This week, the roles are reversed. Nancy is having lunch with her sister and mother and the phone rings. She gets up from the table and darts to the back of the restaurant hoping it was Jake, it wasn’t. She doesn’t answer. In the bathroom she has a flashback:
Standing in front of the mirror applying another coat of red lipstick on, my mind races back to that night when blood was oozing from below my lip. He cut me deep leaving a terrible scar; the scar just doesn’t go away, mentally or physically. That cut I sustained left a two-inch scar right under my lip which three plastic surgeries couldn’t even cover it up to where it wouldn’t be noticeable. The surgeon said that was the best that could be done under the circumstances. The “best” has haunted me continuously. I guess I should be glad that I’m alive.