Looking Glass Lies

by Varina Denman

  The grandmother reciting the local news at the beauty shop didn’t bother me nearly as much as the stylist cutting my hair. When I finally left the place, the hairdresser was grinning like she had salvaged a flea-market dresser and turned it into a trendy mini bar. My hair had returned to its natural dark-brown shade, and now fell in soft waves around my face. The full side of the asymmetrical cut hung only an inch or so longer than the short side, and the overall appearance was delicate and girly, as the beautician claimed.

  “I don’t know anything about you, hon,” she had drawled, loud enough for everyone in the shop to hear. “But I bet you have a good excuse for letting yourself go. Probably taking care of a sick relative or something like that.” She had eyed my reflection in the mirror, waiting for an explanation that never came. “But now you look right delicate and girly, and you’ll feel all pretty on the inside too. That’s how things work.” She brushed tiny hairs from my neck and shoulders. “You’ll feel like a new woman.”

  Since then I’d been to four businesses to fill out job applications, and so far, the new woman inside me hadn’t had an ounce of luck in spite of the delicate, girly feels. Next on my list of employment possibilities was the Midnight Oil Coffee Shop, so I figured while I was applying for a job, I’d grab a cup of java. Caffeine would make me feel more like a new woman than any sort of haircut could.

  Midnight Oil had been in the same place for years, on the corner of the square near the old courthouse, and even though it lay nestled among the nostalgic businesses in the old-town district, the shop looked a little worn. The sign—a huge cup with squiggly lines representing steam—needed painting, and a haze of dust streaked the plate-glass windows, almost obscuring the “Help Wanted” sign. Evidently, none of that deterred customers, because the shop was packed—mostly with college kids. Strange. I didn’t remember it being a popular hangout back in my day.

  The scent of coffee greeted me before I stepped onto the curb, and when I opened the glass door, the warm roasted aroma pulled me in. I noted the hanging plants, the squishy-soft couches along the exposed brick walls, and the small tables with mismatched wooden chairs, and I gave a silent nod of approval. A flat-screen television hung on a side wall, but the morning talk show was muted, and Ingrid Michaelson could be heard crooning from tiny speakers in the four corners of the room. I found myself at the end of a long line of customers and considered coming back later in the day, but immediately discarded the notion. I wanted a job, and the sooner, the better.

  A blond girl behind the counter called over the hum of voices, “Welcome to Midnight Oil!” Then she continued with her work, holding a cup beneath a spigot and punching a button. Barista Barbie.

  She reminded me of the dolls I played with in childhood. The slender Barbies had hobbled across my hearth on their rubbery legs, competing for best gown, best swimsuit, best hair. I only had two of them, Barbie and Skipper, and even though Skipper’s freckles and flat chest were adorable, they didn’t hold much weight in a competitive pageant. Hence her curvy older sister always won the glittering crown.

  Fingertips touched my elbow. “Welcome to Midnight Oil, ma’am. This your first time in my shop?” A tanned man wearing a khaki apron smiled down at me, and apprehension slithered in my ribcage. If the blonde was a Barbie doll, then this was Ken. He certainly had the hair for it.

  “Oh . . . sort of.” He must’ve been the owner, and suddenly I couldn’t think how to explain my ten-year hiatus.

  “What’s your drink of choice, ma’am?”

  I faltered. My drink of choice was back home in Daddy’s coffee maker. Morning roast with a medley of International Flavors poured in. To know what to order at Midnight Oil, I’d have to study the menu for a while. To even determine the size I wanted, I’d likely need to fall back on college algebra, if not my foreign language studies. “Just black coffee, I guess.”

  He raised his index finger and then walked away, smiling back at me over his shoulder.

  I couldn’t remember the last time a man with teeth that white and skin that tan had smiled at me. Maybe never. I took a step to follow, but . . . did he really mean to get my coffee? I wasn’t next in line. Not even close. If I followed him, I risked losing my place, and how was I supposed to pay? I’d have to scan my debit card at the register on the other side of a small bundle of people who would all assume I was cutting in line. I should’ve just asked him for a job application and passed on the coffee.

