The Opposite of Me Page 14

  “But then they couldn’t argue about it,” Alex said.

  “Of course,” I said.

  There was another pause, but it didn’t feel quite as awkward this time.

  “Oh, and Dad keeps talking about Mr. Simpson like they’re mortal enemies. Remember how they used to be buddies?”

  “The day after Dad retired, Mr. Simpson cut three inches off the hedge between their yards,” Alex said, grinning at the memory. “Dad went ballistic.”

  “Transference,” I said. “Dad had to channel his energy somewhere.”

  “Don’t throw your fancy SAT words at me,” Alex joked.

  “It’s a psych term,” I said. Matt had taught it to me. I smiled again, thinking of the drawing he’d pressed into my hand when I’d gotten on the train. I’d call him this weekend and tell him all about my new job.

  “What?” Alex demanded.

  “I was just thinking of a friend,” I said. “Someone in New York.”

  A gleam came into Alex’s eyes: “A special friend?”

  “Shut up,” I said. “You sound like a preschool teacher.”

  “Now that—”

  Her phone rang, interrupting whatever she’d been about to say.

  “It’s probably the sushi guy,” she said, standing up.

  “Hello?” Her voice ratcheted up in warmth about thirty degrees. “Hey, you! I was going to call you later today.”

  She reached up and absently released her hair from her ponytail, letting it cascade around her shoulders as she wove her fingers through it.

  “Tonight?”

  I picked up the magazine again and flipped through it. For a few minutes, Alex and I had been having an actual conversation. But when we finished analyzing our parents, would we have anything else to talk about? Did we have anything in common but our gene pool?

  “I’d love to,” Alex was saying. “Gary’s in New York, but I can meet you after I film my show . . .”

  I tuned out the rest of her conversation as I began reading an article about a personal organizer who’d transformed a woman’s paper clutter. Yup, yup, that was one of my favorite tricks—open mail directly over the trash can so you can toss the junk before it has a chance to accumulate on a kitchen counter. Oh, but I didn’t know this tip about keeping appliance receipts stapled to the insides of the instruction books so they’d be handy if you ever needed a refund.

  “Sorry,” Alex said, hanging up the phone. “That was Bradley. I should’ve asked if he wanted to say hi to you, but I didn’t think of it.”

  Something that felt like an electric current charged through me.

  “That was Bradley calling?” I asked. My voice sounded rusty. I cleared my throat and pretended to cough.

  “Uh-huh,” Alex said, looking at herself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror.

  From my vantage point on the ottoman, I was trapped between her and her reflection. Everywhere I looked, all I could see were masses of red-gold hair and white silk. Alex was in front of me and behind me and even smiling up at me from the magazine in my hands. I couldn’t escape her blinding, overpowering beauty.

  “What did he want?” I asked.

  “We’re going to grab a drink tonight so he can show me the proofs from the engagement party,” she said. She slipped out of her dress again and tossed it on the ottoman next to me.

  Why had Bradley called Alex and not me?

  “Gary’s not coming?” I asked. God, were Alex’s thighs ever sculpted. I could see the slim cords of muscle running down the middles of them.

  “Doesn’t Gary want to see the proofs, too?” I asked.

  “I don’t think he cares which ones I pick,” she said, dotting a peachy lipstick on her full lips. “It’s more of a girl thing.”

  An Alex thing, you mean, I thought bitterly. What could be better than to spend a night looking at pictures of yourself with the guy I liked, the guy who might like me again, too, if only my sister would stay the hell out of the way? Maybe Alex didn’t know how I felt about Bradley, but it didn’t matter. He was mine. Why couldn’t she leave him alone?

  I leapt up and grabbed my purse. But it was the wrong purse; Alex had a dozen littering the floor. I groped blindly around until I finally found mine.

  “Just remembered an appointment,” I said tightly. “I’ve got to go.”

  “What about lunch?” Alex asked, turning away from her reflection.

  I didn’t answer. I was already halfway down the stairs and running for the door.

