15. Gemma
FIFTEEN
GEMMA
Locking the front door behind me, I triple check that it’s really locked before I dare to walk away. On my way to my dark blue Corolla, I decide to double back and make sure the emergency exit is still locked as well. Not sure how it would’ve gotten un locked since the two times I checked it before leaving the building, but better safe than sorry, right?
It’s normally my boss’s job to lock this place up at night, but she had an emergency with one of her kids and had to bolt, and trusted me to do it. I’m not gonna fuck this up already. I like my new life, finding solace in my job duties, and forming a routine in my new existence that brings me a surprising amount of peace.
A few weeks back, I took a job as a personal assistant for the owner of a niche computer programming firm outside of Atlanta. I thought it would be cool to work for a female CEO, especially one in STEM, and as the catchall title of assistant is really all my resume holds, it’s about all I qualified for on paper. Without a college degree, there wasn’t a lot I could even apply for on that job site, despite what I’m actually capable of in real life.
Yeah, my job has had me oversee a lot of different responsibilities, and therefore pick up a large number of hard-to-quantify skills over the years. But how do you translate things like:
- Run a household (is mansion hold a word?)
- Answer upward of three hundred texts or emails a day
- Be in six places at once/part-time magician
- Schedule wrangler
- Problem solver extraordinaire
- Enhance someone’s professional image with their coworkers, bosses, and even millions of fans
- Make miracles happen hourly
And put all of those on a resume?
No. Assistants are a special breed, and I felt like I might have found my place in the world with someone who really appreciated those skills I have honed.
But the red flags started piling up, and by the time it started to look like a circus, I had the sense to cut and run. I just left one toxic environment, it sure as hell wasn’t to walk into another one. And all for a little more than what I could’ve made working the window at Dairy Queen. And I didn’t even get to flip Blizzards upside down? Nah. I decided my peace of mind, my sanity and my enjoyment of life are worth more to me than a slightly higher paycheck. No job is worth being miserable over. So I quit that shit, fast.
After talking it over with my parents at a family dinner one weekend, they encouraged me to do something I really enjoyed while I figure the rest out. They insisted I wasn’t in a hurry, and to fill my time with something that brings me joy on a daily basis while I work out a long-term plan.
As much thought as I’ve put into that since I quit working for Aaron, the only thing I can ever come up with that I really love is reading. Honestly, it’s the only real pastime I’ve ever had on my own, the only thing that defined me as my own person outside of the Gemron friendship that seems to be all I’ve been good for up until now.
So I started poking around. Turns out, you need, like, mega degrees to become a librarian. I’m embarrassed to admit I had no idea how that worked. But it also turned out that the library closest to my parents’ house (a decently sized one in a moderately bougie Atlanta suburb) was dramatically understaffed and underfunded. I got to chatting with the librarian who runs the place, Brenda, and found out her main counterpart went on maternity leave recently, and she’s been drowning ever since. Brendawas too eager to appreciate any additional help I could offer the place above and beyond what my actual title of library technician (a.k.a. library assistant) dictates for the next two and a half months.
She’s been freaking lovely, and it’s kind of turned into my happy place, being surrounded by the smell of books all day, and the people who appreciate them (or who are forced to use them for assignments, to prove a spouse wrong in some obscure fight, or simply have nowhere else to go). It’s only been a couple of weeks, but I actually look forward to my shift every day. And it’s even got my brain going, thinking up some other ideas I might want to run with at some point, as my confidence in my own abilities regrows from the ground up.
So when one of Brenda’s kids fell off the playground at their elementary school this afternoon and she had to rush off, I offered to lock up. More than just trying to ease her workload, I find myself wanting to earn her trust. We’ve formed the beginnings of a bond these past few weeks, and I’m happy she was willing to let me take this on.
A sigh of relief sounds from my lips as I do a visual confirmation on the lock on the emergency exit ( I knew nothing had unlocked it) , and a quick double tap of a car horn grabs my attention when I turn around. One of the volunteers, a female college student, waves enthusiastically at me as I look up, and I give her a grateful smile and a small flick of my hand in farewell as she tears out of the lot.
