Chapter 47
Forty-Seven
ANDREA
Open the portal. Refresh. No update. Close the portal.
Open the portal. Refresh. No update. Close the portal.
“Greedy little shits have no problem taking their co-pays, but God forbid they post lab results,” I snarl under my breath, my platform Docs squeaking on the recently mopped floor of the cafe.
I figured if I’m already running late, might as well grab some caffeine before work.
Energy is worth worsening the incessant burn frying me from the inside.
I’m not exactly sure when the pain started, only that I can’t remember a time without it anymore. I’ve tried every over-the-counter medication, a billion PH-balancing washes, wipes and sprays, and even threw out all my underwear, but nothing helps.
It. Never. Stops. Burning.
“Andrea?” the barista calls.
Throwing up a peace sign, I squeeze past a gaggle of sorority skanks (who I guarantee are headed next door too) and scoop up my mobile order. My phone buzzes in my palm as I zoom out the side exit into the blinding Florida afternoon.
Remy:
He’s outside my classroom AGAIN. Looking at me like a lost fucking puppy AGAIN.
WHY. WHY MUST HE LOOK LIKE THAT.
Since his ex-boyfriend’s surprise return to Fort Manor after rehab, my best friend has been freaking the ever-loving FUCK out. (As if the dingbat hasn’t been begging the universe to hand-deliver Win back to him.)
That’s just his face babe
I hate it
No you don’t
No. I really fucking hate it.
Shaking my head, I chuck my phone back in my purse, juggling it with my keys, emotional support water bottle and chai latte while awkwardly leaning forward to take a sloshy sip.
“Don’t spill, don’t spill, don’t spill—”
“Whoa!” A startled blonde woman stumbles aside as I barrel through the salon’s front door.
“Beep, beep!” I chirp, swerving past, the ball of keychains hooked on my thumb rattling like a cowbell.
“Finally!” Amira snaps. “I should fire you!”
“You can’t get rid of me. I’m the personality hire,” I sing and wink at the furious, pint-sized Korean. Though Amira Isue might be the only person with a temper to rival mine, she’s a giant teddy bear under that hardass exterior.
She tails me to my station, tutting, “Yeah, yeah, you bring in the crazy. Now spill. What they say?”
I toe open the bottom drawer and unceremoniously dump my shit in. “A whopping nothing so far,” I grumble, digging around in the bottomless pit that is my bag for some lip balm. “But for three hundred bucks, they better give me a miracle cure.”
“Three hundred?” She scowls. “They robbing you, girl.”
My nose wrinkles as I slather on rose-flavored salve. “Trust me, I’m aware, but the campus Women’s Center is way cheaper than that specialist group downtown.”
The cost of medical care in America is obscene in general, let alone for those of us with shitty insurance.
I have approximately fifty dollars until next Friday.
Fucking love that for me. Although if I really needed to, I could always go to Remy’s Ma, but I don’t want to burden her any more than I already have.
My boss harrumphs and leans a hip into the marble desk-top, crossing her arms over her chest. For a family-owned salon, Amira and her sister, Mae, didn’t spare any expense when creating a luxurious atmosphere.
Chandeliers, sleek chrome fixtures and pristine white accents in a variety of textures decorate the space while the relaxing scents of lavender, aloe and bergamot waft from the essential oil diffusers hidden throughout.
It's impossible not to feel zen in this place– well, unless an obnoxious customer comes in, which tends to happen daily since we're walking distance from Sorority Row.
As much as I complain about our clientele's endless yapping, they do keep me up to date on the latest FMU gossip.
Plus, I get to be Mae’s guinea pig once a week. Only clowns decline free manicures.
My current holographic set of claws glitters under the modern bar light as I rearrange my crystals. “Google convinced me it’s endometriosis.”
“Last week, you said PCOS. The week before that, a cyst,” Mae chimes in from her stool in front of the pedicure chair. “What’s next? An STD?”
“That would imply I’m sexually active,” I sigh.
Mae snickers. “You can see Melody again. She was a nice girl. Funny. Cute. Smart.”
I glower at the back of her head where she’s bent over a client’s foot. “You’re forgetting she wanted a relationship, which I can’t do.”
Both of them hum, “Mmmhmmm,” sarcastically.
“Seriously. Everyone wants strings attached and that’s not my jam. Shit, at this rate, I might as well join the convent.” I groan. “But knowing my luck, it’s cancer and I have three days to live.”
Amira huffs. “No dying. I don’t have anyone to cover your shifts.”
Mae snorts, muttering an insult in their native language. I smirk. Having worked with them since freshman year at FMU, I’ve learned a good bit of Korean slang.
“Yeah, Mire, shut the fuck up. You’d mourn me,” I grin.
Amira whips me with the rag she’s been twisting. “I miss it when you didn’t understand.”
“Because you talk mad shit,” Mae chuckles.
“Both of you get to work,” she snaps. Mae just shakes her head and taps her client’s calf, signaling her to place her foot in the tub. Amira points directly between my eyes. “You have an appointment.”
I pull back in surprise. “Appointment? It’s Saturday. We don’t do appointments on Saturdays.”
My boss whips the rag at me again. “I made an exception. They called just for you.”
What the fuck?
I glance at the front desk, where Shelby is checking in the sorority snoots from the cafe. I guess the brunette looks kinda familiar…
“Them?”
“No. Me.”
My heart stops dead. Then takes off running.
No.
Fucking.
Way.
Standing in the middle of the salon, grinning at me like a maniac, is the boy who disappeared with my heart when he lost his mind. The Original Sinner himself. Bi-colored eyes twinkle with mirth. A slow, devious smirk unfurls on his lips.
“We meet again, church girl.”