Chapter 11 #3
“No. I didn’t really think that one through. I don’t want anybody in this town to see my feet. Let alone touch them. That was a terrible idea.” Feet were so weird. This was so weird.
“I’m sure your feet are fine.” He was already walking backward. “You know, Mr. Ellis, the delivery driver? He goes and gets them every month.” We shared a grimace. “That guy walks all day, every day—rain or shine. You think they are going to be worried about your feet?” he said.
“The people working there see feet every day,” I said in agreement to comfort myself, but even as I did, my fingertips started to tingle, and that jelly feeling in the back of my knees returned.
I imagined the pretty, dainty women of the nail salon all whispering about me as I passed them in the road.
You should have seen those hooves, like she never even takes care of herself.
“Exactly. You’ll be okay. Plus, they won’t be even looking at your feet when they see mine.”
“Yours?”
“Yeah. I should get one too. It might surprise you that I’ve never had one. And between the running and the life of a fireman . . . Wooo-eeee. Those ladies have their work cut out for them.”
Here, my body produced an ambiguous questioning sound. I squeezed my arms tight around my middle and looked around for any excuse to bolt.
“We will just go, and you’ll ask if they have any openings,” he said. His gentle brush against my arms loosened them and brought my attention back to him, grounding me. I let out a slow breath.
“And if they’re booked up, we will try somewhere else. No harm, no foul.”
All harm. All foul.
He noticed my lack of movement.
“What’s the worst that could happen?” He dropped his head to meet my eyes, sincerity just radiating out of him.
It opened the tap in me.
“I guess . . .” I dropped my hands to my side.
Maybe if he could get a glimpse of my worries, he would see that it’s not so easy.
“I won’t know what counter to go to. What if I go in the wrong door and I have to walk all the way across the store in front of everybody, thinking about how ridiculous I am?
What if the ladies are all talking about me?
I worry I’m going to say the wrong thing.
I worry that they’re going to think that I’m an ungrateful white woman. ”
“Wait, wh—” Pace tried, but I couldn’t stop now.
“These salons are often run by Vietnamese women. And before you accuse me of making vaguely racist assumptions—”
“I wasn’t—”
“I actually looked into this once because I almost worked myself up to going. And I was so afraid I was going to think or say the wrong thing. I wanted to make sure I was correct in assuming the women were Vietnamese. So I researched it and learned that most nail salons in the US are run by Vietnamese women, and there’s actually a rich history behind it that’s pretty interesting.
Then I listened to this in-depth podcast about the history of why that is and some of the harsher complications that go along with it.
And then I started to worry about privilege and power dynamics, and who did I think I was to let someone wash my feet?
That feels intimate, you know? And I never did end up going, but I really want to feel pampered and pretty.
And then that makes me feel guilty and a pawn of the patriarchy, because how many men worry about having pretty feet? ”
“Well—”
“And then I end up painting my own toenails, but it’s never really the same, and at the end of the day I don’t even remember the last time I wore sandals in public, so it’s all for naught anyway.”
My lips sucked in.
Pace stared at me for a long beat, his gaze sharp and intent, like he was trying to map every turn of that wild ride. I gripped the strap of my bag tighter. If it could carry me away, now would be a great time. Not for the first time, I sat raw and exposed in front of Pace.
“That’s it?” he asked quietly.
“Also . . . my second toe is disturbingly long,” I muttered, looking anywhere but him. “But yeah. That’s it.”
He stepped closer, just enough that I felt the warmth radiating from him. His fingers hovered near my forehead, brushing gently against my temple. “That’s what it’s like up there all the time?” His voice was soft, careful, not teasing, just present.
“Pretty much.” And maybe ten times that, and in a fraction of a second, and with multiple songs and sounds on repeat.
“That sounds . . . exhausting,” he said, his eyes never leaving mine. “How about this? We go inside the spa and get the lay of the land first. If it gets to be too much, we leave. No questions asked.”
I blinked, startled by the offer and the sincerity in his tone. He wasn’t bulldozing me, he just wanted me to take the first steps.
“One thing at a time,” he added, his fingers brushing mine as he took my hand, guiding me gently toward Cozy Creek Nails.
The small contact sent a shiver through me, not of fear, but of reassurance.
He was here. He saw me. And for the first time in a long while, I felt like maybe I could survive stepping out of my little bubble.