by Leddy Harper
“You won’t get in trouble?” The chair creaked as he leaned forward, glancing to the front of the salon where we’d last seen Marlo.
“No. It’ll be fine. Want another shampoo?”
He sat back and laughed, scratching the short, dark stubble along his jaw. “I don’t think I can handle that again.”
We talked some more while he sat in the chair and I leaned against the counter in front of him. He kept the conversation light, not once mentioning my mom or my issues. It was easy and fun. I couldn’t remember a time before when I’d felt so good just talking to someone—a stranger. But that’s just it, he didn’t seem like a stranger to me. It was as if I’d always known his smile and the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. It was that connection I always felt around him—that unexplainable, indescribable connection.
Something inside me shifted.
And for the first time in five months, I let go just a little. I allowed myself to smile and mean it, gave in to the moment without looking behind or dreading what was ahead. It felt freeing, light, and good.
Once Bentley had left, I sat down in the chair and glanced around the salon. Life went on around me, and for the first time in months, I didn’t feel lost. I didn’t feel like an outsider standing around a group of people, pretending to fit in. I belonged—not just in the salon, but in life, in this world, in the land of the living.
Stacia, one of the assistants who typically manned the front counter, came up to me, breaking me out of my trance. She handed me folded cash with a wide smile that showed off her perfectly straight teeth. I took it from her and noticed it was two twenty-dollar bills, and then stopped her before she made it two steps away.
“What is this?” I held out the cash in the air like a dirty diaper.
“Your tip from your client.”
“My tip? He didn’t even get a haircut. We sat here and talked the whole time.”
Her brow furrowed and her clasped hands fidgeted in front of her stomach. “Oh…well, he paid for a cut. He never said anything.”
I jumped out of my seat and ran outside, just in time to see his heavy-duty Chevy pull out of the parking lot. I groaned, stomping my heel against the concrete like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum, and then stormed back inside, stopping at the counter where Stacia now stood.
“I’m really sorry, Sarah. I had no idea.” Fear filled her wide eyes as she stood behind the counter, her back as straight as a board.
“You didn’t think anything of it when he left me a hundred percent tip?”
She shook her head in short, jerky movements, clearly nervous over my reaction. “You never said anything about the first tip, so I thought it was normal.”
“What do you mean ‘the first tip’?” My tone dropped to a hesitant growl, the anger mixing with my confusion and coming out in a throaty-sounding voice.
She didn’t say anything else. Instead, she turned and shuffled her feet along the wood flooring, heading to my station. I followed behind her, my head spinning in a million different directions. Once we reached my counter, she pulled open the drawer that I kept my round brushes in. Beneath the only brush I used when blow-drying hair sat a plain white envelope. She barely had it out of the drawer before I snatched it from her hand, ripping it open to find another forty dollars inside. I glared at her, expecting an answer.
“He left it the last time he was in. You weren’t here so I put it in your drawer. I thought you’d gotten it, so I never questioned it. I’m really sorry, Sarah. I didn’t mean to make you mad.”
My resolve softened at her unnecessary apology, realizing I’d taken out my frustrations on the wrong person. “It’s not your fault, Stacia. I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at Bentley. Well, not mad…I’m confused.”
“I think he likes you,” she whispered, fighting back the uneasy grin on her lips.
“I don’t understand him, so I have no idea if he likes me or not.” I fell back into my chair, defeat fogging my mind. “I don’t know what he wants from me,” I said and then let out a long sigh.
The only thing keeping me from completely freaking out was the fact that I knew I’d see him the next day. I’d give him back his money, refund the haircut he paid for, and question why he felt the need to practically throw cash at me. I was a level-four stylist; I didn’t make chump change. I didn’t need his handouts. I wasn’t a charity case or someone who needed donations.
One more day, and then I’d make sure I had all the answers to every question I could come up with in the event I’d never see him again.
