35. Laine
35
LAINE
When I get to the restaurant Ophelia suggested, I find her already seated at one of the sidewalk tables. She’s wearing a monochromatic outfit, a periwinkle turtleneck, a blazer, and a mini-skirt that shows off her mile-long legs. And though my wildly patterned outfit is a far cry from her put-together look, she gives mine an impressed nod after looking me up and down.
She hugs me, grinning. “Please tell me you dressed like that in rural Montana,” Ophelia says, touching the arm of the yellow-and-green jacket I layered over my lavender tank top and orange pants.
“This, plus red cowgirl boots,” I say, relief lightening my words. I spent all morning mentally preparing for the worst, but Ophelia’s excitement calms my worries. For the first time in days, my smile feels natural.
She motions for me to take a seat, and I join her at the table. The street is bustling with people, and I try to ignore the overwhelm creeping into me. After just a week in West River, I somehow acclimated far too easily to it. Even in the throes of a fake relationship, the world felt serene there. Now, every honking horn, every ring of a bike bell, and every clang of machinery feels like a needle stinging my skin. I refocus on Ophelia, pretending all the background noise isn’t there.
“I've been going through the updated drafts you sent me. And I’m impressed. You've captured the essence of Montana in a way that's authentic and captivating,” Ophelia commends, her eyes gleaming with genuine enthusiasm. “ That was the voice we were looking for.”
Another crashing wave of relief crashes over me. “I’m glad you liked them. Montana was inspiring, to say the least.”
“Liked them? Loved them,” Ophelia gushes. “I handle most of Wonderings ’ online presence, and I want to run all the stories on our website. And when I showed them to Adam, he was equally impressed. He is thinking about focusing an entire issue on the wonders of the west. We would probably hire some more freelancers, locals from other rural towns, but we want your articles to be the centerpiece.”
I’m rarely rendered speechless, but Ophelia’s suggestion does the trick.
She laughs, probably at my slightly agape mouth. “Your articles are… fun . I don’t know how else to explain it. I rarely see people who can convey so much personality through writing. You described West River in a way that feels magical. That sounds cheesy, I know, but it’s true.”
“Then I must have described it accurately.” My body feels like it’s fighting itself. Hearing such high praise makes me feel like I could float. Maybe I could if not for that heavy sensation that settles in me as soon as I think about West River.
“And there's more. Adam and I both think your unique voice and storytelling ability is exactly what we want for Wonderings . I understand if you would prefer to stick to the freedom of freelancing, but if you’re interested, we would love to have you on board permanently. Because we don’t have an office, you could work from home or, if you’re anything like Adam and me, from the road. And while we will want some input on your topics, you’ll still have plenty of flexibility.”
The sudden change from a terrible day yesterday to this today gives me whiplash. “I…I don't know what to say.”
She chuckles. “Say yes, Laine. We need you.”
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I hear snippets of the lectures I sat through during my career-prep classes at NYU. My professors taught to negotiate, to wait for official offers, to check the benefits. I ignore it all.
“I’d be honored, Ophelia.”
“It might be too early for champagne, but how about a mimosa?” Ophelia asks, leaning over the table toward me.
“You read my mind.”
After we give our orders to the server, Ophelia’s mouth curls. “Tell me more about Sutton.”
I choke on my water and start up in a coughing fit. “Sorry,” I croak out, clearing my throat again and again. “What do you want to know?”
“Oh, don’t be coy.” Ophelia rolls her eyes playfully. “Did you know that Adam and I fell in love on a work trip? Now, I have a sixth sense for spotting the signs in others’ writing. I suspected there was something going on between you and Sutton when we first met at karaoke. But after reading your article about him, I knew.”
“I—I didn’t write an article about Sutton,” I stammer.
Ophelia gives me a nice try look. “‘Cattle and Kin’ was the name, wasn’t it?”
“That was about the ranch as a whole. The entire Davis family,” I stammer.
“Maybe that’s what you thought you were writing about, but the way you talk about Sutton makes him stand out above the rest.” She pulls her phone from her purse. “‘His presence is like distant, rumbling thunder, quiet strength and determination.’ That's how you described Sutton Davis, isn't it?” Ophelia recites, a knowing smile playing across her lips as she flashes her phone screen at me, showing me my own words.
