The Breakaway(93)

“Or,” said Ed’s voice from somewhere behind her, “maybe his rambling days are over and he’s ready to settle down.”

“It’s not about where he’s been, it’s about where he’s going,” Ted boomed.

“Do you like him?” asked Lou, as she gently worked a brush along Abby’s brow bones. “Because that’s what matters.” The other woman cupped Abby’s chin, turning her head left, then right, and Abby said, low-voiced, “I don’t want to get hurt. And I think he could really hurt me.”

“Sometimes,” said Sue, “you’ve got to take that risk. If you don’t open yourself up to possibilities—even bad ones…”

“Then nothing ever happens,” said Lou. “Good, bad, or indifferent. Now! Let’s decide what you’re wearing, and then we’ll finish your eyes and give you a lip.”

“Oh.” Abby hadn’t even considered the option of new clothes. “I’ll just wear this. It’s all I’ve got with me.”

Sue looked disappointed. “Don’t you want to try a dress?”

“Okay, but what if I’m in a dress and Sebastian’s just got on his shorts and tee shirt? I don’t want to be overdressed, do I?”

“Don’t worry about Sebastian,” Lou said with a merry, I’ve-got-a-secret smile. “The boys are going to take care of him.”

Abby didn’t voice her other concern, which was that, of the quartet that was the Spoke’n Four, only Ted’s clothes would fit her. She was pleasantly surprised when it turned out that Sue had a number of skirts and dresses made of jersey fabric that had elastic waistbands, or enough give to fit her. They were a little long but definitely better than her regular clothes.

She tried on three dresses and ended up choosing a pale-blue sundress of silky cotton jersey. It was sleeveless, with a square neck, fitted over her chest, flaring at her knees. She was twirling a little, enjoying the swishy feeling of the fabric against her legs when Sue handed her a pair of flat, strappy white sandals with silver buckles, and Lou showed her two necklaces, one made of silver and turquoise, the other a strand of dark-blue glass beads. “Sue, what do you think?”

Sue put her finger against her lips. “The silver one.”

“I agree.” Lou used a pale-pink lip stain, with a little bit of sparkle, and lined Abby’s eyes in silver, and used subtle shades of sky blue and silver on her lids before asking, “How do you feel about false lashes?”

“I’m in your hands,” said Abby, and sat very still as Lou used tweezers to apply individual lashes.

“There. Perfect!” Lou stood up and clasped her hands against her heart.

They ushered Abby back, through the kitchen, past closed doors that she assumed led to the bathroom and maybe a pantry or a closet, and into a room with a queen-size bed, a dresser, and a full-length mirror in the corner. “Voilà!” said Lou, spinning her around.

“Like a young Nicole Kidman!” Sue said.

“No, no,” said Lou. “Like Steven Spielberg’s first wife!”

“Kate Capshaw?”

“No,” said Lou patiently, “Kate Capshaw was his second wife. His first one was the gal with all the curly brown hair. Amy something. She was in that movie with the pickle guy!”

“Amy Irving! Crossing Delancey!” said Sue. “Oh, I loved that movie.”

Abby listened, smiling, and tried to keep her gaze unfocused, taking peeks at parts of herself that might look good, or at least acceptable. It was a skill she’d honed after years of confronting herself in mirrors, beneath the pitiless light of dressing rooms, dorm rooms, restrooms… pretty much any room with a mirror, she thought ruefully. Except, as her gaze traveled from her hair to her face to her dress to her new shoes, she was surprised to see that she looked about as good as she could remember looking. Her hair, freed from its cycling ponytail, fell down her back in a tumble of shiny, frizz-free curls. Her eyes looked bigger and wider; her lips shone beneath a layer of pink gloss, and the dress clung to her curves in a way that made her hope that Sebastian, who’d seen her in skintight bicycling shorts and neon jerseys that hid nothing and flattered even less, would be impressed.

Again, Abby remembered the feeling of his fingers on her cheek, his hand cupping her head, his tongue, warm and agile, in her mouth, and felt her entire body flush. She felt like a cherry cordial, her insides gone liquid and sweet.

“Here,” said Sue, and led Abby to the dresser. “Pick out some perfume.”

Abby spritzed three different bottles in the air before settling on a light floral scent, spraying it on her throat and her wrists. Sebastian will like this, she thought. She wondered if Mark would like it, too, and shut her eyes, telling herself to just, for once, stop thinking; just live in the moment and enjoy the night ahead.

She floated out of the RV and across the parking lot, back up to her hotel room to await Sebastian’s knock, which came at six thirty on the dot.

She opened the door, still only half-believing that any of this was actually happening. And there he was, so handsome she could barely stand to look at him, in khakis and a light blue button-down shirt, with a bouquet of daisies tied in a yellow ribbon in his hand.

“Wow,” he said, looking at her in a way that made every inch of her skin feel warmer. “You clean up nice.”