Friday was never-ending. It probably had a lot to do with the anticipation of dinner with Bentley. It’d been so long since I’d been out on a date, and the anxiety became almost too much to bear. It also didn’t help that I had mixed feelings about seeing him. Prior to receiving his tips yesterday, the thought of seeing him—and getting laid—excited me. My body needed release, except I’d come to terms that it couldn’t be by just anyone. I felt like a puzzle, scattered pieces that had slowly started coming together. However, there was one piece missing—the connection I so desperately craved. So the idea of finally getting it had lit a spark of excitement in me. But then he had to go and throw money at me and make me feel cheap and pathetic, like I was nothing more than a tragic girl that needed his help. That left me pissed off and angered, dousing the flames of promised passion that fought to burn inside.
Once six o’clock rolled around, I made my way to the front of the salon, finding a very well-dressed Bentley waiting for me. At the mere sight of him, all the anxiety and apprehension vanished, leaving me happy and slightly nervous.
“You ready?” he asked, sounding vaguely insecure, yet it hadn’t registered in his strong and confident posture.
I could only smile and nod, winding my purse strap around my crossed arms to give me something to do with my hands. I wanted to touch him in some way, but decided against it, waiting for him to make the first move. He opened the door and waited until I passed through before following me outside. His truck was parked in the front, and for the first time since thinking about this date, I questioned the driving arrangements.
“Is it okay if you leave your car here? Or do you need to take it home?”
I casually waved him off. “I can follow you. It’s no big deal.”
He stepped closer to me, lightly holding my upper arms as he squared his shoulders with mine. His chin dipped and his soft, shining eyes met mine. “This is a date, Sarah. And as such, I’m going to drive. Whether we leave from here, or I follow you back to your house to drop off your car, you’re going to ride with me to dinner.”
He really hadn’t left me with much choice in the matter, so I had two options: leave my car at the salon, or let him follow me back home. I wasn’t sure how comfortable I was with him knowing where I lived. Truth be told, no matter how often he crossed my mind or how comfortable I felt around him, he was still a stranger to me. We hadn’t swapped phone numbers, he didn’t know my last name, and I had no idea where he lived, other than the name of a town six hours away. Taking him to my house was out of the question.
“I’ll just leave it here. It’ll be fine.”
He walked around to the passenger side of his truck and opened the door for me, helping me into the seat with his hands on my hips like last time. My skin prickled with the promise of him doing that again later, only without clothes, and not for the sake of getting into the truck.
I twisted around to buckle my seatbelt after he climbed in the driver seat. My cheeks flamed hot from my sexual thoughts and the grin that wouldn’t go away. “So, where are you taking me?”
“I found this place a while back and thought you might like it. It’s a southern barbecue joint. It’s set up like a backyard barbecue with music, and they make the food right there where you can see it. And they serve drinks in Solo cups. It’s the coolest restaurant I’ve been to.”
“We aren’t dressed a little too fancy for this place?”
Bentley turned
his head toward me and winked. “Nah. No such thing. A grill goes with almost anything. My brother’s wedding reception was barbecue themed.”
“What about the bride’s dress? She didn’t care to get it messy?”
“Nope. She said she had no intention of ever wearing it again, so it didn’t matter how messed up it got.”
“She has a point.”
Bentley’s fingers tapped out a silent beat on the console between us. Was he nervous, or was it a normal habit of his? It made me think back to the promise he made me yesterday, and I wondered if he’d changed his mind.
“I’m still getting laid tonight, right?” I asked, attempting to make it sound like a joke, when in reality, I was dead serious about it. All the sexual chemistry between us during the week had really gotten to me.
“Yes. I already told you that you would.”
“Just making sure.” I sat back in my seat when another thought came to mind. “By you, right?”
He peered at me out of the corner of his eye with a smirk on his lips. “Yes, Sarah. What do you think I’m going to do? Pass you around to a group of guys?”
“No, but I feel like I have to go through every possible loophole, making sure you can’t get out of it somehow.”
