Chapter Thirteen
A girl could get used to this.
Elodie
Cursing words my father would be ashamed of me for knowing, I reach blindly into the bucket beside my upturned head, feeling for my hair gel.
I consider, not for the first time, that maybe I would enjoy being bald.
Feeling the wind on my scalp as I bask in the knowledge that I will never have to endure another hair-day torture session again?
I’m one more dollop of conditioner in my eyeball away from that becoming my reality.
Curly hair? It’s great. Fun. Funky. Fresh. Cool.
An absolute nightmare to care for.
It takes hours to tame it into some semblance of submission, just to receive a giant, haha, you thought when it dries in whichever direction it desires, defying the laws of not only hair products but often gravity as well.
As more curses fall from my lips, I swipe at my wet eyes with an equally wet forearm and wonder how much longer I’ll be able to withstand the blood rush caused by holding my head upside down for extended periods of time.
Surely, this is the source of my recent slew of idiocy; hair-day-induced stupidity.
Finally, a bottle I’m pretty sure contains my hair gel finds its way into my hand.
A quick squint through sopping wet eyelashes confirms it’s most definitely, probably, the gel that I was looking for, so I open the bottle, squeeze a hefty glob into my hands, and get to work scrunching it into my hair.
The door to the bathroom creaks open, and I bark, “That door was cracked for airflow, Salty, not as an invitation for you to wander in. Go away.”
Roman adds a curse of his own to the mixture of mine, saying, “You already started.”
“Started what?” I ask, dropping my arms to wiggle some of the ouch out before going back in to get the next section of hair.
“Your curl routine,” he grumps. “You started early.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, Captain Obvious. I started early. Great observational skills. Excellent job. Now, if that’s all, kindly leave .”
I huff, and the wet tag of my T-shirt scratches at my back, compounding the awful that is this experience.
Roman, in league with my shirt tag, does not leave. “I came to apologize,” he says, looming by the door. “And I brought a gift.”
Is he…
Is he for real right now?
Now is when he wants to apologize to me?
When I’m upside down, wet, sore, and tired?
He cannot be serious.
“Roman, I’m kind of busy? Do your apology tour later.”
“I brought you a gift,” he repeats. “To say sorry.”
Great. Another one of his flowers-and-chocolates apologies. Not that there’s anything wrong with flowers or chocolates, per se, but they give…
Impersonal.
It does not give sincere, thoughtful, heartfelt remorse. It gives five seconds at a grocery store and thinking that makes up for any and all sins against a person, any person, because there’s nothing specific about the repentance. It could be for anyone anywhere.
No freaking thank you.
I’ll buy my own flowers and chocolates if I want them. He can keep his guilt gift.
“I don’t want your gift,” I tell him, returning the gel to the jumble of half-used products beside me. “You can keep it.”
“I don’t want to keep it,” he grumbles. “It’s for you.”
I rise, sighing as I reach for my hair towel. A respite is in sight. First, I plop my mound of hair into my special mouse-faced microfiber towel, then I sit upright for a while while it does its work well enough for me to pull out the diffuser and begin the final round of upside-down madness.
I turn toward Roman while I button my towel so that the cute little mouse face sits cheerfully above my forehead. “I don’t wa—” I stop, jaw dropping at the gift he’s brought me—a gift that is most definitely not flowers and chocolate.
Or, well, not only flowers and chocolate.
“What is that?” I whisper, sore arms dropping to my sides as water drips off of my nose to further wet my shirt. “What is that?”
Roman blushes, biceps popping as he lifts a massive gift basket toward me. “For you. To say sorry for the other night. I would’ve brought it earlier, but it took me a while to find the products you usually use, then I had to overnight some of them, so I only finished this about… five minutes ago.”
He gulps, eyes flitting between the basket and me.
“I’m sorry, Elodie, for the way I behaved when you called me for help.
I shouldn’t have lectured you like that.
I hope that in the future you still feel safe enough to call me when you need help, and that you know that I have always had your safety as my primary concern.
I didn’t handle it well at all, and I believe I’ve learned from this situation so that it won’t happen again in the future.
This,” he wiggles the basket. “Is a promise that I will be more considerate, more gentle, and more understanding going forward, to the very best of my ability. It’s a promise to pay attention to your needs and to care for them in a less selfish way. ”
He heaves a breath that looks about as painful as my arms, shoulders, and back feel right now. “Forgive me, Sweet. Please.”