  Twelve

  I HAD TO GET away from Alex before I did something crazy, like scream at her for seeing Bradley tonight. Then she’d know exactly how I felt about him; Alex has always been good at reading people. I didn’t want her to know. I didn’t want anyone to know until I figured out how Bradley felt about me. Was I just a friend to him? Or could he fall in love with me all over again, given a chance? Or did he secretly have a crush on Alex now, in which case I’d never have a future with him because I’d always feel like his consolation prize?

  I tore down the street, trying to put as much space between me and Alex as possible. Why did being around my sister always do this to me? I was twenty-nine years old, but I felt like I was back in high school again. Alex was on the cover of our city’s magazine; she’d be on television tonight, and then she was going out with the guy I liked. She had everything. She’d always had everything.

  Hot tears blinded my eyes as I took a step into the street. A horn blared, and I jumped back onto the curb as a bus roared by. I’d only walked two blocks, but it had taken me from a residential street to the corner of M Street and Wisconsin Avenue. I blinked, and a big corner building came into focus. It was Georgetown Park.

  I looked down at my plain suit and low-heeled shoes, then I looked back up at the mall.

  Suddenly an urge overpowered me. I needed pretty underwear. I craved bright lipstick. I desperately wanted to shed my prim charcoal suit and slip into a new outfit, one that made me feel pretty and sexy and young. One that would let me escape myself and the awful feelings that were bombarding me.

  I ran down the escalator leading from the street into the mall. I hurried down the corridor, scanning the names of the stores I passed. Then I saw it: Victoria’s Secret.

  “We’re having a sale on cotton panties,” a saleswoman with a silver nose ring told me as I burst inside like someone was chasing me. “Two for one.”

  “I need something sexy,” I told her.

  “Are you going on a honeymoon?” the saleswoman asked. I could see her leopard-skin bra strap peeking out from underneath her white tank top. “Because we just got in a gorgeous nightie and matching robe.”

  A robe? Even the Victoria’s Secret saleswoman thought I was prim. She and the other saleswoman, who was lounging against the counter painting her nails dark purple, would probably laugh at me when I was gone.

  “At least we unloaded those granny panties on her,” Purple Nails would say. “I thought we’d never get rid of them.”

  I narrowed my eyes.

  “What I really need is a garter belt,” I said grimly. “My old one’s all torn up.”

  She blinked, then walked over to a display and handed me a garter belt. Black lace, no less.

  Twenty minutes later, loaded down with pink bags filled with gel push-up bras, delicate lace thongs, and a red silk teddy, I strode into the next shop over. I walked out a few minutes later wearing tight dark denim jeans, a nude lace camisole, and a dusty pink cropped suede jacket.

  This was a start, but I needed more! There was an ache inside of me, a void I felt desperate to fill. I darted into shop after shop like an addict in search of a fix, my eyes ricocheting in all directions. What did I want? A soft leather hobo purse? Bronzing gel? A silky halter top in a shade of eggplant so deep it was almost black?

  I twirled around, looking at the tantalizing options displayed on mannequins. The new spring line must’ve just come in: There were little shrug sweaters and tight T-shirts in sherbet colors. Stra
ppy black heels that crisscrossed their way up the leg. Chunky silver hoop earrings and turquoise cuff bracelets. Off-the-shoulder dresses, flirty little skirts that skimmed the midthigh, gauzy bohemian tops with tulip sleeves. Suddenly I wanted it all: all the makeup I’d never worn, all the cute, sexy clothes I’d turned my sensible nose up at, knowing they would be out of style next season but my well-made classics would last me forever.

  I collected an armful of clothes and hurried into a dressing room. I came out with two of the fitted little T-shirts in lime and cherry; a black silk turtleneck with a scoop taken out of the back so the curve of my spine was revealed; an incredibly flattering bustier trimmed in black lace; a fire engine red dress with a deep V-neck, and an off-the-shoulder cream-colored one, too. I looked around, breathing hard. Now I needed some funky earrings, and a new perfume, too. I wasn’t done yet; not by a long shot.

  The woman behind the MAC counter was staring at me.

  “Come here,” she said, motioning me over. “We’re doing free makeovers today. I’m dying to get my hands on you.”

