He pulls his cap off and runs his hand through his choppy hair. “I hope you’re better at cutting hair when you’re sober.”
I cover my mouth with my hand to stifle my laughter. There are two huge chunks cut out of his hair, one of them front and center. “I’m so sorry.”
I would say we’re even now. Destroying hair as beautiful as his should definitely make up for the asshole move he made three weeks ago. Now if I could just get my hands on Lydia’s hair, I’d feel a whole lot better.
He slides his cap back on his head and begins walking up the stairs. “Mind if we go now?”
Today is my day off, so I’m free to correct the damage I’ve done to his hair, but it kind of stinks that I have to go to the salon when I otherwise wouldn’t have to. Emory marked the weekend off on the schedule for me since it was my birthday yesterday. She probably did this because most twenty-one-year-olds do fun things on their birthday and want the weekend to celebrate. I’ve been living with her for a month now, so if she hasn’t noticed already, she’ll soon discover that I have no life and don’t need special “recovery days” reserved on the calendar.
I realize I’ve been paused on the steps and Owen is upstairs, so I make my way back up to his apartment. When I reach the top of the stairs, my feet stop moving again. He’s in the process of changing his shirt. His back is to me, and he’s pulling his paint-splattered T-shirt off over his head. I watch as the muscles in his shoulders move around and contract, and I wonder if he’s ever painted a self-portrait.
I would buy it.
He catches me staring at him when he turns to reach for his other shirt. I do that thing where I quickly glance away and make it completely obvious that I was staring, since I’m now looking at nothing but a blank wall and I know he’s still looking at me and oh, my word, I just want to leave.
“Is that okay?” he asks, pulling my attention back to him.
“Is what okay?” I say quickly, relieved by the sound of our voices, which is now eliminating the awkwardness I was about to drown in.
“Can we go right now? To fix my hair?”
He pulls the clean shirt on and I’m disappointed that I now have to stare at a boring gray T-shirt instead of the masterpiece beneath it.
What are these ridiculous, shallow thoughts that are plaguing my brain? I don’t care about muscles or six-packs or skin that looks so flawless, it makes me want to chase his father down and give him a high five for creating such an impeccable son.
I clear my throat. “Yeah, we can go now. I don’t have plans.”
Way to appear more pathetic, Auburn. Admit you have nothing to do on a Saturday after ogling his half-naked body. Real attractive.
He picks the baseball cap up and puts it back on before stepping into his shoes. “Ready?”
I nod and turn to head back down the stairs. I’m beginning to hate these stairs.
When he opens the front door, the sun is so bright, I start to question my own mortality and entertain the thought that maybe I became a vampire overnight. I cover my eyes with my arms and stop walking. “Damn it, that’s bright.”
If this is a hangover, I have no idea how anyone could become an alcoholic.
Owen closes the door and takes a few steps toward me. “Here,” he says. He places his cap on my head and pulls it down close to my eyes. “That should help.”
He smiles, and I get a glimpse of that crooked left incisor and it makes me smile, despite the fact that my head hates me for moving any facial muscles. I lift my hand and adjust the hat, pulling it down a little more. “Thank you.”
Owen opens the door, and I look at my feet to avoid the assault from the sun. I step outside and wait for him to lock it, and then we begin walking. Luckily, we’re walking in the opposite direction of the sun, so I’m able to look up and pay attention to where we’re going.
“How are you feeling?” Owen asks.
It takes me about six steps to answer him. “Confused,” I say. “Why in the world do people drink if it makes them feel like this the next day?”
I continue counting steps, and it takes him about eight before he answers me. “It’s an escape,” he says.
I glance at him but quickly look straight ahead again, because turning my head doesn’t feel so hot, either. “I get that, but is escaping for a few hours really worth the hangover the next day?”
He’s quiet for eight steps. Nine. Ten. Eleven.
“I guess that would depend on the reality you’re trying to escape.”
That’s deep, Owen.
