8. Chapter 8
Chapter 8
Peyton
M y internship could not be going better. I’ve completed the grant application a month early, leaving me plenty of time to work with Ada on our new project. Because it was approved! Ada and I are beyond thrilled and immediately purchased a new camera system to kick things off. The existing setup has a few dead spots, so it’s time for an upgrade.
The next step is installation. At the field station, Ada, Harris, and I walk the perimeter of the outdoor chimpanzee area. Normally, the summer sun saps the energy right out of me, but I’m so excited to start the project that even the Georgia afternoon can’t wear me down. Nor can Harris, who inserted himself into the installation when I was discussing it with Dr. Wahl and has been a lead weight ever since.
The wooden playscape, with its multiple platforms, ropes, and tire swing, sits empty as the chimpanzees relax indoors.
“One per corner, right?” Harris slaps the fence. “Let’s get this over with.”
“But the corners are the farthest points from the playscape, which I’m assuming is where the chimps hang out.” Ada draws an imaginary line through the air.
“It’s not that much farther away, but fine. We’ll put them in the centers of the fence.”
“We need to make sure the playscape doesn’t block the view,” I say. “We can’t throw these up. This will take some trial and error.”
“Don’t overthink this.” Harris grabs the box of cameras. “I want to beat traffic.”
“You were the one who wasn’t available this morning.” My patience for Harris expired before we even left the main campus. We were supposed to leave first thing, but something “important” came up and he held the installation hostage by disappearing until after lunch.
Ada ignores us and finishes scoping out the space. She stops at the center of the fence edge closest to the playscape. “Let’s use this as the base point and see where we need to put the others to get full coverage.” Then she lugs the ladder into position against the fence.
“Fine.” Harris brings out a camera and hands it to me.
“Measure twice, cut once, right?” Ada replies. “Let’s not rush this and end up with dead spots. I’d rather deal with traffic today than have to come back later and reposition.”
“Agreed,” I say.
“I don’t understand why I’m being dragged into this. Shouldn’t maintenance be handling it?” Harris asks.
“You asked to be part of this! And it’s our data. Nobody is going to care as much as we do about setting up everything correctly.” I step onto the ladder and hold the camera in position. Though at the moment, I wish someone from maintenance was here as our required spotter instead of Harris. Really anybody other than Harris. Even Max would do.
Actually, having Max would be a huge improvement. Despite our bumpy start, we seem to be forming a fast friendship. He has a way of making even the boring interesting. Which reminds me, I need to send him another idea for his app. I’m sure today will provide some fodder.
Ada points to the ladder legs. “Harris, you’re supposed to be holding the ladder.” She goes over to her bag and pulls out her laptop.
Harris scowls and puts one hand on a rung, while scrolling on his phone with the other.
I call down to her. “How’s this view?”
“If we move a little more this way, the front pole won’t block as much of the view.”
I hear Harris mumble under his breath, “Shit. We’re never leaving.”
Though I’d love to tell him off, I, too, want to get this over with. I climb down without a word. Harris wanders off and makes a call, leaving me with the camera and ladder.
When Harris returns, Ada says, “If you ask me, you’re lucky to be here. It’s a great project to include on your résumé.”
“Except I’m stuck holding the ladder.” Harris frowns and crosses his arms.
“Leave that detail off the résumé. This is going to be some cool stuff.” Ada points at her computer screen, which currently displays a view of our feet.
“Maybe.” His mouth puckers in disdain of even this small admission.
“And you’re here right at the beginning, helping get it off the ground.” Ada continues, “Who knows where this could lead? Other programs could need help setting up AI programs.”
And for the first time today, Harris unfurrows his brow. But I’m so over him that even his better mood bothers me. He’s so self-serving.
Attempt two, I climb back up. Harris takes Ada’s laptop and motions to the top of the screen. “The angle’s a little low on the playscape. Move it as high as you can reach.” He slaps a ladder rung and the sound of the metal vibrating causes me to hunker down and hold tight.
Luckily, I’m tall enough that if I stretch, I can move the camera into a better position. “Keep the ladder steady,” I say to Harris, and he rolls his eyes in response.
“I think we’ve got it!” Ada says as she looks over Harris’s shoulder at her screen.
