Carried Away

“I haven’t been with a woman in three years,” he quietly confesses, the rasp like sandpaper on the flushed skin of my cheeks. And although his face is eerily blank, the energy coming from him is unmistakable––he hates me. And he has every right to hate me. I am so ashamed I am absolutely certain I will never wash the guilt off. “…and even on your best day, you don’t tempt me”––his sapphire eyes rake up and down my body––“not even a little.”

Then he walks past me while I stay rooted to the linoleum floor. Just me, my everlasting shame, and a box of Honey Nut Cheerios.

If elementary school was hard for me, high school was exponentially worse. Memories of it are likely to trigger a panic attack so I seldom do it and never voluntarily.

The five year age gap between Jackie and me was huge when we were growing up. And even though she and I were never in high school together, I was constantly reminded that my drop dead gorgeous sister was at the top of the food chain, while I was more of a bottom feeder.

Having a sister that was both popular and class valedictorian meant it was a sure bet I would never measure up. Had that been the end of it, I would’ve probably survived high school largely unscathed. Unfortunately, that wasn’t all that was wrong with me.

I was a skinny hot mess. A late bloomer. One of those people that had to have braces way past the acceptable age. Mine came off the end of my sophomore year. Even worse, I was cursed with a bad case of cystic acne. What little self-esteem I did have, the acne pounded it into dust.

People who say you shouldn’t place importance on appearance are either willfully insensitive, or have never been the object of ridicule. It is like dying by a thousand cuts. Each and every day it killed a little more of anything good growing inside of me until I hated myself. Until I couldn’t stand to look in a mirror without wanting to break it. Self-loathing is an affliction that leads down a dangerous road.

Teenagers can be brutally honest and unknowingly cruel. By the time I graduated high school, the people in my grade probably couldn’t tell you my first name. But if you asked them who Pizza Face was they could point to me immediately. Consequently, I spent all my free time daydreaming about getting out of this god forsaken town and reinventing myself.

Everything changed my freshman year at Arizona State. My roommate took one look at my face and said, “I can help you fix that.”

That’s all it took for my entire world to change. Turns out, she’d had a bout of acne too, and her mother had spent thousands on some fancy holistic doctor.

I stopped eating all processed food, dairy, tomatoes, and whole bunch of other foods that cause inflammation. It was really hard, and it didn’t happen quickly, but by the end of the year my skin was completely clear with only an occasional light breakout. By then, however, the damage had already been done.

Point is, I, better than anyone, know what dunking on someone does to their psyche, their self-worth. Whether he heard me or not, I shouldn’t have been talking badly about him to anyone. Was he equally mean to me? Yes. And that still doesn’t excuse my behavior.

It’s a testament to how many times I’ve been told I was unattractive, or made to feel that way, that his insult failed to leave a mark. Besides, it’s not like I would ever expect someone like Turner to be attracted to someone like me. I’m cute now. At least, I think so. But despite his terrible personality, straight Turner is way, way out of my league. And I’m perfectly okay with that.

So after two sleepless nights and a lot of soul searching, I’m determined to grow some hair on my chest and apologize. To that end, I set my alarm for the ungodly hour of 4:30 a.m. That’s generally the time Turner returns from his morning run around the lake, and I plan to ambush him with kindness.

On cue, a tall dark figure approaches on the path. He’s wearing a black wool cap and some sort of technical running pants and jacket. A sporty Grim Reaper, if you will. Against the backdrop of a pink stained dawn, he seems even more hostile. And sexy if I’m being completely honest. My heart skips a beat.

“Showtime.”

He slows to a walk and starts measuring his heart rate. That’s my cue to jump out of the back of the Austen holding a bag of fresh muffins Nan made the night before.

“Hi Turner!”

Startled by my sudden appearance, his face whips around. Seeing me, he frowns. Not an encouraging start, but I persevere.