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The next few days were very similar to the first after my hospital stay. No matter what I did, the anger I felt still simmered just beneath the surface, and I couldn’t help but let it out in any way possible. I snapped at a telemarketer, I screamed at Sherman over stupid things, I even refused to tip the grocery delivery boy because he was five minutes later than expected. The rage just ate at me, and I felt like there was nothing I could do to stop it.

When Olivia showed up on my doorstep, I didn’t know what to think. I’d had a few rather nasty conversations with her that really shouldn’t have happened, so she knew something was up, but I refused to tell her anything. Seeing her, especially when she so rarely made house calls to her clients, was shocking to say the least. And it wasn’t at all welcome.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I almost snapped when she strode into my flat in a cloud of cigarette smoke and some ridiculously expensive perfume that made me want to gag. I knew it would take all day to get rid of that horrendous smell.

“You’re being a bitch, and I want to know why,” she said, standing in the middle of my living room with her arms crossed over her chest.

“And this isn’t something you could have asked me over the phone?” I said, closing the door and going into the kitchen. I randomly started opening and closing the cupboards, just to make it sound like I was busy, rather than just avoiding her.

“Why, so you can hang up on me?”

Okay, she had me there. I probably would have hung up on her if she’d pressed me about my foul mood lately. But whatever, she still didn’t have any right to barge into my home like this.

“You know, just because I invited you here once, and only because I thought I was dying, mind you, that doesn’t give you the right to just show up on my doorstep any time you feel like it,” I said, finally pulling two mugs out of the cupboard and starting the kettle.

“Suck it up,” she said, and I could picture her rolling her eyes. “My schedule is packed today, so the last thing I need right now is to be dealing with your horseshit, so let’s cut to the chase. Tell me what the fuck crawled up your ass, and we’ll be done with it.” I heard the couch rustle as she sat down.

I sighed and went back into the living room. I still didn’t feel perfectly well, and I still got tired very, very easily, so this was an awful time for her to expect me to talk to her like we were friends. I knew I was just exhausted enough that, if she pushed me too hard, I’d break down and tell her everything, which would be, quite possibly, the stupidest thing I could do. I folded my arms over my chest as I pondered what I could tell her that would get her the hell out of my living room.

“I’m waiting,” she said after a few seconds of silence.

“Olivia, I’m sick,” I said, for lack of anything better. “You’d be in a shitty mood, too, if you still felt like you’d been dragged through a knot-hole backwards. I think I’m entitled to be grumpy for a bit longer.”

Her expression told me she didn’t buy it. One perfectly plucked eyebrow slid up ever-so-slightly.

“This is going to be a very long afternoon, isn’t it?” she sighed, crossing one leg over the other, her skirt riding up to reveal her perfectly shaped knees and calves. I looked away, hating the confidence she had in herself.

“It doesn’t have to be,” I said, still focusing on one of Sherman’s cat toys that lay abandoned on the carpet at my feet. I made a mental note not to trip on the damned thing.

“Then you’d better start telling me the truth,” she pressed, but there was only a self-sacrificing patience in her voice. “First you’re almost in tears when I pick you up at the hospital, and then you turn into a stark raving lunatic for no apparent reason. What the hell happened to you?”

I didn’t say anything for a minute or two, concentrating instead on the sound of the kettle heating up from behind me. I’d thought I’d hidden my hurt quite well when she’d picked me up from the hospital after what had happened with Orlando, but I guess I was wrong. Either that, or she was just more perceptive than I’d given her credit for.

“Peyton, seriously,” she started, getting up off the couch and taking a few steps toward me. “No bullshit, okay? I know something’s going on with you, and if you don’t talk about it, it’s only going to get worse. I mean, you’re not exactly the most pleasant person to begin with, but if I have to put up with any more of this crap from you, you may as well start looking for another agent.”

My head snapped up at that. I knew I was a bitch, I never pretended otherwise, but I’d never considered that she might quit on me. The idea gave me pause, and I had to really think about what I said next, in case it was the wrong thing.

“I’m sorry, Olivia,” I said finally, seeing no hope for it. I was just going to have to kiss her ass for the time being. “I just really hate being sick, and you know how much I hate leaving here, especially when I have to be somewhere where people have to dress me and bathe me. It’s humiliating, to say the least.”

“That’s understandable,” she said slowly, moving back to the couch and sitting down again. “But Peyton, you were really upset when I picked you up. I’ve never seen you like that, like you were hurt or something. All I want to know is what could possibly have happened in that hospital to make you like that? Did a nurse insult you? Did someone make fun of your weight or your scars? What the hell happened?”

She seemed genuinely concerned now, like she actually gave a damn what happened to me. I went into the kitchen to take the kettle off the stove as it began to boil, then fixed us both some tea before going back into the living room and sitting down in my chair.