My eyes rove the basket, which overflows with gels, mousses, shampoos, conditioners, deep conditioners, scalp scrubs, flowers, chocolates, new bonnets, and what appears to be a neck massager.
Possibly that basket weighs five thousand pounds, he’s stuffed it so full of product, all in brands I love and use regularly.
Possibly his arm is about to fall off from him holding it out to me through that whole, incredibly thoughtful speech, and beyond, since I’ve responded by just… staring at him.
Possibly I should stop staring and take it, because that was the best apology I have ever gotten in my life, and it came with a huge dose of spoiling, so I am obviously going to forgive him, and I should let him know that.
I move, jolting forward like I’ve been shocked—which, kind of, I have—to grab the basket.
I stumble when the weight of it falls into my arms and immediately decide it can live next to the door.
The space directly in front of Roman looks like a wonderful spot for a basket.
I drop it there, then raise my eyes to him.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’m— this is—” I shake my head, wobbling my mouse towel. “This is so thoughtful, Roman.” I sniff. “This must have taken you so long to put together.”
His eyes roam my face. “It was worth it,” he replies. “To show you that I can pay attention and do the right thing. I’m capable, and I will do better where it regards you going forward.”
I nod, glancing at my basket. “I see that, yeah.”
Intense, he asks, “Can you forgive me, Sweet?”
“Yes,” I answer. “And not just because you’re bribing me to. I know that you just reacted like that because you were scared. I didn’t exactly handle the situation in the smartest way, and I know that. It was just…” I trail off, hesitant to bring up my grievances when he’s already apologized.
“It was just me being an idiot, dogging on you when you already knew you could have done things differently, but it was too late to change anything. It was just me picking you up, berating you, and being a self-righteous prick about it.”
Well…
“I mean,” I cough. “You said it.”
He chuckles, using his foot to move the basket aside so that it’s no longer between us or potentially blocking the door. A wild design choice, to be sure, but I suppose I will accept it.
Once the basket is out of the way, he further shocks me by closing the space between us and pressing his large, dry body against me, arms wrapping around me in a hug.
I blink, unsure if he realizes he’s just drowned himself by proximity. “Roman, I’m soaking wet,” I inform him.
“I know,” he says. “It’s fine. This is an I’m sorry hug. I’m sorry hugs happen regardless of water content. I’ll be fine.”
Well. If he says so. I guess.
Since we’re already in the I’m sorry hug, I should probably do a little bit of my own apologizing…
“I’m sorry, too,” I mutter. “For not following through on my promise.”
His arms tighten, but he says only, “Finish up in here. I’ve set up a movie night for us downstairs with pizza. And when you get down there, I’ll give you a massage. Work out some of the hair day pain.”
Uh…
“I appreciate the apology, and the gift, but truly you don’t have to go that far.” I’m certainly not going that far. “The apology portion of the evening is over.”
Not to mention, if he keeps being nice to me, I will feel bad when I’m inevitably mean back. He’s messing up our dynamic. I am mean, he is mean. He is mean, I am mean. It’s a system that works. Throwing in apologies and gifts and massages messes up the ecosystem.
“The gift and the apology are for you,” he says.
“After we got home Wednesday night, I talked to Will, then I talked to my mom, and they both talked a bit of sense into me. My mom, especially, helped me with the apology. The basket was my idea, but… I didn’t really know where to start.
” He clears his throat. “She convinced me to sneak into your bathroom and go through your hair products for brand specifics. I’ve never snooped before. It was harrowing.”
My eyebrows rise. I’ll just bet it was.
“Anyway,” he mumbles, “the basket and the apology are for you, but they haven’t really gotten rid of the buckets of guilt I’m still feeling, so the massage is more for me. As penance.”
Ohhh. Penance. That, I can accept. I don’t have to reciprocate penance, and he’s not suddenly being an overly nice person. He’s suddenly being an overly guilty person. Much, much better. Status quo: unchanged.
Which means that when I go downstairs fifteen minutes later in dry clothes, a fresh mouse wrap on my head, I’m able to fully enjoy the pizza, the movie, and the massage, guilt-free.
Well, for me anyway.