Chapter 4 #2
"Only the ones I like," she replies cheerfully, pulling into a parking space outside a stylish salon. "And I decided I like you about thirty seconds after meeting you."
"You don't even know me."
"I'm an excellent judge of character," she says, turning off the engine. "And you remind me of my best friend from high school, prickly on the outside, total marshmallow underneath."
"I'm not a marshmallow." It sounds weak, even to my ears.
Emily laughs and gets out of the car. "Come on, marshmallow. Sandy's waiting for us."
The salon is modern but comfortable, with none of the pretentious sterility I associate with the places my mother used to drag me to. A woman with vibrant blue hair looks up from the reception desk and breaks into a wide smile when she spots Emily.
"Em! Right on time." Her gaze shifts to me, curious but not judgmental. "This must be your project for today."
"Sandy, this is Caleb," Emily introduces. "Caleb, this is Sandy, miracle worker and hair goddess."
Sandy laughs, coming around the desk to greet us. She's tall and willowy, with tattoos peeking out from under her rolled-up sleeves. "Nice to meet you, Caleb. Emily texted that we're doing a full transformation today."
My anxiety spikes. "Just a trim, actually."
"Ignore him," Emily chirps. "We're getting rid of the curtain and showing off his face."
She studies me thoughtfully, head tilted. "May I?" she asks, reaching toward my hair.
Nodding stiffly, as she gently pushes my hair back from my face, her touch is professional but kind. "Oh," she says softly. "Emily wasn't exaggerating. You have gorgeous bone structure."
Heat rises across my cheeks. "Thanks."
"Come on back," she says, leading us to a styling chair. "Let's talk about what we're doing today."
As she drapes a cape around my shoulders, my anxiety intensifies.
The last time I got a real haircut was six months ago, when my mother insisted on taking me to her stylist before a family function.
"Nothing too flamboyant," she had instructed the stylist. "Please make him presentable. " The memory makes my stomach clench.
"Everything okay?" Sandy asks, noticing my tension as she combs through my hair.
"Fine." The word comes out on autopilot.
Emily settles into a nearby chair with a knowing look. "Bad haircut experiences?"
I hesitate, then nod slightly. "My mother used to take me. She has definite ideas about what constitutes 'appropriate' hair for public appearances."
Understanding dawns in Sandy's eyes. "Let me guess, the perfect 'respectable son' haircut that wouldn't embarrass the family?"
The accuracy of her assessment startles a laugh out of me. "Exactly that."
"Well, this is your haircut," she says firmly. "Not your mother's, not Emily's, not mine. So tell me what you want."
Note to self: prepare for that next time. What do I want?
I've spent so long using my hair as a shield that I haven't taken the time to consider how I'd actually like it to look.
" I-I don't really know."
Emily leans forward. "Something that frames his face but isn't too fussy. He's not going to style it every day."
"Low maintenance but stylish," Sandy nods. "I'm thinking we keep some length on top, but clean up the sides and back. Show off those cheekbones and eyes without making him look like a K-pop star."
The mention of my eyes makes me self-conscious again. I've always felt they were too large, too expressive. My father once told me I needed to learn to control my face better in public because my eyes gave away everything I was thinking.
I tug my hair over my forehead. I hate being exposed. “Can I still..."
Sandy understands immediately. "Push it forward a bit if you need to? Absolutely. But it won't be a full curtain anymore."
Her simple kindness feels strange and good at the same time. "Okay. I guess I trust you."
As she leads me to the washing station, Emily gives me an encouraging thumbs-up. The warm water and gentle pressure of Sandy's fingers against my scalp are surprisingly soothing, and I find myself relaxing for the first time since Emily kidnapped me.
Back in the styling chair, Sandy works efficiently, her scissors snipping away months of growth. She maintains a light conversation with Emily, not forcing me to participate, but occasionally asking for my opinion. It's comfortable in a way I didn't expect.
"So how are you liking the fraternity?" Emily asks as Sandy blow-dries my hair.
"It's fine.” That’s a safe answer, noncommittal.
"Just fine?" She raises an eyebrow. "That bad, huh?"
A sigh escapes me. "It's not... what I expected."
"Better or worse?"
"Different. Some of the guys are actually decent. Gavin's like an overgrown puppy, but he's genuinely nice. Tyler's too wrapped up in Ethan to bother with anyone else. Drew's..." A pause. Choosing words carefully matters here.
"Relentlessly well-intentioned?" Emily supplies with a knowing smile.
"Exhaustingly so. And then there's James."
"The Webmaster," she nods. "Drew says he's brilliant but antisocial."
"That's putting it mildly," The words muttered under my breath. "He looks at me like I'm a virus that infected his computer."
Emily laughs. "James looks at everyone like that. Don't take it personally."
But it is personal. From that first day when he helped me compile evidence against Cher and Michael, James has made it clear he thinks I'm beneath him.
A rich kid playing at being poor, a moral compromise waiting to happen.
His judgment stings more than it should, especially since I barely know him.
"Almost done," Sandy announces, interrupting my thoughts. She adds some kind of product to my hair and works it through with her fingers. "Just a little texture. Nothing complicated."
When she finally spins me around to face the mirror, I almost don't recognize myself. My hair is shorter on the sides but still has length on top, styled in a way that looks effortless but intentional.
But it's my face that takes me by surprise; without the curtain of hair, my features seem sharper, more defined.
My eyes, dark and large, dominate my face in a way I've spent years trying to prevent.
'Too expressive,' Father always said. 'Learn to control your face, Caleb.