  Normally free makeovers scare me. I’ve seen too many women get up from them looking twenty years older, with thick eyeliner and clown circles on their cheeks. But the MAC woman was young and hip, with a streak of pink in her black hair and a tattoo of a star on her right shoulder. She looked like she understood the concept of blending.

  “What the hell,” I said. I laid my clothes on the counter and sat down on a stool.

  “You’ve got strong eyes and lips,” she said, smoothing something cool and creamy over my face and wiping it off with a cotton pad. “I’d definitely recommend deep colors for you.”

  “Nothing powder blue or green,” I pleaded.

  “Relax,” she ordered. “Do I look like I’m going to turn you into a Stepford wife?”

  I kept my eyes closed while tiny brushes tickled my eyelids and danced across my cheeks and a gentle pencil traced the outline of my lips.

  “Where’s my plum eye shadow?” she murmured, and my eyes shot open in alarm.

  “Keep them closed,” she ordered, wielding an evil-looking silver device that I recognized as an eyelash curler—Alex always had them lying around the bathroom.

  Alex.

  “Stop frowning,” the MAC woman ordered me, and I made myself stop thinking about anything at all.

  I felt her dot something under my eyes, then draw lines against my upper eyelashes.

  “A little gold shimmer would be gorgeous with your olive complexion,” she murmured at one point, her fingers moving lightly over my face. “I’m going to dust a touch across your collarbone, too.”

  A moment later she said, “Do you mind if I do something about those bangs?”

  “Be my guest,” I said grandly, and she squirted something on them and went to work. I felt her unpin my hair and let it fall around my shoulders, then she began twirling sections of it in her fingers and squirting it with something that smelled deliciously like grapefruit.

  Fifteen minutes later I opened my eyes and stared into the mirror. A stranger stared back at me. My eyes seemed bigger, my skin glowed like I’d spent the afternoon on the beach, and my bangs were swept to one side, somehow calling attention to my cheekbones. And my lips . . . oh, my lips!

  “You made them bigger,” I said, lifting a hand to touch them.

  “The trick is to put a dot of concealer just above the bow in your upper lip,” she said. “Yours are pretty full, but it fools the eye into thinking your lips are even bigger.”

  “I’ll take it all,” I told her. I pulled out my credit card.

  “Good,” she said. “What I’m going to do is make you a chart explaining exactly how to put everything on so you can do it yourself next time. You need some good brushes, too. Makeup is really all about the brushes. And do us both a favor and let your bangs grow an inch or two longer.”

  I grabbed the bags and chart she handed me and headed toward the escalator, pausing at every mirror I passed to gape at myself. Shoes. Now I needed shoes. I headed up one level and immediately spotted a pair of caramel-colored leather boots with tiny silver buckles crisscrossing the fronts. The leather was so supple the boots felt like they were practically melting in my hands. I had to have them; it was a physical craving so strong I was helpless in its grasp.

  “Do you know the secret of these boots?” a saleswoman sidled over and whispered. “One of the heels is just the tiniest bit shorter than the other.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Put them on and walk across the room and you’ll see,” she instructed, hurrying into the stockroom to bring me back my size.

  It was unbelievable. I didn’t just have new boots. I had a whole new walk. My hips jutted out like a runway model’s, and my rear end swayed ever so slightly from side to side. A guy riding the escalator turned to stare at me and tripped at the end when he forgot to step off.

  “They’re worth every penny,” I told the saleswoman.

  It wasn’t just the lipstick and the boots that were different. I was different, I suddenly realized. My shoulders weren’t anxiously hunched forward anymore. My eyes weren’t downcast. I was oozing something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Something completely unfamiliar. Something powerful and wonderful and intoxicating.

  “Can you give me a pair of those black heels, too? The ones that crisscross up the calves?” I asked, handing the saleswoman my credit card.

  “Sure. Size eight, right? You know, Marilyn Monroe used to shave a bit off one of her heels, too,” the saleswoman confided, ringing me up. “Your boyfriend’s going to love them.”

  “Boyfriend?” I said, winking. “Don’t you mean boyfriends?”