With one down, we map out the best positions for the remaining cameras. The installations run smoothly and we even start joking around. For the final camera spot, Harris climbs onto the bottom level of the playscape and scopes out the yard. I scamper up as well to check the view.
Then I know what the next activity should be for Max’s app, and I’m going to do it right now. I squat down. “Do you have a good view of us, Ada? Can you catch us in action?” I do my best chimpanzee pant-hoot greeting.
This gets her laughing. “That’s a damn good impression. And this is our next spot.”
“I’ll do this one.” Harris jumps down and goes for the ladder. Look at that, he’s actually going to get his hands dirty.
At five thirty and at the thick of rush hour, we pack up. Harris looks at the camera he installed. “Looks good. This one’s spot-on.”
Ada gives me a funny look. She sidles up to me and whispers, “Did he just pat himself on the back?”
“He’s flexible like that,” I joke.
“Guess we should’ve mentioned his résumé on the drive here?”
I nod in agreement. Such is Harris—unhelpful until he can see a reward for his efforts. Though can’t we all be this way at times?
And this reminds me of Ashima and Max. If she wants to change his behavior, she should bribe him. Actually, this would be an interesting experiment. And I know the perfect incentive.
Bacon.
Max
I’m toying with the idea of asking Peyton out. We’ve been texting nonstop all week. After she blew me off after the party, I’d decided she was too much of a head trip and was going to avoid her and Ashima, but she snuck past my defenses by texting me these funny ideas for my app.
It was cool that she was into it, so I texted back. At first it was all jokes and jabs, but the past couple of days our texts have shifted, become more personal. Still, I’m not sure where we stand. She’s invited me to grab drinks with a group of Ashima’s friends to celebrate someone’s birthday, so I’ll use the event to figure out her interest in me. And to make sure I’m not being foolish, I’ve invited my friends Shayna and Grace. Shayna especially will have no issues telling me if Peyton’s bad news.
There’s a knock at the door. Peyton stands there with a Tupperware of bacon-wrapped goodies, and I’ve never seen a more beautiful sight.
“I come bearing gifts—a little thank you for helping me out at the fundraiser.” Peyton waves the open container under my nose. “And it’s also a snack to go with the drinks at the birthday party.”
I snatch up a bite-sized cylinder.
“That’s a bacon-wrapped tot,” she says. “And the other ones are bacon-wrapped dates stuffed with goat cheese.”
The bacon on the tots is nice and crispy and goes perfectly with the soft potato center. But the dates with the sweet, salty, and savory—I think I’ve died and gone to hog heaven. “Thank you. Damn, what a surprise! This is awesome!”
“And thank you for going to the work event with me. I felt bad that I promised something would be bacon-wrapped and nothing was.” She opens a second container. “I brought dessert, too. Maple-bacon chocolate chip cookies.”
Dessert, too? I see through this. This is overkill for a thank you, and it’s odd to thank me now when it’s been a couple of weeks. She’s trying to sweeten me up. She wants me. And homemade cookies with crumbled bacon on top is a surefire way to my heart.
I’m salivating and want to dive right in, but we’re supposed to be leaving. “Should we eat these on the go?” I nod toward the hallway. They’re all packaged up. We might as well eat some in the car.
“I need a drink of water before we leave.” She enters and goes straight for the kitchen. At the entryway, she hangs back and clucks her tongue. “Where should I put these? Not much room on the counter.” She breaks off a bite of cookie and pops it in my mouth. “Help me load the dishwasher.”
Damn, why isn’t bacon on every cookie? My mind’s blown. The bacon bits are extra crispy, giving a little crunchy-chewy texture. Even with me taking frequent cookie breaks, we make short order of the dishes. Then she hands me a bottle of spray cleaner and a paper towel, as well as another tot. As long as she’s feeding me, I don’t care.
“Get your water. Time to go.” I spritz the counter.
“Oh, right.” She gives me a funny little smile.
I watch as she gets out a glass and I move over to a different section of counter to wipe up there. There’s that weird smile again, then she makes a big flourish of filling up the water from the fridge dispenser. At this point she’s being so weird, I stop to watch.
She chugs down the whole glass. “Wow, I was so thirsty.”
“Looks like it.” I finish wiping the counters and wash my hands. Then we return to the living room, where she detours to the coffee table. “How do you find the remote with all this junk?” She grabs a sweatshirt and shirt off the couch and shoves them at me. They’re mine, so I don’t argue and go toss them on my bed.
