Chapter 1 #2
“Me? Never. I’m thriving.” I throw the statement over my shoulder, already speed-walking down the hall because Ginny is going to kill me.
I fish my phone from my pocket, check the time, and yep, I’m six minutes behind schedule. Which, in Ginny’s world, means I’ve been declared legally dead, and she’s probably rallying the other residents to avenge me.
I barely dodge a rogue walker in the hallway, muttering an apology over my shoulder as I half-jog toward the assisted living home’s small salon.
I burst through the door right as Betsy—seated in the stylist’s chair, hair in foils, looking like a very stylish and very angry space alien—turns her glare on me.
“You’re late. Ginny was worried we wouldn't have time for her hair so she already started on mine.”
I cross the few feet between us. “I know. I was detained.”
Betsy narrows her eyes. “Mr. Rhodes keep you?”
“Maybe.”
She lets out a slow, exasperated breath. “If he talks to me about that damn 1946 rare penny one more time, I’m launching his entire coin collection into a koi pond.”
I stifle a smile. “Noted.”
I grab an apron, tie it around my waist, and prepare for the chaos that is salon night, because if I don’t redeem myself, I will be paying for my lateness in bingo sabotage for the next month.
I peek under one of the foils, half-expecting disaster. “Betsy, is there anything under these foils?”
“Oh, these?” She squirms, trying to get a look at herself. “Just a test run for placement. Ginny went off to find some dye.”
“How about we stick with a shampoo for tonight?” I start taking the foils out, her dark grey peppered strands falling back into place. I massage her scalp as I go, and she relaxes back into my hands with a hum of approval.
As I reach for the shampoo, Ginny glides into the salon, plops down in the chair beside Betsy, and waves a brush at me like a scepter. “Emma, first, I thought I told you to order more bleach. I can’t find a box of dye anywhere. Second, you’re undoing my work.”
I smirk. “First, you’re on bleach probation after the last incident. Betsy almost lost half her hair. Second, please, refer to my first point.”
Ginny leans over to whisper in Betsy’s ear. “Can you order some off that site? You know the one that has everything.” Ginny turns toward me. “It’s like an online Ames Department Store.”
Betsy grins. “I did find a coupon…”
I run shampoo through Betsy’s hair, watching out of the corner of my eye as Helen tries to subtly sink into the final cracked salon chair. “There will be no ordering!”
Ginny huffs. “How about you, Helen? Your hair’s so pale we wouldn’t even need to wait for Betsy to find her coupon stash and order the bleach.” She turns toward Helen.
Helen holds her braid as far away from Ginny as possible. “Absolutely not. That hair dye is full of toxins, Ginny. Toxins. The government puts chemicals in everything nowadays, and I won’t be part of their experiment.”
Ginny lets out a sigh. “Here we go.”
Helen straightens, her voice dropping to a dramatic whisper. “You do realize they put fluoride in the water to control us, don’t you?”
Ginny snorts. “Yes, Helen, the government is out here using fluoride to control an eighty-six-year-old woman’s decision to color her hair.”
“I wish the government would use fluoride to get Emma to start dating again.” Betsy taps her fingers against the armrest. “Your love life’s fizzled out.”
Ginny nods in agreement, apparently happy for the subject change. “You used to come in here with a new tale of flirting and passion every week.” She sighs dramatically. “Those were the days. I didn’t even have to watch any soaps. Then you met him. And he ruined it all.”
“Those weren’t the days, and it’s for the best they ended,” I mutter. “If it hadn’t been him, it would’ve been some other man in the near future.”
I can still feel the sting of the concrete steps outside the courthouse beneath me, cutting through the thin fabric of my white sundress.
We weren’t doing anything fancy—his words, not mine.
Just a simple civil ceremony, no fuss, no flowers, no crowd.
Only the two of us and a lunch reservation after.
Except it wasn’t the two of us. It was me. Sitting there. Waiting.
He texted six hours later to say his online gaming team had made it to the end of some quest. A quest. Not a job interview.
Not a family emergency. A digital dragon or a virtual sword or something equally absurd had been more important than saying “I do.” And the worst part was I wasn’t the least bit surprised.
Ginny waves a manicured hand like she’s batting away a fly. “Well, men are always late to something. That one just happened to be your wedding. Tragic, yes, but hardly original.”
She adjusts her silk scarf with the poise of someone delivering a TEDTalk on heartbreak and high fashion. “Now, if you’d had the good sense to schedule your nuptials at Neiman Marcus, at least you could’ve returned the dress while you waited.”
I don’t remind her that the dress was a thrift store original and that she was the one holding the tissue box while I tried to laugh through the tears. She knows. They all do.
“It’s been a year, dear,” Ginny continues. “We’ve held your hand, passed the tissues, and pretended that thrift store dress was couture. But mourning, like white after Labor Day, has an expiration date. It’s time to pull yourself together and move on. Preferably in heels.”
If you want to see what mischief these three get into, This Is Not A Romance is available on now!