling toes. The relief feels positively orgasmic, bringing a dread of the hours I will be standing in class with these torture devices attached to my feet. Just because they bear the name Jimmy Choo and cost a mint, doesn’t mean they are any more comfortable on the feet than any other high-heeled shoes. I miss the days of wearing Chucks everywhere I went.
I have packing to do, tons of it, but for the moment, I plop down in my office chair heaving out a huge cleansing breath. I look at my desk at the pictures of my four grown children, placing a hand over the ache in my heart, I gaze into the backyard.
Out the large window is the wooden swing set my granddaughter finds hours of amusement playing on; I smile thinking of her giggles as she swings. Mountainous hills rise off in the distance, glowing green in the sunshine, their peaks touching the clear blue of the sky that matches his eyes. Allowing my mind to open Pandora’s Box to the memories kept locked away, the ones that tried to surface in the café. I bring his handsome face to the forefront of my brain.
Memories of a time when I did believe flash before my eyes. A time full of magic. A time where crushes lived, friendships formed and love was in the air. A time before I surrounded myself in ice and ruined any chance I had at finding real love. Remember what was at the bottom of Pandora’s box? Hope.
Chapter One
Brains do not equal common sense. Some of the smartest people make the dumbest mistakes
—Tensanne’s inner thoughts
Tensanne
20 Years Earlier
“WHERE DOES SHE shop? Panties for Grannies?”
“Look at those rolls, gross.”
“OMG, she is way too much of a fat ass, and who makes duck lips anymore?”
The comments keep going. A whole new barrage of venom for the day. They’re not wrong, I think, closing the Instaword app on my phone, internally wondering why I subject myself to this torture. I need to be like an ostrich and bury my head in the sand until it’s safe to come out.
Fluffy, fat, chubby, you have such a pretty face, you have a great personality, perhaps you just need to burn more than you eat, exercise some, lose a little weight and you will be perfect. Perfect, what does that even mean? My idea of perfect is different from the haters, perfect to me is more than what is visible on the outside.
Mom always said, “You’re so smart and your face is so pretty, you should never judge a book by its cover.” Before her mind left her, she emphasized, “Ugly can live in some perfect packages. The packaging may look great but it doesn’t mean what’s inside is worth anything.” I know she meant well and was trying to be supportive. Her motherly attempt to make me feel better after a rough day of being picked on at school, but still criticisms masked as compliments, even if they were said with love behind them.
The mirror is my enemy but its honesty is brutal; even when you want it to lie it tells the truth. The image staring
