At some point during supper and while the other guests were engaged in conversation, Paige's mom whispered, "You've already made your point. Why don't you cover that?"
"You've been very clear only proper attire belongs at the dinner table."
Emily Erlington always insisted on her daughter dressing as she used to, so she did. And the old Paige had never covered her throat.
Her mother pursed her lips but didn't comment. "Dear, I wish you'd call that plastic surgeon the doctors recommended. Reconstructive surgery would be a way to get over it. It's time to get over it."
Maybe. If she wanted to get over it. But she didn't. The scar was a damn good reminder of what happened when you didn't stick to your guns and tried to please everyone. Study what was expected. Date whom they wanted. Been there, done that. Almost didn't live to tell the tale.
"It is a scar."
Emily ignored her jab but lowered her voice considerably. "You should be finishing your studies and interning with your dad. Instead, you're dressing like it's Halloween every day and waitressing and selling candies part-time."
"I'm a waitress and a bartender. And a damn good one. Besides, I told you I was taking some time off to find myself," Paige countered, matching her mother's hushed tones. And as far as dressing for Halloween went, well, the whole Goth look had always attracted her, but pre-attack Paige wouldn't have even dared to think about giving it a go. Staring death in the eye had changed her overall perspective on what she dared or not.
Her mom snorted softly. "No wonder you can't find yourself. Being able to look in the mirror and recognize yourself would be a huge step in that direction."
"Maybe I don't want to find that me."
"Which 'you' do you want to find?"
"I don't know yet. I'm working on it."
"Really, Paige, I don't understand you." Paige averted her gaze. She knew her mother didn't understand her. Sadly, she couldn't help her, because most days she didn't understand herself. One thing she was certain of, though: she was done going with the flow.
She'd sensed from the very beginning there was something off about Marc Boone, but everyone had gone on and on about what a fantastic guy he was, so she'd disregarded her own instincts. He appeared fantastic, yes. Rich, well-connected, charming. Highly educated. Too bad the guy was a frigging psychopath.
"I need time," she said to her mother. Only a couple of years had passed. She still had nightmares. Not often, but she woke up sometimes trying to hold in the blood pouring from her throat. Gurgling and gasping for air. Choking, the taste of iron still in her mouth.
Not having gotten any justice added insult to injury. Marc was wherever he was now-probably under an assumed name in Europe, skiing in the Alps, or bathing under the Mediterranean sun, free as a bird. She was the one confined, having nightmares and taking antianxiety meds, never traveling abroad. She'd been assured Marc couldn't enter the United States without being arrested and that she would be notified, but it didn't put her at ease.
"This didn't happen just to you. It happened to all of us," her mom interjected.
True. For a while after the attack, the Erlingtons had stripped their household of knives because of their daughter's freak-outs. Even now they were uncomfortable serving steak. Thank God for Asian cuisine being so much in fashion. It had been the Erlingtons' saving grace.
"Last time I checked, hurt pride was not the same as a cut throat, Mom."
Before her mother composed herself and turned her attention back to the others at the table, who were immersed in an animated conversation, Paige saw the pain in her eyes, and she regretted her words right away. Paige loved her mother, and she knew her mother loved her. Things were just so damn complicated.
* * * *
Back at the guesthouse after a dinner that seemed to last for hours, Paige went straight to the bathroom, reinserted all the piercings in her face, and fastened the choke collar. No matter how many clothes she wore, she felt naked without it. Exposed. Vulnerable.
She stared at her image. Jesus, look at her. Wearing pearls and a choke collar. Maybe her mom was right. How in God's name was she going to find herself when she couldn't recognize what the mirror showed her? She had no clue who she was anymore. Not a frigging clue.
"You don't have to do that." Nico was leaning casually on the doorjamb, his arms crossed, his stare scrutinizing. "Cover the scar, I mean. It doesn't bother me."
"But it bothers me."
"If so, why did you have your throat exposed at your parents'?"
She turned to him. "Because it bothers them more than it bothers me." Since the attack, she seemed to get her rocks off antagonizing her parents. Talk about juvenile regression.