  But that smile.

  “Here we go!” He approached again, holding a disposable cup stamped with the Midnight Oil logo. “On the house, in celebration of your sort of first visit to the shop.” He ducked his head like a Japanese honor guard.

  When he looked up again, the girl behind the counter caught his eye and tilted her head to the side. I thought he winked at her.

  “Thank you.” I took the cup from his hand and glanced back at the girl.

  She looked like—

  I squinted.

  It couldn’t be.

  “You live around here?” Malibu Ken asked.

  “Outside of town, on the canyon.” Why did I tell him that? I crossed an arm over my stomach.

  “No kidding. Did you hear about that girl falling yesterday?”

  “Crazy, right?”

  Ken kept smiling, but his gaze wandered to an adjacent table. “Have you lived in Canyon all your life?” he asked.

  “Until I went to UCLA”—no need to mention a failed marriage—“but I’m back now, probably to stay a while.” Why was he asking so many questions? Why was he talking to me at all?

  “UCLA? We played them in the Cotton Bowl.”

  “Um . . . football?”

  He grinned like a ten-year-old boy looking at a brand-new, just-released video game. “You’re not a football fan?” He seemed unusually thrilled by the news.

  “Can’t say I am. Sorry. Did you play in college?”

  His eyebrows quivered once. “I had a pretty good stint at UT.”

  “Hmm. The Longhorns, right?”

  “That’s the ones.” He grinned. “So enough about me. What did you study at UCLA?”

  “Music.”

  A UPS truck stopped on the street, and Ken glanced at it through the window. “Nice tattoo, by the way.” His fingertips grazed my arm again as he walked away, calling over his shoulder, “I’m Michael Divins. Hope Midnight Oil becomes part of your daily routine.”

  Michael Divins? I stood still in the middle of the shop, staring after him. I was so stupid. Michael Divins was an NFL football star, a local icon (though I’d never met him), whose name had been splashed all over social media in the last year because of his unexpected and controversial retirement. I should have recognized him. I should’ve watched more sports so I’d have an inkling of what he looked like. I should have guessed he had a legitimate reason to talk to me.

  After all, it was good business. Greet the new customers, make them feel welcome, invite them back again. Maybe even give them free product.

  And to think, for a few minutes, I had thought my delicate and girly hairstyle had made a difference. Now I reassured myself, as I always did, that men were all the same.

  Holding my coffee near my chest like a shield, I settled on a barstool at a tall table in the corner and took a sip of the hot liquid. I hated black coffee. Only someone like me could end up in a situation like this. Free coffee that I didn’t even like, and no job application in sight.

  I set the cup on the table and pulled out my cell phone. In a few minutes, I would get up the nerve to ask Michael Divins for a job, but in the meantime, I would pretend to check email and look busy.

  “Thought you might want this.”

  I blinked. The Barbie doll was standing in front of me, holding a tiny plastic cup. Now that she was closer, I knew exactly who she was.

  “I’m sorry?” There was a slim chance she wouldn’t recognize me.

  “It’s caramel honey flavoring, and I’ve got milk if you want to make it a latte.”<
br />
  I removed the lid from my abandoned cup and held it out to her so she could pour in the additives. “How’d you know?” I asked.

  “Nobody takes their coffee black except old men and college kids cramming for exams. And maybe the occasional forty-something woman, bent on making a statement to the world.” She shifted her hips to the left, and the man sitting on the couch behind her seemed to appreciate the stance. “So . . . are you?”

  “Am I . . . ?”

  “Are you making a statement to the world?” When her chin jutted forward in a challenge, I knew she recognized me too.

  I wanted to lift my chin right back at her, but I couldn’t seem to muster it. “Been a while, huh?” But not long enough.

