Chapter 3
three
After foiling an entire head of highlights and squeezing in a last-minute haircut, I’m done for the day. By the time I clean my station, I’m the last one in the salon. Even Amanda left a little over an hour ago. Sometimes it’s nice being the last one here. The place is always chaotic with everyone’s overlapping conversations and the constant sound of cabinets slamming and hair dryers blowing.
The smell of a million different chemicals and shampoos fills the air all day, but when it’s just me, and my last client was a simple haircut, it feels like the dust has settled. Turning off the overhead lights, I welcome the soft glow of the Christmas lights outside. I throw my bag over my shoulder, lock up, and head toward my apartment a few blocks away. It’s still warm, but there’s a light breeze tonight. I hug my cardigan around myself, more out of comfort than a need for actual warmth, but at least the heat of the day has broken.
I open the text thread with the guy from the coffee shop. I haven’t learned his name yet, but I know that’s something I should ask soon. I read over his two messages from earlier.
Unknown Number:
Palm trees and Christmas lights go together like pineapple on pizza.
Do people do it? Yes. Should they? Absolutely not.
Most of my afternoon was swamped, but I was able to send a quick text before my last cut of the day.
Candace:
What if I told you I love pineapple on pizza?
I sent that message over an hour ago. Maybe loving pineapple on pizza is a deal breaker. It would be ridiculous, but people these days will walk away for less. Going back to my messages, I tap on the thread with my roommate.
Candace:
I’ll grab tacos if you pick up tequila?
His response comes in right away.
Miles:
Fuck yes.
I figured his answer would be along those lines. It’s rare for Miles and me to disagree on much, let alone tacos and booze. Taking a slight detour, I head to our favorite place downtown.
Paco’s Tacos hits me with the incredible scent of spices as soon as I open the door. My stomach grumbles, the smell of my favorite food serving as the perfect reminder that I haven’t eaten since breakfast.
Loud chatter fills the small space, with the staff yelling orders back and forth from their tiny, open kitchen. This place is always packed, but the line usually moves quickly. My phone vibrates, and my heart drums as I check for any sign of the guy from the coffee shop .
He still hasn’t sent me anything. All I have is a text from my mom, making sure Miles will be home for Christmas to keep me company.
I text her back as I step forward in line, reassuring her that Miles and I will have a great time celebrating in our apartment, and she shouldn’t worry about abandoning us for her hippy friends. It might have been the wrong thing to say to a woman already riddled with guilt, but I only have to reassure her I was definitely joking twice.
My eyes scan the menu board above, and my stomach growls again. I know my eyes are bigger than my stomach right now, but I also have a hefty tip from Nicolette in my wallet. I’d usually need to put it toward my car payment, but she referred another one of her friends this week who took care of that, so I decide to order whatever I want as soon as it’s my turn.
I somewhat regret my decision when the brown paper bag is heavier than I expected, and I’m a few blocks from home. I still have my car, but it doesn’t get much use outside of visiting my parents—or when it rains.
Luckily, our apartment is on the first floor, so I don’t have to scale multiple flights with my giant bag of tacos, but I’ve still broken a sweat by the time I make it through the lobby. Balancing the bag on my knee, I fumble with the key when a commotion sounds from above.
“There arose such a clatter,” I say quietly to myself and wonder what the guy who lives there is up to now. We’ve never seen him, but I like to imagine him as an elderly man with a bushy white mustache. Our very own St. Nick, except his name is Lenny.
Another thud from overhead makes me look up as I open the front door. We asked a few neighbors about it when we first moved in, unsure if we should file a noise complaint, but they all referred to him fondly saying things like, “Oh, that’s just Lenny. He’s always building something. ”
So now, Miles and I try to embrace the spirit of Lenny with fondness, too. He’s never loud late at night, so we really have nothing to complain about.
“Hey, Stink!” Miles says from somewhere in the kitchen as soon as I open the apartment door. It’s his favorite term of endearment. I’m not even sure how it started, but he’s always said it lovingly.
“Hey.” I shut the door with my foot as I balance the heavy bag.
I find Miles’s tall, lanky frame putting salt around the rim of two margarita glasses. He has his back to me, his many tattoos on display. From here, I can make out pieces of the koi fish on his back poking out from his tank and the octopus wrapped around his calf.
He looks over his shoulder, shaking his head at the weight of the bag in my arms. “Let me guess,” he says as he turns back to making our drinks. “You didn’t know what to get me, so you bought the whole damn restaurant.”
Heaving our food onto the counter, I give him a dirty look behind his back. “You know I shouldn’t be allowed in there unsupervised, and I skipped lunch.”