  “You go, girl!” she said, putting my sensible black pumps and my new strappy sandals into a bag and handing them to me.

  I slicked on another layer of my new lipstick and swayed all the way out onto the street. Later I’d assess the damage to my credit card and come to terms with what I’d just done. Later I’d panic and wonder if I should return everything or just shove it into the back of my closet and pretend like this never happened. But right now, all I wanted to do was revel in this absolutely exhilarating feeling.

  The outside air was crisp and cool in my face. I lifted up my hand to hail a cab, then let it drop to my side, feeling my euphoria fade. I couldn’t sit at home alone while Alex and Bradley had drinks. I knew I’d go crazy, imagining Bradley staring at Alex’s photos and telling her how gorgeous she looked while their thighs inched closer together. I felt the dangerous embers of my jealousy heating up again.

  Alex and Bradley were going out to a bar? Fine, then I’d go to one, too. I’d have a glass of wine and revel in my new look and recapture some of the joy I’d felt when Ms. Givens had asked me back for another interview. I wouldn’t let Alex take that away from me, too.

  I started walking downhill, toward the Potomac River. There was a seafood restaurant called Tony & Joe’s on the water, just about three blocks away. I strode down the sidewalk, and a couple of guys walking toward me stood back to let me pass. Funny, I was usually the one who stepped aside to let others pass. I’d never noticed it before. I was walking differently, taking up more space and not feeling apologetic about it. My arms swung my packages back and forth, and my strides were longer. A passing motorist whistled at me, and I turned to smile at him instead of ducking my head.

  A drink was definitely what I needed. Maybe I’d treat myself to a nice dinner, too.

  I was passing through the outdoor parking lot for the seafood restaurant when I heard the voices. A man’s low, angry voice and a woman’s high, pleading one. Probably just someone squabbling with her boyfriend, I thought, but instinct made me stop walking.

  A pickup truck was blocking my view, so I stepped around it and the couple came into view. The man was fortyish, short and skinny, and he wore a suit and tie. I couldn’t see his eyes because mirrored sunglasses covered them, even though it was dusk.

  “Will you please move
and let me get into my car?” the woman was saying. “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.”

  “You’re such a bitch,” the man shouted. “You can’t talk to me? Why the fuck can’t you talk to me?”

  The guy’s fury was clear; he was losing control. Should I call 911, or would that be overreacting? I wondered. He was moving closer to her, and she was backing up, and the expression on his face was one of rage. Neither of them had seen me. Should I yell for help? I glanced around wildly: The only person I could see was a man walking his dog along the water, but he was a hundred yards away. He might not hear me.

  Before I could do anything, a sound exploded. Had the man thrown the woman against her car? Without thinking, I dropped my bags and ran toward them.

  “Hey!” I yelled. “Get away from her!”

  The man was rubbing his knuckles, and the woman was leaning back against the car. When he saw me, he didn’t say a word. He just walked away, like he was out for a Sunday afternoon stroll.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, running over to the woman.

  “I think so,” she said. But then her legs gave way and she slid down against the car to the ground. She looked like she was in shock; her face was so pale I was worried she might faint. Her blue eyes were wide and scared.

  “Did he hit you?” I asked. I leaned over and scanned her face but couldn’t see any marks. “Should I call an ambulance?”

  “He hit my car,” she said, pointing to a dent in the driver’s side door. She blew out her breath in a big whoosh, and I sighed in relief, too.

  “But he might’ve hit me if you hadn’t come along,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “I’m just glad I was here,” I said. “Do you want me to call the police?”

  She shook her head. “That prince of a guy was my ex-husband,” she said.

  “Wow,” I said. I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “Can you guess why I divorced him?” She laughed the kind of laugh that had no humor in it, then shook her head. “I’m such an idiot. I don’t know why I agreed to meet him tonight. We had some papers to sign and I should’ve just left them at his lawyer’s office, but I kept thinking about how we were married for seven years. I guess I wanted to honor it or something. I thought we could shake hands and wish each other well. I mean, he wasn’t anything like that when I first married him—”