I squirm in my chair, my cheeks burning hot. “I guess I may have mentioned him a bit more than the others.” Apparently, I hadn't been as subtle as I thought. “It's just…he's a fascinating person. He’s the antithesis of his father, and they have a nice contrast.”
“That's the magic of it,” Ophelia insists. “Your readers are going to be captivated by this family, but especially by Sutton. The first in line for his family’s ranch dynasty, yet he would rather spend his days working on children’s books? Readers are going to eat it up. I know I did.”
After the server delivers our glasses of champagne, Ophelia raises hers in a toast. “To the newest member of the Wonderings family.”
I tip my glass back with a bit too much fervor.
“Didn’t you say that Montana is the farthest you’ve been from New York?” Ophelia asks. “How does it feel to be back in the city?”
“Weird,” I confess. “I grew up here. I’ve never really left. And I thought I would miss it more. But West River was so calming, once I got used to it. It felt like I was living in meditation, especially on the ranch. Aside from the sounds of birds and streams and animals, it was silent. So perfectly still.”
“It sounds amazing. Like I said…you don’t have to stay in the city for this job.” Again, that mischievous smile shines.
My faint laugh feels like I’m coughing up thumbtacks.
The adrenaline of the job offer only lasts for about ten minutes after Ophelia and I part ways. Instead of taking the subway right away, I walk along the street. Closing my eyes, I try—I really try—to find some peace in the city, in this familiar soundscape. But despite my best efforts, my skin crawls. I never realized before how much there is to take in. So many sights, smells, sounds. Endless options and decisions that I need to make.
I know what I want to do. My hand is practically pulling itself toward my purse, toward my phone. I cross my arms to keep from obeying that silent desire. If I could just hear his voice. If I could tell him about my new, proper job, he would be so proud and not at all surprised.
Sutton’s words ring through my head. I don’t need impulsiveness or indecisiveness right now.
Well, that makes one of us.
In a snap decision, I turn on my heel and head in the opposite direction. Knowing the city like the back of my hand, I find my usual salon with ease, pushing through the tall glass doors.
The roar of blow dryers and the rhythmic beat of a carefully curated playlist welcome me in. Stylists, clad in chic black attire, wield scissors like artists' brushes. And the best part, along one wall, a massive collage of avant-garde hairstyles smiles down at me, every bit as beautiful as the Sistine Chapel to me in this moment.
“That better not be Laine Rodriguez,” a familiar voice says from the washing station at the back.
“Hi, Paul,” I say in a singsong voice.
Paul, a close friend of Dad’s, has been cutting my hair since I was a toddler. In fact, he’s been cutting my hair in the exact same bang-and-bob combo since I was a toddler. At every appointment, I start with twenty minutes of rambling about the endless possibilities I could do with my hair. Eventually, Paul gets sick of that and cuts it the same way he always has. He was the one to give me my first tube of lipstick, telling me that if I wear a red lip every day, it’s one less decision I’ll need to make.
“You know I won’t do it,” Paul says as I stalk up to him.
I smile innocently. “Do what?”
Paul points an accusing finger at me. “Whatever it is you want me to do. You were eight years old when you made me swear to never change your hair. And every few months, you come back in here, we have this conversation, and you end it by making me renew this vow.”
I fold my hands together and hold them to my chest in a begging motion. “I just need a change. A change that won’t alter my life, but that will distract me for at least an hour.”
Paul narrows his eyes at me. “What exactly do you have in mind?”
“Dealer’s choice.”
“Not a chance!” Paul holds his arms out to the side in a wide gesture, drawing the attention of half the patrons in the salon. He goes back to rinsing his client’s hair.
I smirk, shrugging. “If you don’t do it, I’ll just get the old rusty craft scissors I have in my junk drawer. Or maybe I’ll buy clippers and really go to town. I’ll look like that chick from Mad Max .”
Turning my attention to the collage on the wall, I point at the first one that jumps out at me. “That one.” In the picture, the model’s bangs were cut to maybe an inch below her hairline. The sides of her hair were trimmed short, and the back is left longer. To top it all off, her hair is a vibrant cobalt blue.