When I return, she’s holding a date and shoves it in my mouth before asking, “What else is yours?”
“Why do you need the remote?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer and starts sifting through the mail on the table. “This is yours.” She hands it to me, but I hesitate in taking it, so she adds, “I want to check the weather.”
I make a pile of my discarded mail, some magazines, rolling papers, and other random junk from the coffee table. She grabs nail clippers from the floor and adds it to the stack.
Finally, she finds the remote stuck between the couch cushions. “Here it is. So many buttons.” She brandishes it like a sword. It’s one of those jumbo multi-device remotes. “Too confusing. I’ll just check the weather on my phone.”
Duh, not sure why I hadn’t suggested that. Whatever. I grab the stuff I piled together and take it to my room. When I come back, she’s brushing the bacon from the top of a cookie. When she realizes I’m staring at her, she gives me that odd smile again.
Okay, something’s going on. Is this some sort of prank? Is there something wrong with the food?
“Why’d you take the bacon off that cookie?”
“Oh, I try to eat mostly vegetarian, really vegan, but buttery cookies are hard to resist. Anyway, I don’t need the bacon. The topping was all for you.” She gives the container a little shake and holds it toward me.
“Um, I’m pretty sure I saw you eat one of Ashima’s mini quiches at her party.”
“That’s true and it did have ham in it,” she admits. “Technically I’m flexitarian. I give in here and there.”
“Did you even try the cookies before giving them to me?”
“Of course! They’re delicious, but I can resist the bacon.”
“I’m not knocking it, but all of this is a weird present. Let me see you eat a date.”
She does without hesitation, so I’m pretty sure there’s nothing wrong with the food. Then the light bulb goes off. “You tricked me into cleaning! Ashima told you to do this!”
“No! I’m not tricking you! And I swear Ashima doesn’t even know I made this stuff. There’s no trickery going on here.” She closes up the containers.
“Come on! You tricked me. Admit it.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
I’m sure I look all pouty, but I can’t help it. I’m bummed that this is the reason. It was cooler to think she was trying to win me over. She grabs a tot and holds it in front of my mouth, trying to feed it to me, but I keep my lips closed. This doesn’t stop her though—she shoves a finger between my lips, which is childish but a little sexy.
When I open my mouth to protest, she pops in the bite. “Now eat.”
I slowly chew to look ticked off, but this only makes me savor it more. So salty, crispy, and fatty. Fine, I’m Pavlov’s dog. Bring me pork and I’ll domesticate.
“See? Yummy!” She puts her hand on my back and pushes me toward the door. “We should probably go now.”
I know she’s steering me away from our conversation, but really, what’s my complaint? The bacon was good.
Peyton
How do I let Ashima talk me into so many questionable things? But here I am nosing into a roadside parking spot in front of a hair salon to have drinks.
“We’re here.” I turn off the engine. And we really are. I actually let Ashima convince me to drag Max here. I caved out of guilt from messing up her party plans.
When Ashima first suggested the idea, I was hesitant, but now after a week of texting and talking with Max, I’m loath to do this. I’m not enjoying being stuck between two friends. Plus, he’s pulled his hair into a man bun and I really like man buns. I hope Mikal leaves Max’s hair long enough to pull up.
Max climbs out onto the sidewalk while I retrieve the appetizers, cookies, and sparkling wine from the back seat. When I step onto the sidewalk, he’s hugging two women. I stop at the curb.
“Peyton. This is Shayna.” He waves me over. “We go way back—grew up in the same neighborhood. And this is Grace, her girlfriend and also my friend.”
I shake their hands. “What a small world to bump into you here.”
“Oh, Max invited us,” Grace says.
“Leave it to Max to forget to tell anyone we’re coming.” Shayna gives him a playful pat on the head.
He smooths his hair. “I did. I guess Peyton forgot.”
“I did?” I ask.
“Remember, I asked if I could invite some other friends to join us?” He did ask that.
“Yes, but I said I’d check with Ashima.” Which I forgot to do.
“You didn’t get back to me one way or the other, so I figured the more the merrier.”
“Of course,” I say. “Glad you could join us, Shayna and Grace.” Though I’m not sure Ashima will agree.
Max points across the street to a small bar with a bustling patio front. “Is that the place?”
