I stroked on foundation, smoothing it over my pores. Blended it like a fine artist. A touch of blush, then shadow to accent my eyes. My male self observed the ritual, letting my female self dab and stroke, following muscle memory. I don’t think my clumsy male hands would have had either the skill or patience to do this. I’d end up looking like a Picasso.

I applied eyeliner. I thickened my lashes. I took a moment to assess my efforts. My makeup was thicker now than it had been before I started dating Layton. Just like Katie’s had been in the other worlds. I used to wonder if maybe Katie’s makeup was sometimes hiding bruises. But now I knew it wasn’t so simple. Because, for me, the makeup was, more than anything, to hide myself.

“You look pretty,” Layton would say. Because when it comes to women, that’s what society zeroes in on. Our appearance. And “appearance” is all Layton had. Because I was hidden behind my perfect Sephora mask. And the deeper I was behind it, the easier it was to be an accessory on his arm, all shiny and perfect like his knockoff Rolex watch. Because that wasn’t me, it was the mask. The skillful knockoff of a girl.

Of course, I’d be lying if I said he didn’t leave bruises once in a while, but never on my face. They’d appear on my arm when he’d grab me to stop me from storming away. They’d show up on my waist when things got hot and heavy, and “stop” was a whisper beneath the roar of a freight train with no emergency brake.

He said I needed to take iron. That I must be anemic. Because if you’re anemic, you bruise easily, and he couldn’t imagine he was to blame.

Only once did he leave a mark on my neck. We had a fight. I accused him of being a self-centered, narcissistic bastard. Losing control of me made him lose control of himself. He grabbed me by the neck and pushed me against the wall.

It was the only time the makeup was to hide something. If someone had asked if he hit me, I would have told them “No.” Because technically, grabbing me by the neck wasn’t hitting. And I didn’t want anyone to know it had happened.

I was ready to end it when Layton did that. Instead of walking it off, I was ready to walk away. I should have. But over the next week I couldn’t escape Layton’s tearful contrition.