  Mirinda Ross, Brett’s annoying little sister, had flattened all four tires on my old Jeep when Brett asked me to the prom. She had been a kid at the time, and we had hardly seen each other since then. Of course, that had a lot more to do with her refusal to attend family gatherings than my determination to hold a grudge. But she had certainly changed physically. From a stringy-haired brat into a beautiful woman, gorgeous enough to turn the head of Michael Divins, who was possibly the most eligible bachelor in America.

  He appeared at my table. “Where were we? Oh, yes. I’m Michael.” He shook my hand, and I felt that warm touch again. “What’s your name?”

  “Cecily.” I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. “Cecily Ross.”

  He looked at Mirinda and then back at me. “Any relation?”

  “No.” Mirinda rested her elbows on the counter-height table and leaned over, her breasts nestling between her arms. “None at all.”

  Michael stood a little taller and smiled, first at Mirinda, then at me, then back again, as though he were watching a surprisingly happy game of table tennis. In the end, his gaze settled on me. “Cecily, would you like to catch a movie together?”

  Was he asking me out? It certainly sounded that way, but . . . why? Suddenly I was pushed into the deep end of a swimming pool without the necessary intake of breath. No one had asked me on a date since the divorce. Even before that, really. Not since Brett and I dated.

  “You just met her,” Mirinda snapped.

  “It’s only a movie.” His eyes met hers, and I wondered if he was trying to tell her something without saying it out loud.

  Mirinda’s mouth smashed into a less than doll-like line, and I figured she didn’t know what she looked like when she did that. I bet every time she peered in the mirror, she smiled and spruced and primped her hair. Not many people happen to be looking at themselves when their attitudes and feelings and hurts—their personalities—leak out around the edges.

  I hoped I wasn’t making the same face. Because I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to go out on a date—even with Michael Divins—but the possibility had revived feelings I’d thought were long since dead, and for the first time in over a year, I didn’t feel ugly.

  I fumbled with the lid on my cup and decided a job application was out of the question.

  Mirinda put a fist on one hip as her eyes scanned my face and body, lingering on my sleeve tattoo. Then her shoulders lifted and fell in a minuscule shrug, and with the gesture I heard her unspoken words: No wonder my brother left you.

  To get back at her, I smiled at Michael. “I’ve been wanting to see that new action movie.”

  “How about Monday night?” He glanced at Mirinda and then back at me, and my heart gradually increased its beating, like a bass drum coming closer in a parade.

  This could be okay. “Monday it is.”

  My former sister-in-law crushed the tiny cup in her fist and stomped to the counter, and I’m sorry to say I enjoyed it a little.

  Michael and I exchanged numbers. Then I was left alone at my table, sipping coffee.

  If Brett knew I had a date, he would be surprised. If he knew it was with his favorite quarterback, he would be shocked. Yes, this could be okay.

  I lowered my gaze to my cell, and my thumb swiped across the screen. After a few taps I was sent to an old friend’s Facebook page where I opened a folder of pictures, tapping my way through graduations and weddings and birthday parties. When my phone rang, I inadvertently hit the answer button as it popped up where the photo album had been a split second before. I hadn’t had time to see who was calling, but I knew it would be Daddy, wondering about my job hunt.

  I put the phone to my ear. “I’m at Midnight Oil Coffee Shop.”

  An unfamiliar male voice chuckled. “Well, I can already see that you have more sense than ninety percent of my clients.”

  Chapter Four

  “Who is this?”

  “Sorry.” He laughed, maybe nervously. “This is Graham Harper. From back in school?”

  I gripped my coffee cup until I thought my fingers might crack the brittle sides. The man on the other end of the line wasn’t my interfering yet well-meaning father calling to check on my employment progress. It was my old friend from high school—if he had even been that much—cold calling because he couldn’t scrape up business any other way.

  And I had accidentally taken his call.

  My next two questions should have been How did he get my number? and What did he want? but I knew the answers, and he probably knew I knew. Ridiculous.

  “I heard you were back in town,” he said. “Thought I’d give you a call and welcome you home.”

  That was a fib. “Did you?” I asked.

