Chapter 7 - Koda #2
"It's this major practical exam. We have to demonstrate three different cutting and styling techniques. I'm already behind everyone else in my class, and now..." She gestures helplessly toward the window. "Now I'm missing crucial practice time."
There's frustration in her voice, but also determination.
I recognize it. The same drive I see in fighters who aren't the most talented but work twice as hard to make up for it.
"What do you need to practice?" I ask. "The cutting part?"
She nods.
"That, and the styling. The problem is I need someone to practice on. We usually pair up in class, work on each other's hair. But I'm stuck here, and even if the roads clear this afternoon, Sarah's still in Denver until tomorrow."
I watch her fidget with the dish towel she's picked up, her slim fingers twisting the fabric. The disappointment is written all over her face. It bothers me more than it should, seeing her frustrated like this. Makes me want to fix it, to take that worry away.
"What about a mannequin head? Don't you guys use those?"
Charlotte shrugs.
"We do, but it's not the same. Real hair behaves differently. And I left mine at school anyway." She attempts a smile. "It's fine. I'll figure something out. Maybe I can convince one of my neighbors to let me give them a trim when I get back."
I find myself reaching up to touch my own hair, the overgrown strands falling past my shoulders. It's gotten long again, longer than it's been since I was a teenager. Dana's been on my case about it for weeks, telling me I look like a "mountain hermit" instead of a professional trainer.
Before I can think better of it, the words slip out.
"You could practice on me."
Charlotte's eyes widen and the dish towel falls from her hands.
"What?"
I run my hand through my hair, suddenly self-conscious.
"I need a cut anyway. I’ve been putting it off for months."
She studies me, as if trying to determine if I'm serious.
"You'd let me cut your hair? For practice?"
I shrug, trying to make it seem like no big deal. Like I'm not offering her something I'd never allow anyone else to do.
"Why not? It's just hair. It'll grow back if you mess it up."
A slow smile spreads across her face, lighting up her eyes.
The sight of it sends a warmth through my chest that has nothing to do with the fire in the woodstove.
"Are you sure?" She sets the towel on the counter, already looking more animated. "I mean, I'm not terrible or anything. But I'm definitely not a pro yet."
"I trust you," I say, and realize with surprise that I mean it.
Something shifts between us.
Her smile softens, turns into something more intimate. The air in the kitchen feels charged, electric.
"Thank you, Koda. Seriously." Her voice is barely above a whisper. "This could make all the difference."
I nod, suddenly unable to meet her gaze.
What the hell am I doing? Letting Charlotte that close, her hands in my hair, her body just inches from mine. It's playing with fire.
But the hope in her eyes makes it impossible to take back the offer.
The way she straightens her shoulders, already planning, evaluating my hair with a professional eye that reminds me she's more than just Jason's daughter.
She's her own person, with dreams and struggles I'm only beginning to understand.
"We should do it first thing in the morning," I say gruffly. "Light will be better then."
"First thing," she agrees, and there's something in her voice that makes my pulse jump.
She lingers for a moment longer, and I can feel her gaze on my hair. Probably already visualizing the cut she wants to attempt. The thought of her hands threading through the strands, of her standing close enough that I'll feel her breath on my neck, makes my mouth go dry.
"I should let you get some sleep," she says finally, stepping back toward the hallway.
I watch her go, noting how my shirt hangs loose around her frame, how her bare feet make no sound on the hardwood.
When she reaches the entrance to the hall, she turns back.
"Goodnight, Koda."
"Goodnight, Charlotte."
After she disappears, I stand in the kitchen for a long time, listening to the ice tap against the windows.
The storm outside shows no signs of letting up. If anything, it's getting worse. The coating on the porch railing has thickened, and I can hear branches creaking under the weight of ice.
We're definitely not going anywhere tomorrow morning.
I clean up the kitchen, taking my time with each dish, each surface. Anything to delay the moment when I'll have to lie on that couch, knowing Charlotte is in my bed just down the hall.
When I finally turn off the lights and stretch out under a blanket, the cushions still hold traces of her scent from where she sat earlier.
Outside, the storm rages on, ice building on every surface, turning my property into a frozen landscape.
Inside, a different kind of storm builds in my chest.
I stare at the ceiling, listening to the wind howl through the trees and the occasional crack of a branch giving way under the ice.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Charlotte in my shirt, her wet hair catching the light, the way she looked at me when I offered to let her practice on me. The trust in her eyes. The hope.
The compassion when I told her about Vanessa, about the baby that wasn't mine. She hadn't flinched, hadn't offered empty platitudes. Just genuine sympathy that made me feel a little less alone with that old pain.
I roll over, punching the pillow into a more comfortable shape.
Tomorrow morning, I'm going to let Jason Palmer's daughter put her hands in my hair, stand close enough that I'll be able to count her freckles. I'm going to sit still while she touches me in ways I haven't let anyone touch me in years.
It's either the stupidest decision I've ever made, or the best one.
Probably both.