“No, it’s right here.” I point my thumb over my shoulder at the salon behind me.
Max and I had been rather chatty on the way over, which didn’t give me an opportunity to share that we’re going to have drinks at a beauty parlor, not a bar. Bathed in the scrutiny of Max, Shayna, and Grace’s stares and the persisting light of the summer evening, the holes of the plan are more apparent. Then again, this is Ashima’s thing, so reality is allowed to be on a sliding scale.
“What’d you get us into?” Shayna asks.
“It’ll be fun.” I hold up the sparkling wine. This gets nods of approval, so I hurry to the door and hold it open. “We’re going to be celebrating Mikal’s birthday.”
“Okay, sure, we can start things off here.” Max strides along the sidewalk with definite purpose and no reservations. He goes behind me and takes over, holding the door. “But to be clear, this does not count as going out for drinks.”
“It meets all the requirements—we’re out and we’ll be drinking.”
“I work in IT, so don’t think I can’t play the requirements game.” He waves us all through. “Next time we’re deep diving into what are acceptable drinking establishments. I’ll flow chart this bad boy if I have to.”
Shayna and Grace go in front of me. As I pass, I wink at him. “You’re cute when you get all worked up about requirements.”
The salon has an industrial hip vibe with open ceilings, unpainted brick walls, and roughhewn floors. Techno-inspired mood music plays in the background. There are seven stylists milling around, cleaning up their stations. Ashima sits off to the side in a sleek metal chair, flipping through a hairstyle magazine. The only other remaining client is signing the credit card payment pad while the receptionist eyes us from under her long dark bangs. I show her the bottle of sparkling wine, which only makes her look more confused.
“You’re here…all of you as an entire group. Yay!” Ashima runs over and kisses everyone on the cheek. “Shayna and Grace, it’s wonderful to see you.” Her voice is warm and her smile looks genuine. I’m impressed with how quickly she adjusted.
She takes my bottle. “Perfect!”
The receptionist sighs as she flips the lock on the door behind the last client. Ashima runs over to one of the two male stylists, presumably Mikal, and thrusts the bottle at him. “Let’s pop this baby!”
Ashima’s description of him fits—he does use a lot of product. Somehow his hair is both poofy and slick.
“Happy Birthday!” I yell out over the music as I go over to introduce myself.
Ashima gives me a funny smile, which makes me think that the birthday is no longer part of the plan. Actually, I’m not really sure what Mikal knows or if any of the other stylists are in on this as well. But we’re committed to this now. I announce across the room, so everyone’s brought up to speed, “I was telling Max how we’re having a toast to celebrate Mikal’s birthday.”
Ashima yells out, “Time to have a drink! We’re doing a little toast to celebrate Mikal turning the big 3-0!”
The stylist at the chair next to Mikal runs her hand through her dark-purple highlights and crinkles her nose. “I didn’t know it was your birthday.”
The environment has made me hyperaware of hairstyles, and I notice a couple of them sport long bangs which dangle in front of their eyes.
I must admit they look hip. I wonder if they feel pressured to always be coifed and cool. I wouldn’t be able to pull it off—after only a few minutes, I’m already suffering from impostor syndrome. Also, if I was jabbing sharp metal objects around customer’s faces, I would not want a partially obstructed view, no matter how good my hair looked.
Max remains in the waiting area with Shayna and Grace huddled by his side. I imagine Max is more of a barber shop guy. Admittedly, I’m a bit out of my element myself with my lack of bangs and my hair recently trimmed at a walk-in cuttery.
The receptionist calls out, “Happy birthday, old man!”
Mikal waves to everyone to come closer. “We have champagne. Who wants a drink?”
“I can’t, but happy birthday, gorgeous,” says the bleach blonde at the farthest station. “Why didn’t you tell me?” She grabs her purse and then kisses Mikal on the cheek as she passes. The two long-banged stylists join her.
“It’s not today. We’ll celebrate some other time,” he calls out to their retreating figures.
“Good. I’ll buy you a drink later,” says the receptionist as she heads for the door.
“Boo. Come on. The big 3-0!” Ashima lifts the wine bottle, but all four women wave off the suggestion as they slip out the front.
With the ranks dwindling, I’m concerned that our plans are frizzing out. If Max knew why he’s here, he’d rush for the door as well.