While we have minimal actual staff, we do have a few volunteers, which surprised me to learn. God bless the people who make the time to make this world a better place, starting in their own backyards and with their own two hands, out of the goodness of their hearts. In my experience so far on this earth, there’s a lot of talkers, but it’s refreshing to see there are actually doers out there, too. This particular girl is the only one who’s close to my own age; most of the other volunteers are elderly women and then there’s one absolute riot of an old man called Ken who’s got a story for absolutely everything. And not all of them are appropriate for a public place. A blush heats my cheeks recalling one he shared on my first day.
I dunno why people tend to assume old people are innocent and wholesome. They can be dirty , but then again, I suppose they’re just like you and me, with a few extra decades to get into trouble tacked on. Half of the ones I’ve met here had a wilder youth than mine, and I suspect the other half did too, they just don’t have the need to share it with me.
The volunteers mostly stock the shelves and work on administrative tasks behind the scenes, but it frees me up to work the desk and help patrons who need assistance, and lets Brenda manage the whole show.
Once I’m settled into my car, the doors are locked and I’m buckled in, I open my phone to check the texts and see if there’s been any change in plans.
A nervous bubble jostles around in my belly when I see yet another unanswered text pop up from Aaron. I swipe left to ignore it for the time being and focus on the one I’m here to see.
Alexandra the Great
You otw?
Me
Leaving now!
To say I’m feeling anxious about tonight would be an understatement, but I’m also ready for this. Putting the gearshift into reverse to back out of my spot, I follow the directions on the GPS to my destination, with that day she took me shopping playing in my mind.
Alex was dressed more casually than she usually is on set, with tight jeans on, high top sneakers, and a black leather corset top underneath a red and black buffalo-checked shirt, wide open to show off what she had going on underneath. Her black hair was pulled up in a high pony that was far more voluminous and stylish than anything I’ve managed before. She was somehow sporty, chic, and fully her own bitch all at once, and I felt almost envious of her beauty and her style. Not that I’d ever rock something like that, but she is so completely her in every environment, it makes me want that for myself. Whatever that would look like.
“How are you so cool all the time?” I asked her, like the nerd I am, stars probably floating in my eyes as I stared at her.
She looked up from the rack of clothes she was sorting through, made eye contact with me, and laughed before responding. “Thanks babe, but I think you’re probably just seeing that I’m comfortable in my skin and my style.”
A pause and a blank stare from me, and she continued. “You haven’t had a lot of female role models in your life, have you? Other women to lift you up or help you when you need it?”
My head dropped so I could stare at my feet, scuffing the thin carpeting as I shook my head and tucked a loose section of hair back behind my ear. “My mom isn’t very feminine, I never really learned makeup or style or anything from her. But she helps me in other areas.”
When I don’t list off any other women, she understands. “Aaron probably wasn’t super helpful with that stuff as you went from teen to woman.” A snort leaves my mouth and when I look back up at her, she’s grinning knowingly at me.
“Not really…”
“Okay, well why don’t you start working on your own personal style? Like this isn’t something we’re going to do in an afternoon, but just start looking online, at Pinterest, or blogs, or wherever you like to scour in those late hours…” She made a suggestive face, bumping her shoulder into mine and winking at me to make sure I’m not taking her suggestions in a way that makes me feel less, but rather like more.
Her gaze froze on me and she reached out to finger my long locks, left down for once in my life. “Have you ever had a bob? You could seriously rock a long, shaggy bob.”
And that’s how I ended up here, a hairdresser she recommended, who I am placing all of my trust in tonight as we undergo a procedure of magnitude. Or that’s what Alex said. I’ve never had a haircut take longer than a half hour before, but she told me to block off at least three or four hours, so I’m getting worried.
The consultation part of the appointment is surprisingly easy. I don’t always know what to say to strangers, Aaron’s always been the “face” of the pair of us when we make public appearances, I’m usually the one running around in the background. But Alex made sure to show up here for me tonight and her hairstylist friend is super cool, too. A few minutes of chit-chat, and they turned to each other, analyzing me and coming up with a plan right in front of me.
“So super laid back, obvi, low maintenance, but something a little fierce,” Deanna, the stylist tells Alex in an ethereal voice, both of their eyes shooting over to gauge my reaction to that assessment. Alex nods in encouragement and I bob my head once like I’m on board. I’m not not on board. But I have no clue what they’re picturing, I must be missing the gene they both were clearly blessed with.