He took my hand in his on the center console and twined his fingers with mine. It was comforting and allowed me to fully relax in my seat. He seemed unaware of the tension that had coursed through me prior to his touch. “Sarah, I said you’d get laid, and you will. By me. Tonight.”
For the rest of the drive, I had to sit in wet panties while my heartbeat pulsed between my thighs. I didn’t know if I’d be able to make it through dinner without begging him to take me on the table.
The restaurant was in a neighboring town, and it had to have been fairly new because I’d never heard of it before. But it must’ve been good because the parking lot seemed rather full.
Bentley told me to stay in my seat, so I did, and then I watched him move around the front of the truck to open my door. He took my hand and helped me down, his manners causing my heart to hiccup.
“For a country boy that looks like he walked right out of the city, you sure are a gentleman.”
He laced his fingers through mine and led me to the front door. “What can I say…I was raised right.” He reached for the door and opened it, letting me walk through first, and then placed his hand on the small of my back as I passed in front of him.
“Aloha!” the hostess greeted us in a heavy southern accent as soon as we made it to the stand. “Have y’all ever been here before?”
I shook my head, a sense I didn’t belong striking me hard as I glanced around the busy room. It was loud, and country music blared through the speakers. People walked around while others sat at various picnic tables around the large, open room. It really did resemble a backyard barbecue—at a stranger’s house where I didn’t know a damn person.
“I have. This is her first time,” Bentley said to the woman. Then he took the flowery wreath out of her hand, hung it around my neck, and leaned in to my ear as he did so. “Consider yourself laid.”
I quirked an eyebrow at him after pulling away, feeling completely duped. “Are you serious right now? This is what you meant by me getting laid tonight?”
“It was a stroke of luck that this place has Hawaiian night every Friday and you used the word ‘laid’ instead of something else.” He grabbed my hand once more and followed the hostess to a small table in the back. The entire time I followed him, my head spun. I couldn’t focus enough to pay attention to where we were headed.
Once we were seated and the woman had turned her back, I glared at Bentley from across the table, letting my eyes speak for me for a moment while I gathered my thoughts. “You knew what I meant.”
“Would you have come here with me if I told you I wouldn’t have sex with you?”
“More than likely not.” Oh, who was I kidding? Bentley had been on my mind all week. I wouldn’t have turned down dinner with him if he’d told me he wouldn’t even hold my hand.
“Okay then.”
“Why won’t you have sex with me?” Curiosity and insecurity struck me deep in my core. I knew his answer would more than likely sting, but I had to know. I’d never been in this situation before.
He grabbed a menu and glanced at it, not once looking at me. “I already told you—I don’t want to be used.”
“You’ve also said that at some point, you’re going back home…six hours away. So what is it you want from me? And don’t give me some bullshit about wanting to fix me, because that’s not going to happen. No one changes plans for a girl with the only MO being to make her less sad.”
He lowered the menu slightly, glaring at me from over the top. “Are you really pissed that I won’t fuck you? Does the fact that I respect you—and myself—too much to do that offend you in some way?”
“I just want to know what is so wrong with me that you won’t.”
He finally put the menu all the way down on the table and leaned in on his elbows. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with you. But you use sex to cope with shit, and I don’t agree with that.”
“I knew it.” I slapped my hand on the table between us. “You pretend that you don’t have an issue with a woman having an active sex life, when really, you do. Admit it, Bentley…admit to my face what you really think of me.” Curiosity faded away as insecurity and rejection consumed me, causing me to react irrationally.
He grabbed both my hands in his, holding them tight and waiting for my undivided attention. “I swear to you, I have no problems with an active sex life for anyone. As long as you use protection, get tested regularly, and are clean, then I have no issues with it. And I’ve already admitted to your face what I think of you.”
I pulled away, but my hands remained in his.