“I saw you pack your lunch this morning,” he says with a questioning look before he finishes pouring our drinks.
“Nicolette needed her hair done a half hour early.”
“Of course she did.” He turns to face me. His scruff matches his black hair, his dark features only accentuated by the neon green glasses he wears. “What’s the damage?” He peeks into the brown paper bag on the counter before letting out a slow whistle. “ Two sides of queso?” He hands over my margarita with a shake of his head.
Setting the drink down, I wave him off as I reach into the bag and pull out its contents. “Don’t hate me for my love of melted cheese.”
He grabs a taco and unwraps the neatly folded paper. “You can have all the melted cheese you want as long as you pay your half of the rent.”
I take a sip of my drink, remembering a time not so long ago when splurging on this much takeout would have meant struggling to pay rent. Hell, I hardly had time to stop for takeout between my last hair appointment of the day and starting my shift at the bar. Last year, my idea of splurging was upgrading to the name brand boxed mac and cheese for a quick dinner. I have to admit, as difficult as Nicolette and some of her friends can be, it feels like a breath of fresh air not having to work two jobs to make ends meet.
Last Christmas, I could hardly justify spending money on decorations. My eyes scan over our apartment. It’s so cozy here now. It feels like a home—our home. Our apartment isn’t the cheapest one we could have found, but Miles and I wanted to live downtown, and I promised him I’d find a way to make it work. I love living within walking distance from work, and even though Miles works from home, he’s a big fan of the craft beer scene this city has to offer.
The space is small, but everything has been recently updated. While we were looking for apartments, our list of needs only had two items on it.
Must be in Downtown Sanford.
Must have plenty of natural light.
The second requirement was more for Miles than me. He’s the one stuck working here all day, but I love how open our space feels thanks to a couple of big windows along the back wall and a screened patio with sliding glass doors. They’re only partially blocked right now thanks to the too-fat Christmas tree taking up most of our living room. When Miles and I went to pick out a tree, we knew we couldn’t get one too tall, but neither of us paid much attention to the lack of horizontal space our apartment had to offer. Now we can only get in and out of our sectional couch one way, and it blocks some of the TV.
I reach for a chicken taco. “Lenny seems to be hard at work.”
He nods. “Yeah, I heard him earlier. I found out he built that elaborate display of ghosts in the lobby for Halloween. Maybe he’s making a life-sized Santa’s sleigh.”
“We’ll find out soon enough, I’m sure.”
Miles grabs one of the to-go cups of queso and holds it out for me. “Dig in. We have a lot of cheese to go through.”
I dip a chip. “Don’t mind if I do.”
Years ago, I figured I’d be settled down by now. If someone asked me where I saw myself in five years back then, I would have imagined a Tuesday night cooking dinner with my husband. If they had asked me a few years later, I’d imagine ordering takeout with my boyfriend. But now, I’ve accepted that the man I have the most intimate relationship with finds men as appealing as I do—maybe even more.
My phone buzzes on the counter next to me. A message from an unsaved number pops up, and I almost drop my taco to tilt the phone toward me. An unsaved number can only mean two things. It’s either a potential client, or it’s him .
Unknown Number:
Then I’d say you should let me take you out for some real food, so we can fix your broken palate.
I snort a laugh before I can stop myself, and Miles arches an eyebrow. “Why are you smiling at your phone like an idiot?”
“I sort of met someone today.” My lips quirk happily as I stuff more food into my mouth.
He pauses. “You did?”
I swallow and can’t fight the smug lift of my chin. “I did. ”
He narrows his eyes and leans forward. “Wait. Are you actually excited? ”
My eyes widen playfully, sharing in his shock. “I am.”
“Well, it’s about fucking time. I’m sick of you talking about dating like it’s a goddamn chore. Excited is how you’re supposed to feel.” He takes a sip of his drink and starts to dance in his seat. “Welcome to the club, Sis.”
I laugh and continue eating. To be fair, I used to get excited about the prospect of a new date. But once you’re lied to enough times, it starts to get old. I was even cheated on a few months ago, and we had only been dating for a couple of months when it happened. I don’t understand the dishonesty. If you want to keep something casual, just say so.
“What’s his name? I want to find him.”
I open my mouth to explain that I don’t actually know his name yet, but my smile fades when a second text comes in.
Unknown Number:
When do they let you hang up the apron and stop serving coffee?
Serving coffee? I don’t serve coffee. I might wear an apron at work, but there’s no coffee being served in the salon—especially not by me. He can’t think I work at Southern Roast, can he? I mean, I was in line as a customer, just like him. Unless he didn’t mean to ask me out at all. But he left his receipt for me. The only other person around was— Oh . . .
Shit. Shit. Shit.
The barista.