8. Asha
Asha
The salon in Brooklyn wasn't mine. It belonged to a woman named Gloria who rented me a station for three hundred a week, cash, no questions. She didn't ask where I'd come from or why I was paying in bills instead of a check. She gave me a chair, a mirror, a drawer for my tools, and left me alone.
I was grateful for it. Having somewhere to work kept my hands busy and my mind from spiraling.
But every time I picked up the flat iron or mixed a color formula or ran my fingers through a client's hair, I thought about the salon in Atlanta.
My salon. The one I'd built from nothing while living inside Supreme's cage.
It was a small storefront on Peachtree in Midtown, wedged between a nail place and a Caribbean restaurant.
I'd found it two years into living with Supreme, back when he was still in his generous phase, back when he wanted to prove he wasn't keeping me prisoner by letting me have something that looked like independence.
He'd paid the first six months' rent. I'd paid everything after that out of the money I'd been skimming from the household budget.
I'd painted the walls myself. Dove grey with white trim. Bought the chairs secondhand from a salon in Buckhead that was upgrading. Fixed the plumbing with a YouTube tutorial and a wrench. Built the client list one referral at a time until I was booked solid four days a week.
Mrs. Henderson came every other week for a wash and set.
She was seventy-three years old, wore the same pearl earrings every visit, and told me stories about growing up in Savannah while I worked the conditioner through her silver hair.
She'd been coming to me for eighteen months.
She brought her granddaughter once, a girl called Tiana who sat in the waiting chair playing games on her phone and said "Your salon is really pretty, Miss Asha" before they left.
I'd thought about that compliment for three days.
Mya was my one employee. Twenty-two, fresh out of cosmetology school, talked too much but had beautiful hands and a natural talent for braids that I couldn't teach.
She'd show up fifteen minutes early every shift with an iced coffee from the place next door, one for her and one for me, talking about her boyfriend problems while we set up the stations.
All of that was sitting empty right now. Supreme had brought me to Brooklyn and the salon was locked up with a note on the door that said CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. Mya was doing mobile appointments to keep her clients. Mrs. Henderson had texted me twice asking when I was coming back.
I didn't have an answer for her.
But that was Atlanta. This was Brooklyn.
Gloria's chair, Gloria's mirror, Gloria's products.
I cleaned my station between appointments, organized my tools, and checked the savings account balance on my phone under the counter.
Two thousand nine hundred and twelve dollars away from the number.
Close enough to taste, far enough to keep me up at night.
My phone buzzed while I was between clients. Nene's name on the screen. I told Gloria I was taking five minutes and went to the bathroom.
"Girl, I been calling you," Nene said before I could speak. "You alive?"
"Barely."
"You sure? Cos you been quiet for like four days and that ain't like you."
"Things been busy." I sat on the closed toilet lid with my back against the tank. "Supreme's got me on a short leash since we got to Brooklyn. Cee drives me everywhere. I can't even go to the bodega without him knowing."
"Cee. That's the driver?"
"Yeah."
"He cute?"
"Nene."
"I'm asking for research purposes." She laughed. "Okay, okay. How's the salon situation?"
"I'm still renting that same chair. It's fine."
"Fine means trash, Ash. We been through this."
"It means fine, Nene. The chair works, the mirror's clean, Gloria don't bother me. I got my own clients coming in. It's not my salon but it's a chair and a mirror and that's all I need right now."
"You miss the Atlanta spot?"
"Every day." I leaned my head against the bathroom wall. "Mrs. Henderson texted me again yesterday. Asked when I'm coming back. I didn't know what to tell her."
"Tell her the truth."
"Which version?"
"The one where you're handling business in Brooklyn and you'll be back when you're back. She don't need the details. She just needs to know her hairdresser ain't dead." She paused. "How's Brooklyn treating you otherwise?"
I paused. Thought about Omar standing on that corner looking at me like fourteen years hadn't passed. Thought about the way my chest had tightened when I saw his face, the way my body had recognized him before my brain caught up.
"Brooklyn's complicated," I said.
"Complicated how?" Nene's voice sharpened. She could read me through a phone line better than most people could read me in person. "Ash. What happened?"
"Nothing happened."
"You just paused for three seconds before answering. Something happened."
I closed my eyes. "I saw someone. From before."
"Before before? Like Atlanta before?"
"Like Brooklyn before. Like sixteen before."
Nene was quiet for a second. Then: "Oh shit. You saw that boy."
"He's not a boy anymore."
"Clearly not if you pausing like that." I heard her shift on whatever she was sitting on. "Omar, right? The one you told me about. The one from when you were kids?"
"Yeah."
"And?"
"And nothing. I saw him. He saw me. We didn't talk."
"But you wanted to?"
I didn't answer. She didn't need me to.
"Ash." Nene's voice was softer now. "Be careful. Supreme's got eyes on you twenty-four-seven. If he finds out you even looked at another man..."
"I'm not looking at anyone. I saw someone from before. That's all."
"Okay." She didn't believe me. "Just... be smart about it. Whatever it is. You too close to the number to blow it now."
"I know."
"You still saving?"
"Every week."
"How close?"
"Three thousand away. Maybe less."
"Then keep your head down, keep saving, and get to that number. Then you get out clean and you never look back." She paused. "And if that boy happens to be part of what comes after, then that's your business. But the getting out part comes first. You hear me?"
"I hear you."
"Good. Now tell me about this woman Gloria and her salon. She got good products or is she one of them bootleg operations?"
I laughed. It came out tired but real. "Her products are fine, Nene."
"Fine ain't good. Fine is what people say when something's trash but they don't wanna be rude." She kissed her teeth. "I'll send you some of the good stuff from my supplier. She ships overnight."
"You don't have to do that."
"I know I don't have to. I want to. That's what friends do, Ash. They send each other quality deep conditioner during difficult times."
I laughed again, harder this time, my hand over my mouth so Gloria wouldn't hear me through the bathroom door.
Nene always did this. Always found the exact right thing to say that wasn't the heavy thing, wasn't the serious thing, just the human thing that reminded me I was still a person with a best friend who cared about deep conditioner.
"I gotta go," I told her. "My next client's probably wondering where I went."
"Call me tonight?"
"If I can."
"Ash."
"Yeah?"
"I love you. You know that."
"I know. Love you too."
"And stay away from that boy."
I hung up and sat there for a second. Then I washed my hands, checked my face in the mirror, and went back to Gloria's salon where my two o'clock was already in the chair waiting.
The flat iron was warm. The client wanted a silk press with a trim. I got to work.
Three thousand away. Maybe less. The number was close. The plan was solid. The exit was possible.
And Omar Baptiste was somewhere in Brooklyn existing in the same borough as me for the first time in fourteen years.
I told myself that didn't matter. I told myself the plan was the plan.
I almost believed it.