Just like the women in the book, there’s always been a lot “off” about me, so much to change, to suppress, to hide—to mask. It was painstaking, often exhausting, work, but my efforts were rewarded with my family’s approval and the acquisition of friends and a boyfriend. By changing myself, I earned a sense of belonging.
But maybe I belonged all along. Just with a different group of people.
I did all that work. I experienced all that confusion and pain. And maybe I didn’t need to. Maybe with the proper insight, I could have been accepted the way I was.
When I’m done reading pertinent sections of the book and everything in the manila folder, it’s the golden hour. This used to be my favorite time of day to play the violin because it feels like there’s magic in the air. Logically, I know it’s not magic, it’s light falling at an angle as the sun descends toward the horizon, but it adds something indefinable to the gravity of now.
I walk home in a sort of trance. It’s not until passing pedestrians give me double takes and odd looks that I realize I’m crying.
I don’t try to stop.
I let the tears fall.
I cry for the girl I used to be.
I cry for me.
It’s a foreign experience. Self-pity is not an indulgence that I allow myself. This doesn’t feel like pity, though. It feels like self-compassion, and the realization makes me cry harder.
No one should need a diagnosis in order to be compassionate to themself.
But I did. Tough love doesn’t allow room for weakness, and tough love is all I’ve known. Maybe for now, just this once, I can experiment with a different kind of love. Something kinder.
I cry until my muscles ache, and then I cry more, like I’m letting out tears for a future sadness. People watch, and they whisper among themselves. A little girl points at me and asks her mommy what’s wrong with me, and the woman picks her child up and hurries away.
I see, and for the first time in my adult life, I don’t care that I’m making a scene. I haven’t hurt anyone. I shouldn’t be ashamed. I shouldn’t need to apologize.
This is me.
THIRTEEN
Quan
When I hang up from the call with LVMH Acquisitions, I sit back in my chair and stare at Michael, who’s seated across my desk from me. Neither of us speaks for a full minute. The stunned expression on his face says it all. I’m pretty sure I look the same.
“Did that just happen?” he asks, breaking the silence.
I open up my email program on my laptop, and when I see what I was looking for, I turn it around so the screen faces Michael. “I think it did. Look, her lawyers are already contacting our lawyers to move acquisition talks forward. Prepare to be cc’d on everything.”
“There’s a real chance we’re going to be a household name?” he asks.
An amazed kind of laugh breaks out of me. “I guess so? We might hate their offer and conditions, though. They could also change their minds for no reason. These things go nowhere all the time.”
He nods, but he also sags into his chair and rubs his face like he can’t quite believe this is real life. After a moment, he blinks and declares, “We need to celebrate.”
I grin. “I’m down with that.”
“Tomorrow night,” he adds.
“I have something then,” I say, but before he can suggest another time, I continue, “but I’ll reschedule. I want to reschedule, actually.”
He gives me a curious look. “It’s something . . . with her?”
“Yeah.” I keep my tone casual as I straighten up my desk, gathering financial printouts into a neat pile. “Things didn’t go too perfectly last time, so we decided to try hooking up one more time.”
Michael props an elbow on his chair’s armrest and rests his chin on his fist as he looks at me. “What do you mean by ‘not too perfectly’?”
“I didn’t sleep with her. We did some stuff, and it was really good. But we both have issues, and we’re working on it,” I say lightly, like I haven’t been thinking about her all week and jerking off to fantasies of her every chance I get.