“I rushed home, so they got shaken apart. Let’s just head out to eat.”
I pulled my hand away.
“Probably no time today. I’m having dinner with my girl friends.”
He froze, his voice jumping up. “You dressed so nicely and even did your makeup, wasn’t it for me?”
I stared at him, completely lost. “Didn’t you say I look awful when I dress up? Why would I dress up for you?”
I clicked my tongue in frustration, slid around him, snatched my bag, and headed outside.
Chase always complained when I wore bold colors, saying they made me look cheap and immature.
Anything shorter than the knee was “trying to lure people.”
If I put on makeup, he laughed at me, saying I was “painting over my age.”
He especially disliked it when I spent time with girlfriends.
For years, to please him, I cut down my social life and packed away the dresses I loved.
I wore bland, loose office outfits each day, bare-faced, riding to work like someone twice my age.
All this while I hadn’t even turned thirty.
Meanwhile, at the company, Zaria turned her uniform into a tight skirt, wore full makeup, curled her hair into big waves, and he praised her for “having spark” and being “eager in her job.”
It was then I understood.