I know beneath the dress, it's worse. I’ve got flab in all the wrong places and stretch marks galore from losing weight way too fast. They’re going to be defined and thicker once it comes back, I know that.
I hate how I’m so uncomfortable in my own skin. I hate how I now have to look at myself and be reminded of it all. I hate the way my wrists are bony and my veins so incredibly blue, nearly protruding out of my arms.
My hair is back, though. My beautiful black hair that I have always loved so much. It’s exactly the same as my mother and older sister’s. A family trademark of us women. Even my two nieces have it. I hope one day, any daughters I have will also have it. It's sleek, full of life, and just hanging below my shoulders. It’s been growing again. The drugs made me lose my hair, one of the worst parts about using. I love my hair. Right now, it’s just simply brushed and loose. Marcy insisted that it stays that way, that it accentuates my dress. It does look pretty; I have to admit that.
Smoothing out my dress again, a nervous tick at this point, I guess, I turn and pull open the bathroom door. My makeup is applied, simple eyeliner and mascara. Nothing heavy to make me look like a clown. It’s enough to give some color to the otherwise pale complexion of my face.
“You’re really going through with this thing?” Devon asks, his voice tight.
I look up to see him and Owen staring at me. They’re sitting on the couch, absent of girls for once. Marcy claps excitedly from the kitchen, bouncing on her heels when I look at her, and she grins.
“You look so pretty, Gracie,” she gushes and bounces to me, her dark curls jiggling around her head, and she takes my hands in hers, squeezing tightly. “This guy is going to be so lucky to go out with you.”
“Yeah, he is,” Owen croaks, drawing our attention to him.
He’s staring at me with glassy eyes, a side effect of a hangover. “You do look really pretty, Gracie.”
Devon nods in agreement. I want to respond, to sweep over to them and take both their lips on mine in gratitude for their compliments. But I know better. So, I stay back and turn away as I feel the blush creep along my cheeks.
“Thank you,” I finally reply and fidget with my dress, suddenly feeling a little too overdressed.
I look down and see the plumpness of my cleavage. It's deliberately being pushed up by the push-up bra Marcy insisted I wear. I can feel the guys’ eyes on me, lingering for a moment, and can’t help but wonder if they’re looking at my breasts. I want them to look, to remember what they’re missing.Shut up. This is your fault.Yes, yes, it’s my fault they can’t touch me. I have to remember that. I have to remind myself that it isn’t their fault. I can’t blame them for my stupid actions.
The dinging of an alarm pulls me out of my thoughts and to Marcy as she picks up her phone and turns it off, looking at me pointedly. “I’ll go get our purses and be right back. We have to go.”
I watch as she hurries back to my bedroom, leaving me alone with Devon and Owen. When I look at them again, they’re still watching me. Owen lays his cheek on the back of the couch, blinking rapidly and yawning. Behind him, I can see a glass of water and a bottle of pills on the coffee table.
“What?” I ask, suddenly very self-conscious of myself all over again.
“You have scars,” Owen mumbles, his eyes trailing down my arms.
I wrap my arms around my chest, trying but feeling like I’m failing at hiding the scars. Even if they aren’t completely visible, I still feel like they are right there for anyone who looks at me to see. I feel so exposed without something covering my arms. They’re going to be reminders for the rest of my life; I know that.
“You do look pretty,” Owen grumbles and turns his head from me, back to the almost mute television, reaching out to pick up the remote.
Devon is staring at me with his eyebrows furrowed and an expression I can’t quite place. I want to think he’s admiring me, but I feel it too selfish to allow myself to think such a thing. He doesn’t say anything as he pulls up from the couch and rounds it, slowing his walk as he gets to the side of the couch.
“You aren’t seriously going on this date, are you?” he asks for what feels like the hundredth time.
He’s so hung up on that question. What’s his deal? I grit my teeth, holding my head high. “Of course, I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because you’re supposed to be focusing on your sobriety.”
There it was again. I narrowed my eyes at him. “I am focusing on my sobriety, Devon. But I’m allowed to have fun, allowed to do things too. I can’t just expect to be better if all I do is sit around all day long.”
His jaw ticks. “You can’t go on this date. You need to focus on your sobriety, especially for the first year alone. Those are the rules—”
“No,” I huff. “I can still be a damn human being, Devon. I can focus on my sobriety and have a life at the same time.”
“Not if it’s going to jeopardize your sobriety, Gracie!” he says loudly, startling me.
Devon doesn’t lose his cool very often. Always levelheaded, even after his mother passed. So, this is a complete surprise to me. He’s been acting weird the past few days since finding out I have a date. I want to so badly believe he’s jealous, but I’m hesitant to do so. I know better than to allow myself to just straight up believe that. He isn’t supposed to be jealous; he’s got a girlfriend, after all. I’m not his girlfriend, and I haven’t been in a long time. It’s my fault. Which is why it’s hard to believe that he’s jealous. Because I did it to myself, he had no obligation to wait for me.
“Here we are,” Marcy announces as she departs my room, our purses dangling from her hands.
I eye the purses. She’s picked out a black purse for me and said it goes with my hair and is a perfect contrast against my dress. Easier to keep track of. It's sleek, small, and will hang at my side. I can’t remember the last time I carried a purse simply to have my belongings with me. I watched Marcy pack it. A little pouch to hold dollar bills and coins. Then, there’s my wallet, a couple of pens for whatever reason, my keys, and a tiny little notebook. I don’t know why I have the pens and notebook in there, but Marcy urged that it was important. She even told me she’d add some makeup items, which I assume she’s already done, but I don’t know for sure. I take the purse and sling it over my shoulder anyway.
When I carried a purse with me in the past, it used to be filled with some essentials I thought girls carried; little baggies of white powder and needles, little bottles of booze at the bottom. I think a few times I had a pipe here and there. The light weight of my purse now is different. In a good way, though. The upside is that I can go around both Owen and my father without having to grip my purse to my side the entire time worried that one would justknow.That’s the downside of having a cop father and a cop ex-boyfriend. Always on alert when you have the illegals in your possession.