13. The Glow Up
The Glow Up
My favorite stylist, Cynthia, lowers Rhys’ head into the sink and switches on the hose.
I linger nearby, watching Rhys’ squirming feet. “How’s it going?” I ask, making small talk to keep him from bolting.
“I’m discomforted,” he says.
“Well, suck it up. Are you aware of the sacrifices I’ve had to make to get you in this chair?
” Cynthia books out five months in advance.
I had to give him my slot and Rhys doesn’t even seem grateful.
Instead, he’s acting like I’ve dragged him to the dentist for a root canal instead of gifting him an appointment with the best hairstylist on the Westside.
“Do I have to?” Rhys flinches at the lukewarm spray. “My hair is fine.”
I exchange a long-suffering side-eye with Cynthia, who is starting to share my frustration. “I don’t know how you have the nerve to say that when you’re walking around with a nasty mop on your scalp. You better do a double wash, Cyn. He’s got a dandruff problem.”
“I don’t have a dandruff problem.” Rhys squeezes his eyes shut, acting like he’s being subjected to medieval torture instead of a luxury scalp massage.
“Trust me. You do.” God. I feel like the mother of a whiny five-year-old.
Rhys’ legs jolt as Cynthia douses his head in warm water. “Stop squirming. She’s not torturing you. It’s supposed to be relaxing.”
“HA!” He flinches as the lather touches his ear. “Careful!”
Cynthia winks at me. “Is this your boyfriend’s first time at the salon?”
“We’re not dating,” we’re quick to blurt out.
“Oh.” Confused, Cynthia frowns down at Rhys. “This is not the CEO you were telling me about? The one with the fine ass?”
Okay. I might have mentioned Sam during one of my hair appointments. I can’t remember what I said. I said a lot of things. Sam, despite being a total creep, does have a commendable backside. A girl can appreciate that. The two are not mutually exclusive.
“Or was it ‘CEO grab ass’?’” Cynthia amends. “Who’s ass we grabbin’? Yours or his?”
“Er... no.” I swipe a finger across my throat. “I never said anything about a CEO.”
But Cynthia has her back turned and can’t see me signaling. “Sure you did. You said: ‘He looks like he’s itchin’ to grab some ass.’ Question is: do you want that ass to be yours?”
She finally turns around and catches my signal. “Oh shit.”
I shoot Rhys a cautious glance. Even though he’s white-knuckling his armrest, I can see the beginnings of a shit-eating grin.
“My, my. Sam Rylan, eh?” Rhys perks up. “Tell me more about his fine ass.”
“Did I say ‘fine ass’?” Cynthia backtracks. “I meant the fine... asset workbook.”
Yeah. That makes a lot of sense. “Anyway,” I say, changing the topic, “this one here, he’s not my boyfriend. He’s not even my friend. “We’re...” I pause, searching for a definition to our relationship. “What are we, Rhys?”
“Secret Coworkers,” he blurts out.
“Couldn’t have phrased it better myself.” We don’t work in the same company, yet we’re technically working together. “Secret coworkers,” I repeat with a nod of approval. “We’re the definition of synergy.”
Rhys sits up, knocking water out of his ear with a tilt of his head. “Except we’ve promised to never use the word ‘synergy.’”
Ignoring him, I give Cynthia the go-ahead to do whatever is necessary to make Rhys presentable. “That’s too bad,” I say, ushering him to the chair, “because it just became our motto.”
* * *
“Pay attention,” Rhys points to the dog pile of data on the laptop. “This is the third time I’ve had to repeat myself. Are you even listening to me?”
My attention is diverted every which way:
The never-ending line of customers queuing up for their afternoon Starbucks fix.
The wobbliness of the table and the flakiness of my croissant.
How my strawberry matcha cooler could use more ice.
But most of all, I’m distracted by my secret coworker, who just recently had the mother of all glow-ups.
My gaze lingers on Rhys’ new haircut, fighting the urge to run my hands through the chestnut strands, if only to experience the sensation of silk between my fingertips.
His hair just looks like it would be nice to touch.
It’s not such an outrageous impulse, is it?
As a kid, I couldn’t resist sticking my hand in the grocery store bin of pinto beans, and that’s the same way I feel about Rhys’ hair.
If I jump on the impulse, I’m not so much touching hair, I’m running my fingers through a bin of pinto beans.
It’s not that I find him attractive in any way.
I just think that ever since Cynthia snipped two inches off the top and taught him how to style his new cut, Rhys Stiltskine has significantly improved in the looks department.
The greasy mop is gone and now the chestnut strands (with natural auburn highlights) have taken on a shine...
It’s improved his visual appeal tenfold.