I would think my reality is pretty bad, but definitely not bad enough to endure this every morning. But maybe that would explain what turns people into alcoholics. You drink to escape the emotional pain you’re in, and then the next day you do it all over again to get rid of the physical pain. So you drink more and you drink more often and pretty soon you’re drunk all the time and it becomes just as bad, if not worse, than the reality you were attempting to escape from in the first place. Only now, you need an escape from the escape, so you find something even stronger than the alcohol. And maybe that’s what turns alcoholics into addicts.
A vicious cycle.
“You want to talk about it?” he asks.
I don’t make the mistake of looking at him again, but I’m curious where he’s going with his question. “Talk about what?”
“What you were trying to escape last night,” he says, glancing at me.
I shake my head. “No, Owen. I don’t.” I look at him this time, even though it hurts my head to do so. “You want to talk about why you’re shutting down the studio?”
My question catches him by surprise. I can see it in his eyes before he looks away. “No, Auburn. I don’t.”
We both stop walking when we reach my salon. I put my hand on the door and take his cap off my head. I place it back on top of his head, even though I have to lift up onto the tips of my toes to do it. “Great talk. Let’s shut up now and fix your hair.”
He holds the door open for me to walk in first. “Sounds a lot like what I had in mind.”
We enter the salon, and I motion for him to follow me. I know now that his hair will be a lot more cooperative if it’s wet, so I take him straight back to the room with the sinks. I can feel Emory watching me as we make our way past her and it makes me curious as to why she didn’t freak out that I didn’t show up last night, or at the least, call with a code word.
Before she has the chance to yell at me, I offer up an apology as I pass her station. “Sorry I didn’t call last night,” I say quietly.
She glances at Owen trailing behind me. “No worries. Someone made sure I knew you were alive.”
I immediately turn and look at Owen, and it’s obvious with his shrug that he’s the one responsible for Emory being notified. I’m not sure if I like this, because it’s just another considerate thing of him to do, which makes it even harder to stay mad at him.
When we reach the back room, all the sinks are empty, so I walk to the farthest one. I adjust the height of it and then motion for Owen to sit. I adjust the temperature of the water and watch as he leans his head back into the groove of the sink. I keep my focus trained on anything but his face while I begin to wet his hair. He keeps his eyes on me the entire time I’m working my hands through it, creating a thick lather with the shampoo. I’ve been doing this for over a month now and the majority of the clients at this salon are women. I’ve never noticed how intimate washing someone’s hair can be.
Then again, no one else stares so unabashedly while I’m trying to work. Knowing he’s watching my every move makes me incredibly nervous. My pulse speeds up and my hands grow fidgety. After a while, he opens his mouth to speak.
“Are you mad at me?” he asks quietly.
My hands pause what they’re doing. It’s such a juvenile question to ask. I feel like we’re kids and we’ve been giving each other the silent treatment. But for such a simple question, it’s a really hard one to answer.
I was mad at him three weeks ago. I was mad at him last night. But right now I don’t feel angry. Actually being near him and seeing how he looks at me makes me think he must have had a very valid excuse for not showing up, and it had nothing to do with how he felt about me. I just wish he would explain himself.
I shrug as I begin to work the shampoo through his hair again. “I was,” I tell him. “But you did warn me, didn’t you? You said everything else comes before the girls. So mad might be a bit harsh. Disappointed, yes. Annoyed, yes. But I’m not really mad.”
That was way too much of an explanation. One he didn’t really deserve.
“I did say that my work is my number one priority, but I never said I was an asshole. I let a girl know beforehand if I need space to work.”
I glance at him, briefly, and then give my attention to the bottle of conditioner. I squirt some in my hands and spread it through his hair.
“So you have the courtesy to warn your girlfriends that you’re about to disappear, but you don’t have the courtesy to warn the girls who aren’t screwing you?” I’m working the conditioner through his hair, not being nearly as gentle as I should be.
I think I changed my mind . . . I’m mad now.
He shakes his head and sits straight up, turning around to face me. “That’s not what I meant, Auburn.” Water is dripping down the side of his face. Down his neck. “I meant that I didn’t disappear on you because of my art. It wasn’t that type of situation. I don’t want you to think I didn’t want to come back, because I did.”
