Page 21 of Lost and Found

He is exactly seven minutes early when he arrives, something I’m ashamed to admit I know because of the way I’ve been watching the clock. He folds himself over his forearm at the front desk to say something to our receptionist, Isabel, who emits a girlish squeal at whatever it is. I spot the blush exploding over her cheeks from here.

One of the other stylists struggles to look away from him. Her client hisses out an “Ouch!” after she leaves the blow dryer on one section too long.

“Jesus. It’s high school all over again,” I mutter under my breath.

He does a double take when he catches sight of me, mouth slanting before it melts into its full curve. He pushes off the counter to saunter in my direction, pulling off hisCOUNTY FIREbaseball cap as he goes. The movement makes his white shirt catch on the slope of his bicep, and the sight of it sends a bolt of electric heat through me. I look down in surprise, like the wordDESIREis palpitating through my skin and giving me away.

“What? You forget I was on your books today?” he asks when he reaches my station.

“No.” And per usual, it’s hard to look at his wide-open grin without returning some version of it.

“This place is great, Bea,” he says, looking around.

I try to see it through fresh eyes. Yana, the owner, let a few of us lead the way on revamping the interior design a few years ago, now. The floors and walls are mostly comprised of chipped, whitewashed wood, and there are two whole walls of windows to let in plenty of natural light. We upgraded the mirrors and fixtures to brass and kept the rest of the décor to blacks and neutrals. There’s an accent wall over by the washbowls with maroon-and-pink-patterned wallpaper, plus a few plants dotting the place here and there. Like shabby chic got a modern upgrade.

I feel a new crush of gratitude for this place and the fact that I genuinely enjoy my work. When I quit college, I’d been floundering and dispassionate, my only concern being near my friend when she started treatment the first time. When I started hair school, it all just . . . clicked. I love making people’s outward appearance reflect how they feel—or want to feel—on the inside. I like helping them say what they want to say with their hair. I know better than most that hair is more than something shallow or vain. For something that is technically dead, hair has a profound effect on so much of daily life.

My attention drifts back to Silas when he plucks one of my irons out of its holder, then puts it back immediately. He fingers the leaf on my ficus.

I swat his hand when I see it going for my shears. “Quit touching things.”

If anything, his smile grows. “First time someone’s ever said that to me, but as you wish. Where would you like me?”

“I included time for a wash if you want?”

“Gimme the whole nine.” I feel him following me to my bowl. “I’ll be your ideal customer. Treat me right and there’s a nice tip in your future.”

“Doesn’t seem fair. You get the whole nine and all I get is the tip?” I’m glad my back is to him, because I wince as soon as I say it. This is why it was easier to steer clear of him over the years, to avoid him bringing this side out of me. I cannot let myself play with Silas that way. He’s the one person I can’t be that way around, especially if we’re going to be real friends again. Especially if we’re going tolivetogether for a time. I spin on my heel, about to apologize, but he cuts me off before I can.

“Maybe notninethen, yeah?” he says good-naturedly. His hands slide into the front pockets of his jeans. “Take it down to around seven or eight so I have a chance to reciprocate, at least.”

A snort tears through me, and I toss my head back with a relieved, grateful laugh. “Sit,” I say, still chuckling.

He flumps his big body into the seat, quickly finding the lever to kick up the footrest and settling himself back, smirking up at me with an innocent look.

I expect him to open the conversation, but he doesn’t. Instead, the second the warm water hits him, his smirk softens, followed closely by mine. I have to studiously ignore the intimacy of the whole process. The solid, heavy shape of his skull against my palm and the insane temptation to pull him into my chest. The appreciative grunt that slips out of him when I scrubat his scalp with my nails, a sound that accordions the length of my spine. I am not proud of how I speed through the rest and corral him back to my chair.

“So,” I say, securing the drape around his thick neck. A nearby dryer cuts off just in time for me to sound disproportionately loud.

“So. How’s packing going?” he segues without a hitch.

“I’m glad you asked, actually.” I run my fingers through his damp hair and pretend I don’t see his throat bob. “Same cut? Just trimmed all over?”

“Sure. Why mess with perfection?”

It’s lacking the panache I would’ve expected from him, completely emotionless and dry. But before I can prod him about it, Isabel appears out of thin air.

“Can I get you anything?” she asks him. “We’ve got bottled water, some peach sparkling waters, wine, and a few Starhopper beers.”

“You told me we were out of the peach waters,” I complain.

“We only have two,” she informs me. “They were hidden when I looked before.”

Little liar. It’s always a race between us to get the last one.

“I’ll take two of those, then, if that’s all right?” says Silas, before turning back to me. “You never answered me. About packing.”

Isabel, having been effectively dismissed, stomps off toward the break room, and I meet Silas’s expectant face in the mirror.