11. Chapter Eleven #2
She’d taken over the business a little over three years ago, “freshly back in the States” as she put it, from a distant relative who could no longer handle the day-to-day operations.
From the way she talked about it, she’d taken to it like a fish to water—hearing her reminded me of the way Mark sounded when he talked about closing sales quarters around the water cooler.
“I don’t sell nails,” she explained shortly after our entrees arrived.
“That’s a sucker’s game. Acrylics are a commodity.
Anybody can do acrylics—you can walk to any random mall kiosk and find a sixteen-year-old who’ll do your nails for half the price I charge.
If I try to compete on cost, I’m dead.” She smiled.
“That’s not the point. I sell an experience. I sell being known. Being seen.”
I thought of the way she’d been with Savannah and Bailey. Exchanging stories, giggling with them like a friend, complimenting them as she got their nails clean and pressed. She talked about it like an act; like it was a tactic to maximize sales. But I’d seen her operate. I knew how real it was.
“You sit in my chair a time or two and I know your kid’s name, your real hair color—you’ve probably even told me the last time you and your husband got down and dirty. Not you, obviously,” she said with a snort. “Most of my clients are women. I actually see very few men in my profession.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Nobody leaves a place where they’re known,” she said, like it was some axiom of business.
“You sell someone nails, they maybe come back or they maybe don’t.
You build a relationship—that’s what lasts.
That’s what matters.” She took a bite of her tteokbokki, brimming with energy.
“Loyalty. That’s what keeps the lights on.
That’s the moat that keeps the creditors at bay. ”
I blinked. “A moat.”
“It’s an island, it’s a castle,” she said, snorting. “I mix my metaphors sometimes.”
Sure. But I wasn’t entirely proud of how strongly I reacted to this speech, coming from a woman with a blue streak in her hair and an attitude that was cool without even trying to be.
Twenty years in banking and no one at CreditCore had ever laid out the dynamics of a competitive market with such aplomb.
Or looked so good doing it.
“You’re ambitious,” I said.
She grinned. “Damn right I am. I have a lot of expectations to live up to.” She wiped her mouth with the corner of a napkin. “That face you’re making is adorable, by the way.”
“What face?”
“Like you can’t decide whether you want to hire me or become a silent partner in my business,” she said, savoring both her food and her words. “I’m not interested in the first, and I don’t think you could afford the second.”
I chuckled. “Tell me more.”
It was her own phrase, tossed back to her like a hacky sack. “How about you tell me more, Tom Cottrell? I’ve been talking about my ambitions. What are yours? What’s the five-year-plan look like for the company man?”
I couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “I… I’m not really sure,” I admitted.
Some girls might have been put off by that, especially at my age. Miki saw deeper.
“Tell me more,” she said, setting her glass to the side.
I hesitated. There was a story inside of me, only it was one that Miki would never believe. Or worse: she’d believe it and then realize the truth. I had to be careful here.
And yet, it almost all came rushing out, right then and there. Because there was something inherently trustworthy about this girl. Something that made me think it would be alright.
“Something… broke open this year,” I said slowly, feeling around the edges. “I’m sure Savannah told you about the divorce?”
“She did,” Miki said, nodding. “I’m sorry. I know you’re not supposed to take sides in these things, but it sounds like her loss.”
“The divorce was the start of it,” I said.
“The first pebble going down the side of the mountain. The avalanche came later.” I paused, deciding how much to tell.
“You said that thing about expectations. I spent two decades being a cardboard cutout, Miki. Living up to what everybody else thought of me and never taking a moment to ask myself what I wanted. I built this whole family, this whole life, and when it came crashing down… I had to become someone else.”
“Change can be good,” Miki ventured. “It can be fucking great, actually.”
“The guy who crawled out of the wreckage is… different,” I said.
“He wants things, and he asks for things, and he doesn’t apologize for it.
I keep wanting to feel guilty about that, and it keeps not happening.
I’m starting to think it’s not going to.
” I took a sip of my drink. “The truth is, I’m forty-three years old and I’ve only just met myself.
I like him, Miki, don’t get me wrong. But I’m not really sure what that crazy fucker’s going to do next. ”
She was grinning by the end of the speech. “You want to know why I gave you my number?”
Hmm? “Sure,” I said, interested.
“I told you that I don’t see very many men in my line of work,” she said, her head tilting slightly to the side.