Deanna reaches out and lifts a chunk of my hair, feathering the strands between her fingers as she assesses what I’m working with further.
“Virgin?” she asks, pointedly, looking at me for an answer.
My eyes widen to about three times their normal size, and it feels like my eyebrows have moved into my hairline. “Um…what?”
Alex breaks out into laughter from her position slightly behind Deanna, and I look to her for a translation. “You have virgin hair, right?”
“Never dyed before?” Deanna clarifies.
The blush that swarms my neck and up my face shouldn’t be as embarrassing as it is, but what twenty-three-year-old woman is accused of being a virgin by a total stranger? I just barely remember to nod in answer before it’s been too too long, and Deanna’s eyes light up at the knowledge.
“Oooh and you’re willing to let me work on it?”
Again, my eyes find Alex’s for translation. It feels like this chick is speaking a language I just don’t get. Alex’s brows come down comically far, her mouth purses and she nods rapidly, discreetly, to let me know I’m good to agree, so I do, too.
Deanna actually squeals, before consulting with Alex once again, and then the process begins. I don’t know what else to call it, to be honest. It’s hours upon hours of work. First, she lobs off about two-thirds of the length of my hair, cutting it to slightly below my shoulders. Then there’s aluminum foil, as well as some concoction that I know is coloring my hair, but I don’t know why it’s stinging my nostrils and my eyeballs. Somewhere in and amongst all of that, Alex took off for a date, and I promised to send her pics later.
While my hair is processing, I take the chance to catch up on social media. Not that I have much to catch up on. Instagram is about the only social media I use, and my account is set to private, with just shy of a couple hundred followers. I do follow a lot of people in the industry on there though, people Aaron has worked with or connected with over the years, a few bookish accounts, and as of this past month or so, with Alex’s encouragement, I’ve even found some girls to follow who have cute style I’d like to channel myself.
Scrolling through my feed aimlessly while waiting for my hair to finish processing, I save a few style posts I come across for future reference, stalk Spencer’s profile for a few minutes, going through each and every picture he’s posted for the last two years (being careful not to double tap any of them once I got beyond the third one back—a colorful shot of the two of us at an arcade, debuting our relationship to his several thousand friends, that I’d already commented a bunch of heart emojis on), until there was just no avoiding it anymore.
Aaron’s stories.
His face stares at me from that little circle at the top of my feed, the first one in line for me to click and view, a reddish ring around it to let me know there was a fresh story waiting for me, that boyish charm in his eyes daring me to click it.
As good as things have been lately with Spencer (I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t still struggling to put Aaron out of mind at certain times , but things have been good with Spencer—really good—and I have real hope for where we’re headed), as much as I’ve been trying to distance myself from him , I’ll admit it: I’ve been watching Aaron’s stories almost daily since he went to Romania. My curiosity got the better of me, this aching need deep within me to know he was okay and cared for won out, and it’s become a bit of a nighttime routine for me to check up on him in this anonymous way.
Well, not fully anonymous, as I know Instagram allows you to see who’s viewed your story, but Aaron has never once looked at that before, so it’s a safe way for me to keep an eye on him without giving in to actually answering one of his texts or—God forbid—doing a FaceTime and having to come face-to-face with him for the first time since…that day.
My nose twitching from the burn of the solution in my hair, I take a deep breath for courage, dart my head to each side real quick to make sure no one is watching, and click on his circular headshot to see what he’s been up to.
The long gray bar at the top of the picture tells me this is his only story today, and my stomach seems to fall, then hover and just float in my midsection when I realize what the picture is of.
It’s a black and white shot (an artsy one at that) of what looks like a picturesque outdoor cafe table, this inherent European charm in the pic that we just can’t manufacture here in the States. There’s a latte to the right side, but that’s not what’s got my gut suspended. Front and center, on a small, elegant, understated white plate, is an almond croissant. Like the ones he brings me the first couple days of my period each month. (Side note: how does he always know when it’s my time? It’s not like I tell him!)
I do some quick mental math and realize had my cycle not been on hiatus thanks to the IUD the doctor put in a while back, today would’ve been the first day of my period. His unfailing sixth sense strikes again.
This picture is for me.
He’s thinking of me, dare I say missing me, from five thousand miles away.
