Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
ELLIE
I’m trying to muster the courage to tell Kathryn that I want to focus on bridal hair.
I mean, it’s not like she doesn’t know that’s my aspiration, what with the magazine and stuff, but I need her to understand that it’s time for me to take it more seriously.
It’s time for me to take a step back from nails and spray tans.
And it’s all thanks to Mike. He may be impulsive, but he’s full of heart. He’s ambitious. Driven. And I’ve probably been watching too many of his hockey clips this weekend because I took a leaf from his book and spontaneously booked myself onto a workshop with last-minute availability.
Seeing him achieve his dreams, standing in the salon wearing the tracksuit he’s worked his whole life for ignited something inside me.
It made me realise I need to take control of my circumstances.
Jess was right—and Mike, too, in his own way.
Watching him chase what he wanted made me realise I’ve been hiding behind Kathryn’s plans for too long.
I watch Kathryn move towards the blinds—waiting until she’s turned away from me before I speak .
“I’ve booked myself onto a bridal workshop tomorrow,” I say. “I think it’s time I put more focus on hair than nails.”
I brace myself for her reaction.
She freezes, then turns around slowly after a long pause, meeting my eyes.
“Bridal? I thought you did that for fun more than anything.”
I bite back the frustration rising inside me. “Well, I enjoy it, and it’s what I want to concentrate on,” I say. “I figure doing a new workshop will strengthen my skills. It’s been a while since I’ve done any formal training.”
She doesn’t respond straight away. Instead, she moves towards the counter and busies herself with the reception computer, aggressively clicking the mouse.
“I see you’ve cleared your day,” she says after a painful stretch of silence.
“Yeah. Everything’s sorted,” I say.
“Right, well, who’s going to open the salon tomorrow? I’ve got an appointment first thing.”
“You’re first client isn’t until eleven. You can open when you get here,” I say.
I know what game she’s playing. She’s trying to guilt me into giving in, cancelling the workshop and pandering to her every need. But today, I’m compelled to stand my ground, even if it means being subjected to Kathryn’s sour mood.
She glares at me for what feels like an eternity, the tension crackling in the air as I wait for an outburst, but she mutters, “I guess I’ll have to,” barely looking at me.
The conversation dies there, and I feel relieved; pleased I stood my ground. And for the rest of the day, she hardly acknowledges me as we move around the salon, working alongside each other with absolutely no chit-chat.
Not that it’s a bad thing because I’ve got too much thinking to do.
Mike .
Mike and his infectious personality. His carefree attitude and passion. And the moment he held me in his arms and made me feel … I don’t know—present. Like hugging me was something special.
There’s something about him that pulls me in and makes me feel like I’m eighteen again and everything is fresh and exciting and simple.
Simple.
And the more I think about him, the more simple things become.
Why am I resisting the obvious pull between us?
Because I think he likes me as much as I like him …
and that terrifies me. It terrifies me because I don’t really know him at all.
I mean, I know who he is, what he does …
but I don’t know him . I don’t know what he’s interested in outside of hockey aside from whisky and bad jokes.
But I do know I enjoy being around him. I enjoy how he makes me feel.
I enjoy listening to him talk—and the way he articulates himself?
As if he doesn’t care about speaking his mind.
That’s something I could only dream of doing.
But I’m still terrified.
Terrified of making the same mistake as before. Trusting him, only to be let down. Waiting for him to call …
I stop in my tracks, playing Jess’ words in my head as I look towards Kathryn, who busies herself with her client, making idle conversation about the weather.
She wouldn’t, would she?
But she would.
Deep down, I know she would.
Maybe I should come out and ask her, or maybe I should let it go.
But half an hour later, I can’t let it go. And it’s at the forefront of my mind when Kathryn’s new client arrives .
At the sink, washing my client’s hair, I catch the conversation my sister’s having; there’s talk about my flowers, still on display in the window, much to Kathryn’s irritation.
“They’re Ellie’s,” she says, dismissively.
And when her client looks at me, expectantly waiting for me to elaborate, a surge of courage surfaces and I realise now is the time. After all, I’ve already annoyed Kathryn today, so what’s another thing to add to the list?
“Yeah, funny story,” I say, keeping my eyes on my hands.
I swallow, taking a moment to decide if this is something I really want to do. But what have I got to lose? Several more hours of the silent treatment from my sister, no doubt. No biggie.
I look at Kathryn. “Remember how you thought they were from Mark?” She tilts her head to show me she’s listening. “Turns out, they were from Michael Betts.”
I wait for something—anything … then I see it. A flicker of contempt in her eyes.
“Michael Betts?” she says, her tone cold.
“Yeah. We re-connected recently. Long story short, he was keen to make things right because apparently … all those years ago, when he returned from Germany, he tried to call, but I didn’t get his messages.”
I watch Kathryn stiffen.
“Apparently, he called.” I keep my voice casual. “And someone told him to ‘never call this number again’.”
And I look up from the sink just in time to lock eyes with her.
She stares at me for a moment, and I know, I just know, it was her. She’s guilty. Call it intuition, call it a feeling … I don’t know, but there’s a sensation in my gut that’s telling me all I need to know.
“I need to grab something from the back room,” she says. “Won’t be a moment.” She plasters on a false smile as she walks away, then her lips form a straight line as she passes me, keeping her focus ahead of her .
I guess I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but I know I’ll never get a confession from her. She’ll admit no wrongdoing.
But maybe that’s okay. Maybe I don’t need her apology. Maybe I just need to stop waiting for one—and start being who I want to be.