It’s amazing how his haircut perfectly frames his face, enhancing the razor-sharp edge of his jaw.
Cynthia’s rates are comparable to my last car payment, and she’s worth every penny.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem Rhys appreciates or cares that he’s just become infinitely more appealing. He’s oblivious to his own improvement.
“Carina? Earth of Carina?” Rhys snaps his fingers. “Pop quiz: what does the ASSET do?”
With a shake of my head, I surface out of my reverie.
This again. My head aches every time we talk about the ASSET, which is problematic as it’s my job.
I yawn, batting away my pervasive exhaustion.
It’s like someone sprinkled fairy dust over me and if I shut my eyes, I could sleep for a thousand years.
“The ASSET batches data patterns,” I mumble. “Can we take a break? We’ve been at it for hours.”
Rhys pinches his brow. “We started ten minutes ago and no shit, the ASSET batches data. It’s a data batching program. Duh. That’s the dumbest answer I’ve ever heard. I hope you’re not serious.”
“I’m not.” I rest my chin in my hands and revel in that unsightly vein on his temple. “Suppose I tell you this is a test of your ability to tolerate different personality types.”
He narrows his eyes. “I doubt this is a test. I think this is how you truly are.”
“See?” Scooting my chair back, I lace my hands behind my head, stretching out my neck muscles. “You’ve already failed.”
“What personality type are you trying to imitate?” he fires back. “A moron?”
By now, his insults slide off of me. It’s all part and parcel of Rhys being an irredeemable piece of shit. Keeping my cool, I suck down the last of my iced latte, keeping my expression frosty. “This is exactly why nobody likes you and no woman would touch you.”
Rhys cast his eyes to the carpet, tucking his hands into his armpits with a sullen and peevish hunch.
To anyone passing by, Rhys’ standoffish posture reads as ‘stubborn.’ Unfortunately, I know Rhys well enough to see contrition, however slight, in his body language.
I don’t have to say, “You sit in the corner and think about what you just said.” He’s doing just that.
And then, as if to prove my point, Rhys clears his throat. “I’m sorry I called you a ‘moron.’”
“Good.” I nod, satisfied by his progress. “It’s not nice to call someone a ‘moron’, is it?”
“Eh.” He flays me with a pointed look. “Even if they’re acting like one on purpose?”
“I’d advise you not to even say it,” I say dryly.
“Can I think it?”
“As long as you keep it to yourself,” I say. “For normal people, I’d say it doesn’t take extra effort to be nice. But you’re not normal. You’re a Grade A asshole, so you need to expend extra effort. Don’t call anyone a ‘moron.’ It’s ill-mannered.”
“Even if it’s true?” he asks, testing me.
“Part of co-existing in a society is to lie through your teeth.”
“Why?”
“Because the truth will hurt someone’s feelings,” I say.
He nods, trying to understand. He side-eyes me. “Did I hurt your feelings?”
“Well, it doesn’t feel good!”
“Oh.” Rhys hunches forward, rubbing his palms together, contemplating what I just said. “I’m sorry.”
I study him, ready to pounce on any hint of facetiousness. He seems sincere enough. “Now, why don’t we try this again. Ask me what the ASSET does?”
He rubs the back of his neck and mutters, “What does the ASSET do?”
“Gee, that’s a hard question,” I curl a lock of hair around my fingers, Valley Girl vocal fry activated. Rhys has no patience for anything he deems ‘girly fluff.’ I’m serving up bimbo on a platter just to fuck with him. “Does it have something to do with data?”
Rhys blinks once, twice, his fingers clenching the leg of his trousers. Finally, he nods, his jaw tight, “Yes...”
“Cool,” I perk up. “I knew it had something to do with data analysis. Duh, ‘cuz we’re like, data analysts.”
“Uh huh,” says Rhys, measuring his words. “So, can you tell me what the ASSET, of which you’re the expert of, in a job you get paid six figures for, does?”
“I’m not sure I like your tone, sir. Try lowering the temperature.”
A dark squall scurries across his face. “What does the ASSET do?”
“Let me think about it.” I tap my chin, my gaze swinging to the ceiling so I can locate my tiny brain.
His legs begin to jimmy. “Any time now?”
“Does it have something to do with space?” I ask, innocently.
“Carina…” Rhys leans toward me, his voice a husky drawl of effort.
I’m trying his patience and it’s taking a toll, yet I’m pleased to see that he’s successfully taken my advice and dropped the temperature of his tone.
“Please answer the question so we can move on from level one, the most basic of levels that even an infant can answer.”
Smiling sheepishly at him, I reach out and run my index finger across the vein on his temple. Now it looks like he only wants to commit manslaughter instead of murder. I’d call that progress.