Aaron doesn’t even like almond croissants. He teases me about them at least every other month, doesn’t get why I don’t prefer the chocolate ones.
It was a long shot, posting this, thinking that of his more than four million followers, I would be the one who would see it; that I’d get his meaning behind it.
He’s sorry.
He misses me.
He’s thinking of me.
He knows he fucked up. But he still cares.
Moisture gathers in the corners of my eyes, and I shut them quickly to prevent it from spilling over. I vowed I’d never shed another tear for this man, and that includes the warm, fuzzy, compassionate ones.
This isn’t the first picture he’s posted that seemed like a thinly veiled callout to me; early on in his time there, he posted several shots of peonies; fields of them, carts full of them in a market, just endless peonies as far as the eye could see. That was for me, I know it was. A callout to better times between us, and what’s been my favorite flower ever since. But this picture has been the most unmistakably direct one.
His tenacity has me thinking maybe, just maybe, there is something left of the man I knew, and our friendship might possibly be salvaged.
Thankfully, it wasn’t all that long before I got the most scalp-relieving shampoo of my life, followed by a to-die-for head massage that’s worth this outrageous price tag on its own, some more resting and sitting with my head in the sink while Deanna applies more products, and eventually, I’m back in her chair. I don’t bother trying to sneak glances while she applies more creams and potions and works the hair dryer with some really funky attachments.
After what feels like longer than all of my previous hair appointments put together, my chair is spun around and I’m facing myself, but not the me I’m used to seeing in the mirror. When I catch my own reflection, my eyes light up with something I’ve never seen in them before.
What Deanna has done is nothing short of magic. The top of my hair is still my natural brown, but somehow, gradually, in the most natural way I’ve ever seen, it blends into blonde until the ends are mostly this gorgeous shade I didn’t even realize I could pull off.
She’s styled it in a way that embraces that natural wave I have and enhances it, so it looks intentional rather than a bad side effect of the way I slept last night. It looks…chic. It makes me feel feminine, but without the imposter syndrome I felt that time I tried to dress up for Aaron. It feels more like she’s captured my personality in a hairstyle, and I never knew that was a thing until this moment.
Jumping out of my chair, I lean in for a closer look and an honest-to-God giggle comes out as I spin around and watch what my new hair does as I do in the reflection of the floor-length, gold-framed mirror in front of me.
“This is incredible!” My voice sounds breathless, but I don’t care.
“So glad you like it.” A note of thrill weaves through her serene tone. “Now Alex told me you guys wanted something that was an everyday look that you could recreate on your own.”
Tears threaten to spring at the corners of my eyes at the thought my only remaining friend put into this gesture for me, probably knowing I’d resort back to ponytails or some form of scraggly buns if I couldn’t get the same look as the stylist on my own.
“So I’m gonna show you what I did, are you ready?”
With my eager nod, she’s off, explaining about this spray she used that made it smell like heaven and also gave it texture which meant the style would hold. Seems a little silly to me to clean your hair just to put artificial dirt in it, but if it turns out looking like this, I’d rub actual dirt in it if she tells me to.
If you told me the price of smelling like a field of flowers and looking like I woke up flawless day in and day out was drinking faerie wine, I’d throw that shit back faster than you could say Prythian , consequences be damned. I’ve long wished I had someone to show me how to do the whole girly thing. I just never learned how to do it on my own. The fact that Alex saw that, and found a way to help me solve it (without making me feel awkward, embarrassed, or like I’m lacking as a female) touches something in my heart. Pretty sure those dastardly tears are making an appearance again, so I wipe them away and pay attention to what this wizard is teaching me.
After a few more minutes of instruction, we book my follow-up appointment (my little cold heart expands once more when Deanna explains to me that she and Alex chose something where the color could just grow out and wouldn’t need to be touched up for quite a while; another display of thoughtfulness that is making me thankful I have her guiding me on this experience), she takes a picture or nine for her Instagram and shoots them off to Alex as well, as promised, and I pay more than I have ever spent on my appearance (that’s before the generous tip, mind you), and don’t regret a single penny of it.
Because combined with all of my Pinterest perusing, Instagram surfing, and those new outfits in my closet, this haircut just bought me a level of self-confidence I’ve never felt in my entire life. I’m starting to look and feel like me for what might be the first time ever, and I think that might be worth any price.