Page 21 of The Girl He Loves
“Oh, I see. Youwanthim to be your boyfriend?”
Jesus. The gall of people. This woman is so nosy. I’m many things, but impolite is not one of them.
“No, I’m married,” I tell her. “He’s… uh, a client,” I falter a little as I concoct my story on the spot. “I… I’m a psychic, and I need to read his essence, you know. To get a feel for him.”
God, I hate public transportation.
She cocks a brow, dubious. “Really? Can you tell people’s futures?”
“Uh… yes, that’s one of the things I do.”
She eyes me suspiciously. “Really?”
“Yes… really.” I say, a dash of annoyance etching my words. How dare she question my skills. Fictional skills, yes, but still. “Oh, look at that. My stop is next.”
I stick my phone back in my purse, and am very happy to stand and exit this cesspool of germs and rude nosiness.
But as soon as I’ve stepped out of the bus, I’m breathless again. It’s the thought of walking in there, and looking at him in the eye, speaking to him. I’ve been hiding safely behind the screens of my phone and my laptop, gazing at his image. But IRL (in real life, as the boys would say), it’s different.
Despite my reservations, my legs lead me to my destination, one foot in front of the other. My stomach is queasy and my armpits feel damp. I run a hand through my hair — I’ve styled it. It’s crazy to style one’s hair before heading off to the hairdresser. It is certainly counter-productive. But this is Joel. And I’m not sure why, but I want him to like me. I want him to find me attractive.
I laugh at myself. He’s married to a supermodel for crying out loud. I’m sure I’ll seem like nothing but ordinary to him.
I’ve already given my real name to the receptionist. Could he possibly find a link between my name and his daughter’s life? Could that stir up some interest in him? A clue?
I know I’m searching for a needle in a haystack, and I’m sure to prick myself. But I can’t help it. The urge is stronger than any common sense I might have.
A beautiful woman with amazing hair exits the salon as I walk in. It’s busy — that’s a good thing since it makes me feel more inconspicuous. When I walked in Renee’s store, I was the only customer there, and that made it all the more nerve-wracking.
The space is beautiful; the walls are painted soft shades of blue and taupe. Dark shaded chandeliers dot the ceiling, mixed with soft fluorescent lighting. Six black leather swivel salon chairs and silver framed mirrors are lined in a perfect row on one side. On the other side, is the cash register and a products section. Bottles of hair products are aligned perfectly, color and size coordinated — this pleases me, and my breathing eases a little. There’s a dividing wall with a beautiful mural painted on it, a colorful cityscape. A row of chairs, a loveseat and a coffee table are tastefully arranged in the waiting area.
A Taylor Swift song is playing softly in the background. A young stylist works on a middle-aged woman, blow drying her hair — they’re busy chatting. Another young woman sits at the cash register, speaking on the phone. No one is paying attention to me, which gives me the chance to study the space and relax a little. I breathe deeply to try to settle my heartbeat.
I check my watch. There’s no sign of Joel. He must be here — I have an appointment with him in five minutes. I take a seat by the door on one of the four waiting chairs, and my gaze darts across the neat row of magazines. I look to my left and spot the hairstyling books on the end table next to me, and grab one. I’ve always been fascinated by those. The pictures are so great, the styles so streamlined, the bone sculpture of the models flawless — they’re definitely aspirational. I’m focused on a photo of a purple haired woman when I feel his presence.
My breath hitches. He’s spotted me, and as he nears, he flashes me that smile, that grin I’m already so familiar with. He offers me a hand. “You must be Mischa.”
“Uh… yes, I am.” I stand and my legs are shaking. For a split second, I worry I might faint. God, this is even more stressful than meeting Renee. I shake his hand and hope he doesn’t notice how clammy my palm is.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mischa. Welcome.”
“Thank you,” My gaze darts across the space. I can’t look him in the eye. If he only knew how many hours I’ve spent perusing pictures and captions of his life, he’d probably call the authorities.
“Let’s get you settled,” he says, and I follow him nervously. He swivels the second chair in my direction. I smile as I take a seat. My breathing eases a bit as I settle in. My gaze is focused on the display below the mirror; four photos; one of him and Renee and their girls, one of Ava in a graduation cap and gown, one of him and three light-haired middle-aged women, and one of his cat. I smile at the sight of the cat. I don’t know too many men who would have a photo of their cat at their workplace — Joel is definitely quirky. There’s a sweetness, a femininity about him you don’t often see. Yet, he’s also very masculine — strong shoulders, a long lean build, a two-day-old beard. I can definitely see what Renee sees in him. Lucky woman.
There’s a bowl of mints next to the frames, and my gaze is glued to it. For the life of me, I can’t quite glance up and look at his reflection.
He sets his hands on my shoulders. “So what did you have in mind today, Mischa?”
I finally find the courage to look up at his reflection. He’s smiling and his eyes are studying me, awaiting my reply.
“Just a trim,” I tell him. “I like to wear my hair in a bob, chin-length.”
He rakes his hands through my hair, and I’m shocked by my reaction to his touch. “You have great hair. Naturally silky. I won’t be needing to sell you any products today,” he jokes.
I wonder if he compliments all his clients this way. I’m sure that’s just part of the business. The beauty business caters to people’s vanity.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice small. My eyes find Ava’s photo again — for some reason, I can’t stop looking at it.