My jaw is tense and I’m grinding my teeth together. “You’re dripping everywhere,” I say as I pull him back to the sink. I pick up the sprayer and begin rinsing his hair. Again, his eyes are on me the whole time, but I don’t want to make eye contact with him. I don’t want to care what his excuse is, because I honestly don’t want to be involved with anyone right now. But damn it, I care. I want to know why he didn’t show up and why he hasn’t made an effort to contact me at all since then.
I finish rinsing his hair and I wash the suds down the drain. “You can sit up.”
He sits up and I grab a towel and squeeze the excess water out of his hair. I toss the towel in the hamper on the other side of the room and begin to walk around him, but he grabs my wrist and stops me. He stands up, still holding on to my wrist.
I don’t try to pull away from him. I know I should, but I’m too curious to see what his next move is to care what I should be doing. I also don’t pull away because I love how the slightest touch from him leaves me breathless.
“I lied to you,” he says quietly.
I don’t like those words, and I certainly don’t like the truthfulness on his face right now.
“I didn’t . . .” His eyes narrow in contemplation as he exhales slowly. “I didn’t come back because I didn’t see the point. I’m moving on Monday.”
He says the rest of the sentence like he can’t get it out fast enough. I don’t like this confession. At all.
“You’re moving?” My voice is full of disappointment. I feel like I was just dumped, and I don’t even have a boyfriend.
“You’re moving?” Emory asks.
I spin around, and she’s walking a client to one of the sinks, staring at Owen, waiting for an answer. I face Owen again and can see that this moment of truth is over for now. I walk away from him and head out of the room, toward my station. He follows quietly.
Neither of us speaks as I comb through his hair and try to figure out how I’m going to fix the mess I made of it last night. I’ll have to cut most of it off. He’ll look so different and I’m not sure I’m happy about his having much shorter hair.
“It’ll be short,” I say. “I messed it up pretty bad.”
He laughs, and his laugh is exactly what I need in this moment. It alleviates the heaviness of what was happening back in the other room. “Why would you let me do this to you?”
He smiles up at me. “It was your birthday. I would have done anything you asked.”
Flirtatious Owen is back, and I both love it and hate it. I take a step away from him to study his hair. When I’m positive I know how to fix it, I turn around and grab the scissors and comb, which are right where they’re supposed to be. I remember dropping them on the floor last night, and it occurs to me that Emory more than likely walked into a mess this morning. I didn’t sweep up what I did cut of Owen’s hair before we left the salon, but it’s gone, so I’ll have to thank her later.
I begin cutting his hair, and I do my best to focus on that and not so much on him. Somewhere between the beginning of the haircut and this moment, Emory returned to her station. She’s now seated in her own salon chair, watching us. She kicks off the cabinet with her foot and begins spinning.
“Are you moving forever or just for a little while?” Emory asks. Owen looks in my direction and raises an eyebrow.
“Oh,” I say, forgetting they haven’t been formally introduced yet. I point to Emory. “Owen, this is Emory. My strange roommate.”
He nods slightly and looks in her direction without turning too much. I think he’s nervous I’ll mess his hair up even more, so he’s being as still as he can possibly be. “A few months, probably,” he says in response to her. “It’s not permanent. A work thing.”
Emory frowns. “That’s too bad,” she says. “I already like you a whole lot better than the other guy.”
My eyes grow wide and my head swings in her direction. “Emory!”
I can’t believe she just said that.
Owen slowly turns his attention back to me and cocks an eyebrow. “Other guy?”
I shake my head and wave her off. “She’s misinformed. There is no other guy.” I glare at her. “There can’t be another guy when there’s not even a guy.”
“Oh, please.” She catches the cabinet with her foot and stops spinning. She points to Owen. “He’s a guy. A guy you apparently spent the night with last night. A guy I think is a lot nicer than the other guy, and a guy I think you’re sad is moving.”