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?” I said once I was sitting down.

She shook her head.

“All right, long story short,” I began, figuring I may as well tell her some of it, anyway, even if I kept certain details to myself. “I dropped my bag in front of a really attractive guy, he picked it up, got grossed out at my scars, and practically ran away from me.” I took a deep breath as the memory stung me for the millionth time. “Are you happy now?” I couldn’t meet her eyes.

“That’s what this is about?” She looked almost incredulous. “I mean, I knew you were sensitive, but Jesus, Peyton.”

“Now do you see why I prefer not to have to leave here?” I said, twisting my mug in my hands. “Men suck. No, wait, fuck that, the whole world sucks. Every time I set foot outside that door, I open myself to that kind of reaction, to that kind of hurt. I can’t do that, I can’t handle it.”

“But you shouldn’t be hanging on to that one little incident this long,” she said, setting her mug on the coffee table, as yet untouched. “Does it really matter what one random asshole does? In the grand scheme of things, how will that one moment affect the rest of your life?”

She had no idea. That one moment broke my heart and made me even more ashamed of what I am, of what I look like. In the grand scheme of things, I’d say that’s pretty fucking huge. But, of course, she didn’t know the details.

“I know it’s stupid,” I said, putting down my own mug and clasping my hands together in front of me, still unable to meet her eyes. “But you have no idea how much it sucks to know that such a reaction is even possible. That’s more what I’m dwelling on.”

“So get over it,” she said, back to her old blunt self. I knew the sympathy trip wouldn’t last forever. She rose quickly.

“Easier said than done, I’m afraid,” I said, finally looking up at her.

“Well, at least quit taking it out on everyone around you,” Olivia said, pacing in front of me, her hands on her hips. In her long dark trench coat, she reminded me of a detective on some bad TV show. I suppressed a smile.

“I’ll try,” I promised honestly. Lord knows, the last thing I wanted was for her to quit working for me. Then what the hell would I do?

“And really, Peyton, have a little more faith in yourself, okay?” She stopped pacing and stared directly down at me. “Scars aren’t everything, you know? And just because you’re big doesn’t mean you’re not attractive. If you dressed yourself up a bit and took some time on your hair and make-up, you’d be a decent looking woman. When that guy saw you, you were just out of the hospital, and I’ll admit, you kind of looked like death sitting in that wheelchair. Your skin was so pale, of course your scars stood out. Maybe that’s what he was grossed out by, if that was even his reaction. You may have misread him, you know.”
“What’s your point?”

“He might have just been alarmed at how sick you looked,” she said, exasperation getting the better of her. “You were whiter than your bed sheets, so it stands to reason that every little flaw, every little ridge in your skin, would stand out like a sore thumb. If you’d been healthy, he probably would have smiled at you and maybe even flirted a bit, who knows? Give yourself some credit, hell, give the guy some credit. Shock doesn’t automatically mean disgust, no matter what your warped little mind thinks.”

I had to think about what she’d said for a moment, and was still doing so when she left a few minutes later. Could she be right? I avoided mirrors, so in truth, I didn’t know what I looked like that day, but if I looked as sick as she said I did, maybe Orlando wasn’t running from my scars. Maybe he thought I was contagious, or maybe he was just in a hurry. I’d never really thought about it that way.

The fact that she’d said I was decent looking hadn’t escaped me, either. No one had ever said that, most either not saying anything at all, or, like my mother, calling me ugly and fat. I knew I didn’t exactly dress like a runway model, preferring comfort and practicality over glamour and extravagance, but could such a stupid thing as clothing make a difference? The small, nasty part of my brain that hated me as much as my mother did piped up then, telling me that it wouldn’t matter what I wore, unless it was a bag over my head, I would never be attractive. That voice was very overpowering, almost to the point where I believed it.

Almost.

But what Olivia had said kept running through my mind. She wasn’t the type to just randomly tell someone they were attractive, so she really must have meant it. Sparing someone’s feelings was never her strong suit, so she wouldn’t go out of her way to make me feel better. It was possible there was more to me than I’d been willing to see, especially since my accident, and that Orlando hadn’t really seen what I was expecting him to see. Had my own expectations forced me to read more into his response than was really there?

And if I was wrong about him, could I be wrong about the rest of the world? Was hiding in my best interest? Should I give the world another shot, get the hell out of my flat and live a little? The idea was somewhat appealing, I had to admit.

But it was also scary as hell.

I picked up our mugs of tea and took them into the kitchen, dumping them down the drain. Sherman butted his head against my leg, demanding attention, so I bent down and picked him up, cuddling him close as I went into my office to do some work.

“See, I’m not so gross, am I?” I whispered as he rubbed his little face against my neck and chin.

He just purred in response.