“The ones that do come in with their wives or girlfriends—or daughters, in your case—usually spend the whole visit on their phones. If I’m less lucky, they sit on the couch in the waiting area and and try to stare at my ass without getting caught. ”
“To be fair, it’s a great ass.”
Miki snorted. “You weren’t like that. You had that magazine the whole time, but I could tell you weren’t reading a word of it.
You were watching your daughter and her friend like they were the whole show.
You were present, Tom Cottrell. And men who are present, good fathers, and self-reflective enough to actually worry if they’re going too far post-divorce instead of winging it?
” She looked me up and down like I was a prize she’d just finished unwrapping.
“That’s rare. I keep my eyes open for shit like that. ”
Slowly, I nodded. “You really do know how to make someone feel seen.”
A grin split her face. “Plus,” she whispered, leaning forward, “you’re hot. Honestly, you’ve got a pretty great ass, yourself.”
I couldn’t help it—I laughed. I don’t think anyone had ever complimented my rear before.
The music playing in the background changed. What sounded like K-Pop was replaced with a shimmering guitar instrumental that shifted time signatures every few seconds. The second Miki heard it she lit up like a switchboard.
I thought I knew why. “This sounds like that band you sent me,” I said, wracking my brain for the name. “The math rock one: TTPV?” I was proud to have remembered.
“This isn’t ttpv,” Miki said.
“You’re sure?”
Miki looked like she was trying to hold back laughter. “That would be the worst bet you’ve ever taken,” she said, twirling a noodle around her chopsticks. “I am one thousand percent sure that’s not the total perspective vortex. It’s probably Covet.”
I blinked. “I didn’t know it was an acronym.”
“We didn’t put that part on Spotify. You see, it’s from this sci-fi novel—”
“I’ve read Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy,” I said. “Wait. We didn’t?”
Miki grinned sheepishly. “I’m the bassist,” she said, nibbling her bottom lip. “Yes, I made you listen to my own music. That I composed, because I am—or was, we’ve been on hiatus for ages—the principal songwriter.”
I coughed. “That’s… wow, you’re really talented.”
“Thanks. It’s what I did for two years instead of having a normal life.”
Pieces clicked together. “You said you’d just gotten back to the States when you took over Sakura,” I said. “Were you on tour?”
Miki laughed. “Our ‘world tour,’” she said, making air quotes to defuse the grandeur of it. “Mostly it was us bumming around Japan—I’ve got family back there who were willing to put me up and let my bandmates sleep on the floor. I mean, we all slept on the floor, it was tatami mats.”
I whistled through my teeth. “Good lord. And I saw a diploma hanging on the wall of your nail shop.”
“Oh yeah,” Miki nodded. “Totally.”
“How on Earth did you manage to finish college?”
“I switched to online classes my last three semesters,” she explained, as if juggling that along with touring was like switching to the medium sudoku in the morning instead of the easy one. “Kind of a tradition in my family, honestly. Weird story.”
“I’m sure.”
“Everyone said I was doing my twenties wrong.
That I should give up the whole band thing, I was too old for it, but then the same people also told me I was too young to run a business.
Like I was always the wrong age for whatever I was doing.
" She shrugged. “That’s kind of a tradition, too. So is being unconventional on purpose and letting everyone else deal with it.”
When she said that, I saw a door that I hadn’t been certain I was going to approach crack open. Before the date, I’d been sure I was going to avoid the elephant in the room. But now that Miki had broached the topic—even in a roundabout, vague way—I felt emboldened to push.
“Listen,” I said. The waitress dropped off dessert—something I couldn’t have pronounced if I tried but looked fucking delicious. “You said you’re a direct person. Is it alright for me to be direct?”
“Absolutely,” Miki said, straightening up a bit. “Say what you want to say, Tom. Life’s too short to do anything else.”
She was right.
“I can’t speak for you, but this date’s been going well on my end. Really well.” I couldn’t help but smile at that. “Am I off base in thinking you’re feeling the same way?”
She shook her head. “I am having a very good time,” she said. “Even better than I expected—and the things I’ve heard about you from Savannah had me already setting my expectations pretty high.”
I nodded. “This might land wrong,” I said, bracing myself. “But how old are you, Miki?”
The question didn’t faze her. “Twenty-five. Twenty-six in a few months—I’m a January baby.”