“Sorry, no,” Paul scoffs. “Those pictures are for art’s sake, not for normal people. I’m not having you walk out of here with a futuristic mullet the shade of Cookie Monster’s ass.”
“You’ve got to give me something,” I plead. “Something fresh, something to mark a new chapter in my life. ”
My puppy-dog eyes must have been pitiful enough, because Paul slumps his shoulders a touch. After a long groan, he concedes. “Baby bangs.”
I nod my approval.
“And a pixie cut,” he adds. “Very Roman Holiday .”
“You’re the visionary,” I say, happy at the prospect of having my hands stuck under a big black cape soon. Because at least for an hour, during the cut, I can’t be tempted to text Sutton.
“But I have appointments all day, kid,” Paul says, looking pointedly at his hands, wrist-deep in the shampoo bowl amidst strips of discarded foil. “If you need this done today, you’ll have to be patient. I might be able to fit you in while a client’s color is processing.”
“Beyond fair.” I head toward the waiting area but turn back quickly, holding my phone up to Paul. “Do you mind if I stash this back here?”
Paul, too busy to bother asking why I don’t want my phone during the wait, just gives me a go-ahead wave of his hand.
Time drags on. Paul’s salon is too upscale to have TVs in the waiting area. In fact, there is only one thing to occupy my time with: fashion magazines in a perfect line on the coffee table. I wait around long enough to read through each one multiple times.
With every second that ticks by, I have to fight myself. Everything in me wants to grab my phone from the shelf in the back of the room. It sits among the shampoo bottles. I can almost hear it singing to me like a siren from a Greek myth.
I have to wait through one and a half appointments before Paul squeezes me in. He gives me a single tip of his head, calling me to the wash station in the back. As soon as I’m seated, he swishes the cape around me and finger-combs through my bob. The corners of his mouth twitch.
“You’re absolutely certain about this?” His eyes are full of remorse, like he’s personally mourning the loss of my trademark style.
“Come on, Paul. You know me better than that. I’m never absolutely certain about anything.”
He gives my hair another longing stare, and then, probably remembering that he only has so much time, he goes to work. After a quick wash, we’re at his station. Thanks to years of experience, Paul dives on in without wasting a second. The moment I hear the first snap of the shears, I drop my eyes to my lap and play with my rings under the black cape. And for the rest of the cut, I second-guess my choice.
That is, however, until Paul blow-dries my hair, styles it, and instructs me to—finally—look up.
“I cut my hair,” I tell Mom over the phone, pacing down the street. I felt lighter immediately after the haircut, like I was shedding my old self. This Laine Rodriguez will be organized. Stable. Predictable. She will not tack up every poster and art print on her wall or clutter her calendar with nonsensical Post-it notes.
Mom chuckles. “And to think, you thought you would never get a ‘real’ job, and you thought you would never change your hair. And here you are, doing both in one day.”
My laugh dies halfway through, like a car engine sputtering. I’m not entirely sure what I respond, but whatever it is, it isn’t very convincing.
“Aren’t you excited?”
I’m glad nobody around me on the sidewalk cares enough to pay a second thought to my weak smile. “It is a big day. It’s just…weird to not be telling Sutton about it.”
Mom says nothing. I can perfectly picture her pursed lips as she bites down on her advice.
I, for the thousandth time in the past ten minutes, run my fingers through my hair. It feels alien, like it belongs to someone else entirely. “Do you think I should call him?”
“I think—” She cuts herself off and starts again, clearly trying to give me space to make my own decision. “I think you know what’s best.”
We talk for a minute longer, and I find my way to Washington Square Park. Somehow, it’s even louder than it was on the street. I tuck myself into the corner of the park, the closest thing I can find to a secluded spot. After my mom hangs up, I stare at my phone. Then, with hesitant movements, I navigate to my contacts. Then to my starred favorites. There’s only one name there aside from my parents, and I stare at those six letters for so long they blur into one terrifying shape. My thumb hovers over his name.
But right as I’m about to push down, another call comes on my screen. Frankie. Seeing it makes my heart both swell and crack, and I answer quickly, a feeling that I can only describe as homesickness settling in me.
Before I can greet her, Frankie’s voice rings out so fast the words string together. “Sutton’s been in an accident.”