People can read every thought in those eyes. '
'Your eyes give everything away. It's a liability in our world.' Mother would add her disappointed agreement. Emotions were meant to be controlled, not displayed. The hair was easier than fixing whatever's wrong with having feelings that show.
"What do you think?" Sandy asks, sounding slightly nervous at my silence.
"It's..." My throat’s tight. How do I explain? "It's good. Really good."
Emily claps her hands together. "It's perfect! You look like a totally different person."
"That's kind of the point." The words come out quietly. Without my hair to hide behind, I am exposed, vulnerable.
Sandy seems to sense my discomfort. "Remember, you can still style it forward a bit if you need to.” She shows me how to push the front slightly down. "But trust me, you don't need to hide that face."
After I've paid, refusing Emily's attempt to cover it, we head back to her car. Emily chatters happily about how the brothers will react, while I try to ignore the growing anxiety in my stomach.
"You know," she says as we near campus, "it's okay to let people see you, Caleb. The real you, not the persona you think they want."
"Easy for you to say." The words sound petulant, even to my own ears. "You're naturally likable."
"And you're naturally guarded," she counters. "But that doesn't mean you can't let a few people in." She pulls into the fraternity house driveway and puts the car in park, turning to face me. "The Delta guys are good people. Even the grumpy ones like James."
A loud snort erupts from my nose. "I doubt James and 'good people' belong in the same sentence."
"You might be surprised," she says cryptically. "Sometimes the ones who push others away the hardest are the ones most worth getting to know."
Before I can respond to that piece of fortune cookie wisdom, she's out of the car and heading for the house. Taking a deep breath and running a hand through my now-shorter hair, I follow her inside.
The guy's reactions are immediate and mortifying. Wolf whistles and hoots greet us as soon as we enter the living room, where several brothers are gathered around the TV.
"Holy shit, is that Caleb?" Gavin booms, his eyes comically wide.
"Damn, Emily, you worked a miracle!" Ian calls out. "He's actually hot!"
"Fuck off," I say, my jaw clenching as heat rises to my cheeks, when I try to push past them toward the stairs.
"Seriously, though, you look great," Tyler says, more kindly. "Nice haircut."
"Thanks." Keeping my head down, I make my escape.
Heading straight for the computer room, which is basically a small study area off the main living room. They've tucked the fraternity's shared desktop computers close together. It's usually empty this time of day, making it the perfect hideout until the commotion dies down.
Except it's not empty. James is hunched over the main computer, typing rapidly. He doesn't look up when I enter, too focused on whatever code is filling the screen.
I want to turn around, walk right back out. But that would mean he wins, wouldn't it? That he's successfully driven me out of a shared space. Instead, I move to the far corner desk and pull out my laptop, determined to ignore him as thoroughly as he's ignoring me.
For several minutes, the only sounds are the clicking of our keyboards. Trying to focus on my design project, I'm acutely aware of his presence; the rhythm of his typing, the occasional frustrated sigh, and the way he mutters under his breath when something doesn't work as expected.
The typing stops.
Silence first, then an awareness of being watched. The sensation prickles across my skin before I look up. James is staring, his expression unreadable, but I think something else is underneath. Something that makes the room feel warmer than it should.
Our eyes meet, and for a suspended moment, no one looks away. There's a strange charge in the air, like static electricity before a storm. Then his gaze drops to my laptop screen, breaking the connection.
"New haircut," he says, his tone carefully neutral.
"Obviously," I say, immediately defensive.
He nods once, then turns back to his screen without another word. But I catch him glancing at me again moments later, his expression thoughtful.
The scrutiny makes me uncomfortable. I'm accustomed to being scrutinized; growing up in the public eye ensures that, but this is different.
More personal somehow. I've spent years perfecting the art of being unseen despite being visible, and James's attention cuts through those defences with disturbing ease.
Straightening my posture, I deliberately turn my back, creating a physical barrier between us. The message is clear: observation is not welcome. I hear him snort softly, whether in amusement or derision, I can't tell, but the weight of his gaze lifts.
We work in tense silence for another half hour before he leaves, muttering something about dinner. Once he’s gone, I can finally relax.
Later that night, after successfully avoiding the communal dinner by claiming an assignment deadline, I creep downstairs for a late-night snack.
The house is quiet; most of the brothers are either out or in their rooms. The kitchen is dark and peaceful as I rummage through the refrigerator, settling on leftover pizza.
As I wait for the microwave, my thoughts drift back to James and that strange moment in the computer room. Why did his attention bother me so much? It's not like I care what he thinks.
Except maybe I do, just a little. He's undeniably smart, maybe even brilliant, and his approval seems harder to win than anyone else's. Not that I want his approval, of course. I hate being judged and found wanting by someone who doesn't even know me.
The microwave dings, snapping me out of my head. I grab my pizza and freeze when I hear someone coming. My whole body stiffens right away, bracing for small talk I don't want to deal with.
When James appears in the doorway, his hair slightly mussed and eyes tired behind his glasses, I get this weird feeling like I knew this would happen. Of course, it would be him. The universe seems determined to push us together despite our mutual desire to be left alone.
He stops when he sees me, surprise briefly crossing his face before his expression returns to its usual impassivity. "Caleb," he acknowledges with a slight nod.
"James," my reply is equally curt.
For a moment, we stand there, two guys who bumped into each other while looking for food late at night. Then he walks all the way into the kitchen, and I brace myself for whatever harsh look or brush-off he's about to give me.