  He laughed outright then, and the honest sound of it made me sit up straight. “Okay, no,” he said. “Actually, I bumped into your dad the other day, and he asked if I could call you.”

  My fingertip dabbed at a drop of coffee on the lid of my cup. “I appreciate you taking the time, but I really don’t need counseling.” Internally, I gave myself a high five for sounding so calm and rational, but then I blubbered, “Just this morning I got my hair done for the first time in eighteen months.”

  When he didn’t answer right away, I realized how much I had revealed in that single statement. Crap.

  “It’s not like that,” he said. “Sure, your dad asked me to set up an appointment, but that’s not really how I roll.” That chuckle again. “I couldn’t seem to make him understand, but since I promised I’d call, here I am.”

  “Dad doesn’t generally take no for an answer, but he has no reason to be worried . . . about me.” My voice evaporated.

  There were a few seconds of silence, and then Graham asked brightly, “So what are you up to these days? Do you work in the music industry?”

  “No,” I answered quickly. Music wasn’t even a part of me anymore. “I lost interest years ago.”

  “I always thought you’d be a concert pianist. Van Cliburn. Yiruma. Somebody like that.” His voice sounded different than it had in high school, more mature, like one of those deep baritones on radio commercials—the ones that make you want to buy a luxury car simply because the guy sounds so authentic and real. Maybe Graham wasn’t hiding as much as other men, or . . . maybe he was just an extravagant used car salesman with a nice voice.

  “I studied music at UCLA.” I squirmed on the barstool. “But I dropped out before I graduated.”

  The crowd in the coffee shop was thinning, and Mirinda was now moving from table to table, wiping coffee rings and muffin crumbs. As she drew near, I noticed her doll-like persona extended all the way to her fingernails, which were long and brightly painted, and I wondered how she managed to keep them so nice even though she worked in food service. I slipped my left hand under my thigh as she passed.

  Graham cleared his throat.

  “What about you?” I asked. “How did you become Dr. Harper? Last I remember, people were calling you Graham Cracker.”

  He hummed good-naturedly, as though my words had scratched the surface of his pride, but a dollop of ointment would make everything better. “The nickname was unjustified,” he said. “I never did crack cocaine. That was a nasty rumor.”

  “But you admit you did other drugs?”
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br />   “Just marijuana, but I did enough of it that it’s a wonder my brain isn’t fried.”

  And this was the man my dad wanted me to confide in.

  “In the end,” Graham said, “I learned I wasn’t the only one with issues, and when I discovered I had a knack for helping people face theirs, I enrolled in college and never looked back.”

  “So you have a degree?”

  “Three.”

  “From where?”

  “Bachelor’s from West Texas A&M here in town, master’s and doctorate from Texas Tech.”

  A mother and three small children moved into the table next to mine as though they were setting up at a campground for the weekend. A little girl, probably four or five years old, rested her elbows on the table as she held an iPad in front of her face. Even though I couldn’t see the screen, I recognized the Disney music. The girl swayed dreamily, and I knew she was there, in the castle, dancing with the prince. I smiled along with her before tightening my grip on my cell.

  “So, what exactly did my dad tell you?”

  Michael hovered one table over, asking the mother the names of her children. The woman seemed smitten with Michael and flattered by the attention, so I gathered she didn’t notice Mirinda brushing against him as she delivered their breakfast.

  When Mirinda’s eyes met mine, I tugged down the sleeve of my shirt in a futile attempt to cover the tattoo that ran from my shoulder to my wrist. I needed to wear long sleeves.

  “Did you hear me?”

  Graham was talking, and, no, I hadn’t heard him. For crying out loud, I had just asked him what my dad told him, and then I didn’t listen to his response.

  Irritation punched through my curt answer. “What did you say?”

  I thought he laughed again, but it was so soft, I couldn’t be sure. “Your dad only said that you and Brett recently split, and that you’re wallowing.” He held the word and longer as though he didn’t want to get to the wallowing part. “He just wants the best for you, Cecily.”