Chapter 20 Lucky #2
The Jones men leave, and I head to therapy where I make it all of twenty minutes before sobbing my way through the rest of the session.
I’m in good company, though, because Mom meets me in stride.
We talk about how my dad’s abandonment has skewed the way we both look for and view love.
Her, approaching relationships and what should be lifelong commitments casually, and me, avoiding the only real romantic relationship I ever truly wanted, all to avoid the risk of being hurt so deeply again.
I hold her hand the entire time, praying this is a new start for Mom, too. Maybe this moment will be the catalyst that changes the trajectory of her life. When she makes an appointment to start her own solo sessions next week, I’m more hopeful than I’ve ever been.
Following therapy, my first day as Sumer’s stylist is a welcome surprise.
She’s far less glamorous or entitled than I expected from someone with her star power.
She brings me a coffee, talks at length about her affinity for cereal—as she proceeds to eat bowls of it dry—and then, all but begs me to give her turquoise hair.
We hang out like friends for hours until I’m due at the salon.
Which is where I find Mrs. Cotten waiting for her quarterly cut and color touch-up. She hops from my chair, pulling me into a tight hug as soon as I turn the corner to my station.
“Honey, you are a sight for sore eyes,” she partially loosens her hold, only so she can take my face in her hands—something that Mrs. Cotten and I have never done before—then she admires me like it’s been years since she’s seen me and not just a few months.
“I was just telling my Michael how I simply couldn’t bear to have anyone else touch these locks…
aside from him that is, of course. The man can’t resist, and his love language is personal touch, after all. ”
Never thought Mr. Cotten and Owen had so much in common, but I can’t wait to divulge this little tidbit to him later.
She releases her grasp to touch her faded, lavender-gray hair. “He simply loves to run his hands through this hair. But, honey, I’ll tell you what, I’m no common Jasamine.”
“I think you mean Jezebel?”
She waves her hand in the air and plants her bottom back in my seat. “Yes, yes. But what I mean to say is, I don’t stray, ya understand? A bond between a woman and her hair dresser is sacred. It’s you and my Michael. No one else.”
I can’t hide my smile.
“I couldn’t agree more, Mrs. Cotten.” She surprises me, grabbing my hand and pulling me a step closer to the chair.
“And, honey,” she says a little softer, after her solemn vows of fidelity, “Mr. Cotten and I were so very touched to be present at your wedding. He and I, well… we’ve been waitin’ a long time to see you two settled down.
It sure will be an honor to watch you grow as a family, and though I know you have your sweet mama, I just want you to know, you’ll also always have all of your Honey Hill family behind ya, too. We’re rootin’ for you.”
Tears fill my eyes. Goodness, something about being married and so well taken care of has made me incredibly mushy.
I cry all the time now. Good tears. Unbelievably happy tears.
To think, I was contemplating leaving this town, these people, only a few short months ago when, today, the idea is unfathomable.
Mrs. Cotten decides she wants something new. So rather than her usual lavender, we pick a cotton candy pink, because Mr. Cotten will want to just eat her right up.
Another detail from my day I tuck away to tell Owen later.
I also make a mental note to slip Mrs. Cotten Gloria’s number. I’m positive they’ll hit it off.
When I’m nearly finished with her color treatment and cut, the door bell rings, and Mom tells me my next client is here.
“I didn’t see anyone on my schedule,” I tell her, clipping Mrs. Cotten’s bangs.
“Oh, I added him for you,” she says, sweeping up her area.
Her miniatures still litter her vanity, but maybe before long, she’ll let them go.
Let him go. Mine is in a drawer in my bedroom.
Why carry around a miniature when I’ve got the real thing parked in my driveway and a real true love who will always come home?
“You’re welcome, by the way,” Mom adds. “He’s a looker.”
I roll my eyes, questioning her judgement, but when said man swaggers around the corner, Mrs. Cotten nearly receives blunt bangs she didn’t ask for.
“Owen…” It’s only been eight hours, yet I still can’t help but feel relieved to see him as I rush into his arms. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you on a plane?”
He gazes down at me, brushing back the flyaways at my temple, then running his thumbs over my lips. “I had an emergency.” I quickly scan him for signs of distress, but then he leans closer, whispering against my lips. “I needed to kiss my wife.”
“Wow,” I reply softly, with a desperation of my own. “Sounds serious.”
He nods, biting his lip. “Like I said… emergency, for sure. I don’t know if I’m gonna make it.”
“But what about Utah?”
“Reuben met me here instead. I signed an hour ago, and he has a meeting with some of the guys from the team.”
“So you officially have an agent?” I can barely contain my excitement for him and the pride I have at how hard he’s fought to heal from his injury. How he’s never given up on what he wants. The man is relentless, and he’s mine. “I’m gonna be married to a Major League player.”
“One day. Maybe.”
“Definitely,” I respond with certainty. “Soon.”
He runs his nose along the length of mine, his breath an incredible tease across my skin. “So, how about that kiss?”
“I think you better do it, honey!” Mrs. Cotten hollers.
I nearly forgot she was here. I can see her fanning her face in my peripheral, but Owen’s sexy smirk is too much to look away from.
Owen snickers. My fortitude starts to sway.
“Come on, Brookey,” he goads. “You know you want to.”
“I don’t. I’m very busy.” I do. He’s simply too pretty.
“Kiss me...” he brushes his lips softly against mine.
A delicious tease. Then he pulls me so close, it feels indecent, especially knowing the entire salon is watching.
I wouldn’t be surprised if the girls popped a bag of popcorn and settled in for the show.
Mrs. Cotten is surely taking notes to report back to her husband later.
But I just can’t seem to care. Not when my husband’s slowly dancing with me in the middle of the salon, pressing one hand into my lower back, and still holding my chin so that he has my mouth exactly where he wants it.
“Then, after,” he says, playing me like a fine fiddle, “you’re gonna give me a haircut, Babe. Right here. Right now.”
“Okay, Ruth,” I’ll give him what he wants. I think if I don’t kiss him right now, I might die.
So, I make out with my best friend in the middle of Bless Your Hair, in front of all of Honey Hill’s busiest, good-hearted gossips, and I promise to give him that haircut he so desperately wants.
Because for me, cutting Owen’s hair is a forever thing.
And that’s exactly how long I plan to keep him.