�My goodness, Roger, what on earth was that about?� his mother asked when she caught up with him. He�d raced into Old Navy and was hiding in the little girls� section behind a row of pink shorts.

�She didn�t follow you, did she?�

His mother gave him an incredulous look and glanced around her. �Er, no, the coast appears to be clear,� she replied. �May I ask what that was about?�

�That was my ex-girlfriend.�

His mother jumped. �Marisa?!�

He nodded.

�Well, why didn�t you say hello to her, then?�

�Because I hate her, and she hates me.�

�Roge��

�She�s the reason I started cutting again.�

His mother closed her mouth, suddenly speechless. �Oh.�

He scowled. �Fucking bitch.�

�Roger!� his mother hissed. �My God, what has happened to your mouth? No more of that! Especially not in public!�

He glared sulkily off to the side, disfigured arms pressed into his chest.

His mother sighed, kneading her forehead to alleviate the tension prickling there. �Well, are you going to put your shirt on or not? Or would you rather shop around for some little pink shorts?�

He colored and took the Gap bag from her. He strode out of the store indignantly, eyes peeled for a certain killer goddess. However, if Marisa had made any connection between his face and name, she didn�t appear to be eager to follow through on it. The coast was indeed clear.

He went into a stall in the men�s room to switch shirts, his heart still pounding in his chest. He was sweating, he realized as he pulled off his shirt. His puny chest was slick with sweat. The thought of having to speak to Marisa again had terrified him beyond reason. She�d been hard enough to endure after the breakup anyway, but now he couldn�t fathom speaking to her.

She must know. Surely she knew what he�d done and where he�d been for the past two years. They all must know, all those people from his past life: his old friends, girlfriends, teammates, classmates, teachers, extended family�

Roger O�Donnell tried to kill himself. He went insane. Spent two years in a mental institution.

He felt sick. How was he ever going to face these people again? With these arms, this wrung-out body, these terrible experiences scarred on him for life? Would his heart stop every time he saw someone he remembered? Would he turn and run if anyone recognized him?

Probably.

The shirt made him look like a sickly cranberry, he decided, shooting the mirror a quick look. It covered his arms, however, hiding the fact that he wasn�t like everyone else. He shrugged at the mirror and rejoined his mother in the hallway. She patted out a wrinkle in his shoulder and said he looked cute, which she would have said even if he were wearing purple polka dots.

They started walking again, he with his hands in his pockets and eyes downcast, both of them quiet.

�Was she pregnant?� he murmured after a few moments.

�I think so,� his mother replied. �Poor girl. She�s younger than you, isn�t she?�

�Yeah. She probably got drunk at a party and made a stupid mistake. She did a lot of that. I�m just glad it�s not mine.�

His mother blinked. �But you never�?�

�No.�

Her relief was obvious on her face.

After a few minutes, she said, �She didn�t even say hello to you. She looked right at you, too. I wonder if she didn�t recognize you?�

�You didn�t, at first. Do I look that different?�

�I knew it was you once I saw your face. I�d know my son�s eyes a mile away.�

�Do I look that different?� he repeated.

��Yes, actually. But that�s why we�re getting you a haircut.� Indeed, they had come upon the hair salon again. �We�re a few minutes early, but we might as well see if they�re ready for you yet.�

��I think I can do this myself,� he said suddenly. �Why don�t you go shop by yourself for a little while?�

�But��

�I�m twenty, Mom. I think I can handle getting a hair cut on my own,� he muttered.

She wanted to protest, but clamped her jaws instead. Encouraging his independence was good, the doctors had told her. But to leave him alone? They hadn�t been separated for more than ten minutes since he�d returned home!

He looked impatient, so she forced a smile, handed him a few bills, and said, �O-okay. I�ll look around Ann Taylor�s. Come find me as soon as you�re finished, okay? G-get it cut nice!�

He shrugged and went into the salon�into the salon, where there were scissors and razors and dangerous chemicals and no one who knew him and how precious and delicate he was�

She dragged her feet from the floor and forced herself into the nearest store before her anxieties got the best of her. He was a grown man now, despite his psychoses. She had to remember that.

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