“I’ll have some,” says the other male stylist, who is sporting a very sensible short cut. “I’m Phet.” He shakes Ashima’s hand and waves at Max and me.
Behind him, a stylist with dark-brown and blonde hair reminiscent of a soft-serve chocolate-vanilla swirl blows a kiss to Mikal as she sneaks toward the door.
Ashima fishes out a sleeve of plastic cups, a prepackaged variety tray of cheese, and a box of crackers. “I brought us a little something to nosh on too.”
This seals the deal for the woman with purple highlights. She introduces herself as Veronica.
With Grace and Shayna also joining us, we make a nice sized group of eight. We all huddle around the reception desk, where Ashima spreads out the cheese and crackers, as well as my bacon-themed goodies. The carbonation tickles my mouth as I sip on the sweet, fruity wine. I like it best with the sharpness of the Swiss cheese.
Everyone loves my tots and dates. They’re the first to go. Max also seems to appreciate the Swiss, as well as the cheddar, and the gouda. He leans back in the receptionist chair, keeping a bit of distance from the rest of us. His instincts must have pushed him to the spot, a fortress to protect him from the rest.
“So, Mikal, any big plans this weekend?” asks Veronica.
“Nothing. I’m so tired from my beach trip last week that I need a vacation from my vacation.”
Grace puts her hand over her heart. “But it’s your thirtieth! You must do something!” She looks at Shayna and they both shake their heads in unison.
“Obviously, I’m going to celebrate. Just not this weekend. But I’m definitely planning something.” He gives Ashima a sheepish smile.
Phet grabs a slice of cheese and puts it on a cracker. “My memory is the worst. I swear I remember your birthday being in the fall.” He pops the cheese cracker in his mouth and tilts his head in thought as he chews. Then he covers his mouth. “I remember getting drinks on the Beltline last year and then freezing my butt off when we left because I didn’t bring a jacket.”
“And like my jorts craze, that was so last year,” Mikal adds in a very convincing eye roll, nearly making me believe that fall birthdays are a fad to be forgotten.
Ashima nudges me as though I’m supposed to salvage this conversation.
“Isn’t this weather something? Georgia’s definitely hot.” Nobody takes me up on my topic change, and the heavy bass of the music accentuates the lack of discussion.
“Hey, so Peyton, remember how you were saying you wanted to try out a new style?” Ashima asks.
“Uh…” I know Ashima wants me to agree, but we did not discuss me cutting my hair, and I’m not comfortable with the direction of this impromptu change.
“You’ve had this cut for a long time, right?”
I can’t deny this. “I like this cut because it’s low maintenance. Straight, no-frills hair lets me air dry and not use product. I don’t want to spend a bunch of time styling it.”
I squint my eyes at Ashima as a warning that she’s gone as far as she can with whatever tactic she’s currently trying to implement.
Mikal lifts the ends of my hair and rubs his thumb over them. “So healthy. You’re lucky that you can get away with not using product.”
Veronica nods. “Mine’s so unruly. I have to use a flat iron to get your look.” Her hair is exceptionally straight, and except for the highlights framing her face, it’s similar to mine. She twists one side of my hair and holds it at chin level. “What about an asymmetric bob? That’d be fun, but still low maintenance.”
They all gush over the idea and take turns running their hands through my hair and lifting and twisting it in different ways. Even Shayna and Grace get into it and agree I should do it. Their caresses and sweet words lull me into an in-group mentality, and my annoyance disappears. I’m reminded of Ruby resting in the shade just this morning as Sam picked at her back fur. Ruby’s slump had collapsed so far forward, she appeared almost dead. I, too, am about to become a lifeless mass.
The last time I had such tending was in second grade when I had lice. My mother plopped me in front of the television and combed through my freshly washed hair, inch by inch. The act became meditative as she hummed while sorting and searching through my strands. By the third pass, I closed my eyes and my favorite show became background noise to my mother’s voice. The rare display of tenderness stuck with me, and the next year when there was another lice outbreak at school, I secretly wished the little bugs would pick me a second time, but I’ve never again been so lucky.
Until now. I hope the stylists haven’t been instructed to do this, that it isn’t part of Ashima’s plan, that they actually like my hair. Perhaps they’re right and it’s time for a change.