“I think you’re selling yourself short. I think you won’t allow yourself to be happy because you think you can’t be if your mom can’t. You have sex, not because you enjoy it or because it’s with someone you care about, but because it takes your mind off life. Off your struggles. And that’s what I have a problem with. Because it doesn’t matter how much sex you have, you’re always going to wake up alone in the morning, and your problems will still be there. You can’t mask it with other things. The only way to make your problems go away is by dealing with them. Face them head on, fight the demons, and then choose to live.”
My jaw ached from biting down on my back teeth so hard. He made me so frustrated with his passive-style therapy. “I don’t know why you even bother coming around. I mean, listen to us. We’re a freaking broken record. It’s always the same: me asking you why you’re here, you giving me some Dr. Phil bullshit, and then reading me like a damn book. I don’t like it.”
“Then stop fighting me.” His easy chuckle lightened the mood some and caused me to cool off a bit.
I pulled my hands from his grasp and dug in my purse until I found the envelope. I’d wanted to wait until the end of the night before bringing it up, but with the way our date was going, now seemed like as good of a time as any.
“Here,” I said, pushing it across the table at him.
“What’s this?”
“Your pity money you left for me at the salon. I’m not some charity case.”
He pushed the envelope back across the table. “I never said you were.”
“So explain that.” I crossed my arms over my chest, erecting my wall.
He shrugged and leaned back in his seat as if it were no big deal that he’d shoved money my way, as if it happened every day. “Nothing to explain. It’s a tip.”
“I didn’t cut your hair.”
“No, but you took an appointment and didn’t earn any money from it. That’s not pity, and it’s not charity. Had I not taken up your time, you could’ve booked another person and made money. I wasn’t about to let you lose a sale because I’m needy and wanted to spend time with you.” He pushed the envelope more until it slid off th
e table and into my lap. “Take the damn money and stop arguing with me.”
“I don’t like taking money if I didn’t earn it.”
“And I understand that. I get it. But I would feel awful knowing I took up your time and kept you from earning money. Outside of work is one thing—I’m not going to pay you to have dinner with me. But that was from a time when you were on the clock, and I don’t feel right about making an appointment you didn’t get paid for.”
I went with it and dropped the attitude, shoving the cash back into my purse. After all, what else could I do? There was no point in ruining dinner for us both. But then Bentley decided to open his mouth—apparently, he didn’t care about ruining this date.
“Can you tell me what happened to your mom?”
Not a sound could’ve been heard past the harsh pounding in my ears, like my heart had dislodged itself from my chest and settled in my head. Everything throbbed, including my eyes as I gawked at him from across the table. Even my voice didn’t want to work properly as it squeaked out in a broken, hoarse whisper. “Why?”
His shoulders rose slightly, making him seem insecure or unsure, while his hands fidgeted in front of him. “You mentioned a brain aneurysm once, but never said if that’s what it was. I guess I’m curious. I mean, her death has clearly been a heavy weight on your shoulders, and I just want to know more about it. I want to understand you better.”
I studied the way he twisted his fingers, focusing on those simple movements to keep the panic from taking me down. I could already feel it start to come on, breaths becoming so short and shallow that my head felt light with the lack of oxygen.
“Listen, Sarah…I get it if you don’t want to talk about it, but I only want to help. You said I couldn’t understand because I’ve never been where you are. So tell me. Help me understand.”
“She had these migraines.” Without meeting his eyes, keeping my focus on his fingers, I opened my mouth and let my words flow. It became easier when I didn’t feel like I was talking to someone, but rather at someone. “They started when I was a teenager, and I remember them crippling her. She’d gone to the doctor about it, but they were never able to find anything, saying hormones caused them. Eventually, she started getting these injections in her head and neck. Botox. They helped, but she had to keep going to get them done, otherwise the migraines would come back. In the last year, they progressively got worse, and even with the injections, she still suffered from them. The Botox no longer did what it had before. She talked to the doctor about it, but her insurance company wouldn’t pay for any more tests. They said the only way more comprehensive testing could be ordered on her brain was if she had an injury.”