on so I had to blindly bump my way up the outside staircase behind the Cut and Curl in the dark. When I flipped the light on, the first thing I felt was absolute, total relief that I hadn’t let Alex come up.
My apartment gave the term “shabby chic” a whole new meaning. I have a weakness for tag sales and it shows. I’ve convinced myself that one day I’m going to convince Lester Lee to sell me the little place he owns a few miles out of town. I will then take up my hobby of choice and refinish furniture in my spare time, which is why, over the past ten years, I’ve collected a staggering number of old wooden chairs, interesting side tables and an antique buffet that stretches the width of my living room. And happens to be covered with my collection of snow globes—another weakness. I tried to see my apartment through Alex’s eyes and what I saw was an odd assortment of furnishings that wouldn’t make sense to anyone but me. And then I caught sight of my reflection in the antique mirror. It wasn’t even centered on the wall—I’d hung it on the only nail large enough to support it while it waited patiently for its true home. The one with the picket fence.
Then I tried to see me through Alex’s eyes. I leaned closer to the glass and peered at the lines fanning out from my eyes. Anchoring two fingers on each side of my cheekbones and my thumbs against my chin, I pulled back on the skin that had loosened over the years, like I was retucking a fitted sheet that was beginning to lose its shape. It didn’t help. Now I looked like I had at the age of six, when my mother braided my hair too tight. I let go and gravity prevailed once again. For a few seconds I wished I was aging as beautifully as Elise. But then, Elise had started out beautiful, so maybe that was the secret.
And though my parents had done their best to shake me off our branch of the family tree, there was no denying that I was their child. A mixed-up concoction of Strums and Corbins that ended up with me looking like the final product of a potluck casserole. My insecurities saw an opportunity and came rushing back but at the moment I was too tired to fight them off. I collapsed onto the sofa and felt something crinkle underneath me. One of my three-by-five cards.
I love you, O Lord, my strength.
The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer;
My God is my rock in whom I take refuge.
My strength. My fortress. I wasn’t in this alone. The thought bloomed inside of me. Esther was right. He was the one I needed to run to. And Alex was wrong. He thought I was backed into a corner, but actually I’d taken refuge in the one who’d created me. Ha.
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