Ashima nudges me and I look up at her with half-lidded eyes. Her scowl jolts me and I pop to attention. I’m here for Max’s hair, not mine. And then I see the opening Ashima’s orchestrated. “Max, you look like you’re feeling left out,” I say. He doesn’t. He looks bored and ready to leave. “Do you want to do this with me? Let’s get our hair cut together.”
Max coughs and little bits of crackers spray across the receptionist desk. “I’m good.” He mops his napkin across the top, pushing the crumbs to the ground.
“Oh, that sounds fun!” Mikal claps his hands together in an overly fake way.
But Veronica rushes to Max with genuine excitement. “Yes! I have this new beard wax I’ve been dying to try out.” She tests the texture of Max’s beard between her fingertips. “A ducktail beard would be handsome with his face shape. Don’t you think?”
Max looks at her warily, but says nothing.
Phet leans back and appraises Max. “Yes, definitely. And we need to leave some length on his hair so it can be slicked back. That would look really classic with a ducktail.”
“Doesn’t he have the best beard? So full and masculine.” Veronica goes to Max’s other side.
“What’s a ducktail?” Ashima asks.
“We’d trim up his beard short along the sides.” Veronica scissors her fingers along Max’s jawbone. “But then leave the hair fuller around the chin.”
Max stares at her fingers as she pretend snips. He looks like he wants to bite them. If he were a chimpanzee, I would definitely put my digits away. But then Veronica distracts him by popping the rubber band from his hair. She runs her hands along the side of his head, gathering his hair low in the back. We all stare at him, and I can see what they’re saying. His hair pulled low enhances the wide expanse of his brow line, bringing out a brooding strength.
“I want to cut his hair.” Veronica folds some curls around her fingers, playing with different lengths.
“Hey, I was the one who came up with the idea to slick it back. I should get to cut it,” Phet says.
Veronica sighs. “Fine. Oh! But I get to do color. You know if we straightened his hair and gave him blond highlights, he’d sort of look like Chris Hemsworth.”
Mikal slaps his hands together. “Shut up! You’re right.”
Shayna puts her hands over her mouth. “I kinda see it.”
“Hell, no.” Max shakes his head, freeing his hair, then pushes out of the chair. “Nothing on me is getting cut. And I’m sure as hell not getting highlights.”
“Calm down, Max. Have a drink.” I shove his plastic cup toward him. “Trust me, let them do their thing. It’s very nice.”
He shoves the drink away. “What’s with women always wanting to fix a guy?” The bite in his voice makes me think he’s referring to a specific woman, someone who hurt him—Tris. And now I’m reminding him of her.
“It’s time for me to go. Can you take me back?” he asks me. He jabs his thumb at Shayna. “Or should I arrange an alternate ride?”
“Uh, sure. I can drive you. But what’s going on here?” she asks.
“Why are you leaving?” Ashima asks. She sounds genuinely surprised, as though things aren’t predictably unraveling.
“Oh, come on,” Max replies.
Veronica looks at her phone. “Geez. It’s getting late. I think I’ll head out.” She tosses her cup into the trash under the reception desk. “Thanks for the drink.”
“But…maybe we should go next door, get a bite to eat?” Ashima suggests to Mikal with big, pleading eyes.
“I’m up for that,” I hurry to agree, hoping to smooth things over with Max.
“We are too.” Grace elbows Shayna.
“Right. We’re game for whatever,” Shayna says.
“Come on, don’t you see what’s going on here?” he asks them. They respond with a confused stare.
Max pushes his hair forward, mussing it. “I shouldn’t be surprised Ashima came up with something like this, but Peyton, did you really think I wouldn’t see through this? Who hangs out in a hair salon?”
“Um, we do.” Mikal gives Max a scolding stare.
This almost shuts up Max. He snaps his mouth shut for a breath, but then blurts out, “Well, I don’t. And the only reason Ashima and Peyton dragged me here is to try to fix me. But guess what? I like how I am.”
“We aren’t trying to do anything.” I slap my hand down for extra emphasis.
It bothers me he’s seen through our plan, but worse yet is that he’s lumping me in with his ex, which I know he is, even if he hasn’t made the accusation. “I invited you because I wanted to get out of the house with Ashima, but I thought I might feel out of place since I don’t know anyone. You don’t need to change anything.”
“So, I’m your backup friend in case you get bored while out with your best friend?”
