The male voice had to be Spence’s dad—it was too deep to be Spence’s—and I thought that maybe the woman’s voice was his mother. I covered my mouth with my hand, wondering if there was something I could do. Was the argument about Spence? The male voice was so angry and so loud that I was worried it might lead to violence, and then, abruptly, it stopped.
I waited a moment and heard a loud bang, like a door slamming shut, and then the sound of an old engine turning over. The front door opened just as a station wagon backed jerkily down the driveway, narrowly missing Spence’s car before it squealed off down the road.
I glanced back at the porch and saw Spence standing there with hunched shoulders and fisted palms. Next to him stood a woman as tall as Spence, wearing disheveled clothes and slightly crooked glasses. She stared angrily down the road in the direction of the moving car, then turned her gaze on me, and I swear her glare became harsher.
Spence said something to her and she headed back inside, slamming the door in her wake. Spence stood still for a moment before walking down the steps and over to his car.
When he opened the door, the overhead light came on and I saw a red welt on his cheek before he got settled into the driver’s seat.
I was speechless. The whole thing was so shocking. My parents never yelled like that at each other. Even in their most heated arguments, their tone never rose to the levels that I’d heard Spence’s family use. But even worse, had Spence’s dad punched him?
“Are you okay?” I asked when Spence didn’t say anything. It appeared he was trying to get his emotions under control.
“Yeah,” he said curtly. And then he took a deep breath and said, “Sorry. My dad can get a little intense.”
I bit my lip. I wanted to touch the welt on his cheek, but I also didn’t want to further upset Spence by letting him know that I’d noticed it.
“We can skip the movie,” I said.
His shoulders sagged. He leaned forward and let his head fall to the steering wheel. “You want me to drive you home, Amber?”
“No!” I said quickly. “No, Spence. I mean, if you want to drive me home, that’s okay. But we don’t need to go to the movie if you’re not up for it.”
He sat back again and turned to me. All that cool confidence and engaging personality had vanished, and in its place I saw a hurt and vulnerable guy. It moved me more than I could say.
“I’d really like to see the movie,” he said. “With you. If you still want to go?”
I reached out and put my hand on his arm. I could feel the muscles relax under my fingertips and saw his expression soften.
“Then let’s see the movie. And after, maybe you could treat me to that brontosaurus burger you keep talking up.”
He gifted me with another one of those oh-so-gorgeous smiles. “Deal,” he said, and we set off.
WE WERE LATE SETTING OFF for the salon. After the nightmare I’d had during my nap, it’d taken me a while to pull myself together and meet Arthur for the ride over. On the way there I nervously wondered if I was going crazy. The dream had felt so vivid and real. And when I’d jolted awake, my birthmark didn’t so much burn as radiate a pain that felt like an actual stab wound.
“Here we are, Miss Lily,” Arthur said, pulling up to the curb in front of a cozy olive-green house with a maroon door and a sign that said simply GINA’S. The salon was a surprise; I’d been expecting something more in line with a traditional-looking commercial salon. After collecting my purse, I told Arthur I’d call him when I was done and headed inside.
Coming through the door, I looked around at the interior, which was dimly lit, but welcoming. The salon itself was coated in a lighter shade of dark, woodsy green, with pops of bright orange. A large Asian-inspired coffee table dominated the waiting area, and it was artfully adorned with fashion magazines. In the center was a square glass vase filled to the top with lemons and limes.
The vase made me do a double take, and I had a weird déjà vu moment, but then it passed. I realized belatedly that the salon appeared to be deserted. Moving a little farther into the space to peek around a wall, I saw all the salon chairs were empty and there was not a stylist in sight except for a girl, maybe in her early twenties, with jet-black hair tipped in bright blue, sweeping the floor. She glanced up just as I spotted her.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I had a seven o’clock appointment with Gina?” I said, more as a question than a statement.
The girl tilted her head. “At seven?” she repeated. “We close at seven.”
I opened my mouth to apologize, but was interrupted.
“That’s okay, Rebecca. I booked it.”
I turned around and a surge of dizzy disorientation overtook me. A woman with wavy auburn hair, who I’d put anywhere between sixty and seventy, but who still appeared beautifully youthful, approached, wearing a long knit gray tunic with chunky jewelry. I knew her. I could swear I knew her, but for the life of me, I couldn’t place her face.