“That’s not what I said.” Or maybe it is. I think through my explanation, but only become more confused. “And what are Shayna and Grace? Your…your safety in case you find Ashima and me too boring.”
“No. And don’t twist this around on me.”
“Let’s just agree that humans like to go out in social clusters. This is perfectly normal primate behavior.”
And now everyone seems confused, but this is good if it keeps Max from lumping me with his ex.
“You almost had me, Peyton.” Max slow claps. “But tell me this, why isn’t Nick here?”
“I don’t know? That’d be weird for me to invite my best friend’s boyfriend, right? Ashima invited me, I invited you.”
“Um, so…regardless of why y’all are here, you are.” Mikal crosses his arms. “Let’s make you two over. It’d be fun.”
Max shakes his head, so Ashima jumps back in. “When’s the last time you had a cut?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere between nine months to a year ago, but I trim my beard myself…though it’s been a while.”
“Let’s do it,” I say. “You know you’re way overdue.”
Max scratches his neck. “Alright, how about this, Peyton? Since you’re so eager to cut your hair , I’ll do this, but here’s the deal—whatever I do, you do.”
Though this sounds like a trick, this could be a workable approach. He won’t pick something high maintenance, and he definitely didn’t sound like he wanted color, so this proposal doesn’t sound all bad. And I wouldn’t mind returning to being the center of attention. “Okay, that’s fine by me. I’m excited about trying out a new cut. Try out this asymmetric bob thing.”
“No, no, you’re not getting it.” He wags his finger. “There will be no asymmetric bobs. In fact, scissors aren’t even necessary. I’m going to do something even better than a cut. Or we are. Right?” He puts his hand out for a shake.
I take it and he pumps my hand hard.
“Okay. Get the clippers, because Peyton and I are shaving it all off. Bald.” He grips my hand tighter. “Unless Peyton doesn’t want to?”
Ashima gasps. “Shave her head!”
“That’s right. What do you say, Peyton? Buzz. Buzz.”
I pull my hand free from the shake, and in an act of involuntary protection, both hands fly to the top of my head. I can’t shave my head. I’ve had this style my entire life.
And my repetition of this truth irks me. Now that Ashima has pointed out my lack of flair, it somewhat bothers me that my hair has always fallen somewhere between my chin and my shoulders and I’ve always parted it in the middle. Maybe I should do something totally radical and shave my head.
But Max doesn’t want to shave his head either. Throwing me under the bus is his way of weaseling out of doing anything.
“You think I won’t do this?” I ask.
“Not really.”
“Come on, Max. Play nice,” Grace scolds.
“Agreed. Nobody’s shaving their head,” Shayna says.
I want to prove him wrong, but I haven’t had that much champagne. Then the solution to my predicament comes to me. “Let’s make this a bet, Max.” I lean across the counter to get in his face. “Whoever loses, shaves.”
“Right. A bet. There’s no way you’d do it.”
“If I lose, I will. But you won’t ,” I say.
“I’ll do it. I’m calling your bluff.”
“Not just the hair on your head. Everything. The beard too.”
“Fine, but that means you too. Every single hair on your body. From head to toes.”
“Fine.” I put my hands on my hips.
Phet runs his hands down his face, then stands there as though he was plucked out of Munch’s The Scream painting. “What’s going on?”
Ashima grips my shoulder, pulling me back to her side. “Absolutely not!”
“This is going too far,” Grace says.
Shayna hooks her arm into Grace’s and says, “Yep, we want no part.”
“You’ve got a deal, Peyton,” Max says.
I shake free from Ashima. “And I choose the game. Shaving my head is a bigger sacrifice, so I get to pick.”
“I disagree with why. I mean, look at me.” Max runs his fingers through his hairs and he pulls off doing it in a sexy way. “But I’m a natural athlete. Bring it.”
“I will. Croquet.” Little known is that many colleges—okay, some colleges—have croquet clubs and I was part of my undergrad’s championship winning team.
“Croquet. What the—who the hell plays croquet?”
“You. This weekend. Unless you’re scared.” I widen my stance.
Max stands and mimics my pose. “Nope. I’m good. It’s on.” He thrusts out his hand for a shake.
As I take it, I can’t help but smile. He has no idea how much croquet I’ve played. My favorite nanny instilled in me the love of the game, and my college team honed me into a cutthroat competitor. I can’t wait to see his face when I leave him in the dust on the course.