by Dylan Allen
“As it should be,” I admit.
“Your hair is a disaster,” she scolds. “What a waste of beautiful cuticles. You do not take care of it,” she says and picks up a few strands of my hair. She pulls a little magnifying glass out of her pocket and holds my hair under it.
“What is this color at the end?” she demands, dropping the lock of hair unceremoniously before taking a step back to eye me closely.
“That’s my color. I’ve just got through growing out a terrible brown I got from some online company that has since disappeared.”
“Are you saying that’s your natural color?” she asks, disbelief plain in her voice.
“Yes, it is. Why?”
“I’ve been trying to mix a blonde just this shade for the last six years, and I’ve never managed to get it quite like this.” She picks the hair up again and strokes it. She slides her hand closer to my roots and says, “This color, though, it needs some help. I saw you want a color, cut, blow out?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Okay, well, you’ve got such heavy hair, I think we should cut about five inches from the back and maybe seven from the front,” she says casually.
“Um, no. I was thinking maybe half an inch off the ends,” I say.
“Well, if that’s what you want, there are about eight chain hair salons within two miles of here. Go there. They can do that. You do not need me for that,” she says, and I jump out of my seat.
“No, I don’t want to go there. But I don’t want to cut all my hair off,” I say.
“Why not?” she asks like it’s a true puzzle.
“Because that’s not what I had in mind, and you can’t expect me to just say okay when you’re talking about cutting my hair up to shoulders,” I say.
“Trust me. If you do not like it, I will do your hair for you every single week for a year and not charge you a single cent,” she says.
“Really?” I ask in surprise.
“You will love it. But yes, in case you’re truly an idiot, I will abide by my word and put up with having a person with bad taste in my chair every week for a year without getting paid a penny,” she says.
“Okay, although somehow that doesn’t sound like it would be very much fun,” I say.
“Oh, it would be a lot of fun. I do not take orders. I style what I see. The heads of hair that lead you here are all my vision—not what those men and women walked in and demanded. So, if you want to keep this long towel of hair on your head, you can go find someone else to help you with that. But I will never give you another appointment, so think carefully before you leave,” she says.
“God, you’re ruthless,” I say. I look in the mirror. I lift my hair off my neck and turn my head to look at my profile.
“It wouldn’t be that short. Your neck isn’t long enough to make that flattering,” she says.
“Please think nothing for my tender feelings, pick me apart, I can take it,” I say.
“Did you come for flattery or because you want to walk out of here looking like the very best version of yourself?”
“The latter. I’m ready. Do what you will.”
“You’ll be happy. My motto is if you leave pretty, you’ll come often. And I’ve only had two clients in twenty years leave here unhappy. And they were both insane.” She says this with a straight face.
“I’m ready. Do what you will,” I say in resignation.
“Excellent.” She claps her bejeweled hands together. I look past her into the mirror and say a silent goodbye to my hair.
“Let me ask you some questions before we go ahead with the color,” she says and pulls a small piece of paper out of her pocket. “DOB, April 25, 1990.” She glances up at me. “You need to start using eye cream. You’ve got the beginnings of fine lines that no twenty-eight-year-old should have,” she says and then glances back down.
“Yeah, just have at my ego, I wasn’t going to use it today, anyway,” I say.
“That was just advice from woman to woman. I’ve got melanin on my side, but I’ve been using eye cream since I was fifteen. I’m forty-five and look the same age as you,” she says with a shrug. “If you want to age terribly, feel free to ignore me,” she says.
I smile stiffly and make a mental note to visit Sephora before the weekend is out.
“When was your last period?” she asks. “You left that blank.” She points at the paper when I don’t answer.
“I didn’t realize that was a required question.” I frown.
“Well, there’s all this hysteria about pregnancy and hair dye, so I always ask to make sure you’re not possibly pregnant because there’s a general consensus that you don’t dye your hair until the second trimester,” she says.
“Well I’m on the pill, so …” I say.
“Okay, great, so when was your last period?”
“Hmm, let me see. I keep track of it, so let me go see when I last wrote it in,” I say, and I pull my phone out of my purse and look at my calendar. And start scrolling.
I scroll back to September, scan the calendar and realize there’s no entry for the week my period usually shows up.
“Huh,” I say and go back to August and see the same. I look back at July and see the dates.
“Um, July 28th,” I say. And when she just stares at me, I throw my head back against the chair.
“No. I’m not,” I say unequivocally.
“Why? Are you celibate?” she asks.
“No, but I’m on birth control,” I say, and it sounds more like a plea than a statement.
“Then that baby really wanted you to be its mama.” She points at my very flat stomach and shrugs.
“How can you sound so cheery?” I snap.
“’Cause I’m not the one who’s unexpectedly pregnant,” she says.
“I’m not pregnant,” I insist.
“Well, one way to find out.” She turns around and yanks open a drawer on her little stand of tools. She turns around and holds up a pregnancy test.
“Why in the world do you have pregnancy tests in your drawer?” I ask and stare at her wild-eyed.
“Ain’t I a hairdresser?” she asks impatiently. “Do you know how many times a week I see that deer-in-the-headlights look that’s on your face right now? I ask this ten times a day. Just go back to the bathroom and get it done.”
“No. I am not taking a pregnancy test just because I forgot to write down my period last month,” I say and put my hands up to ward her off. How is it possible for my stomach to feel heavy and flutter at the same time? My heart is racing, and my skin is tingling. I can’t even think straight.
“Okay, but I can’t color your hair today,” I say.
“Of course, you can,” I cry in desperation. This can’t be happening.
She sighs. “Let me be more deliberate with my word choice,” she says slowly. “I won’t color your hair today. Not unless you pee on that stick, and it’s negative,” she announces.
“Okay, fine. Don’t color my hair. I’ll get the cut and the blow out,” I say and watch her drop the test back in the drawer. I have a moment of regret where I think I should have just taken it, but I can’t do it.
Noé walks in with the mimosa on a small silver tray he’s carrying like it’s a tray of crown jewels.
“Good Lord, did you grow the oranges yourself?” she asks.
“So sorry, I had to run out to Randall’s to get the oranges. We were out,” he says and he drops the mimosa down in front of me. I pick it up and start to take a sip and my stomach grumbles. And I know I’m not pregnant. But I put it down because if I am, it would be very irresponsible to drink it without having proof. The thought of a baby—Hayes’s baby—inside of me makes me dizzy. But, at the trailing tip of the whirlwind of disbelief, panic, worry, doubt, and surprise is a bolt of joy.
Hayes.
His baby. I close my eyes and see a bundle with silky chocolate curls and glittering topaz hazel eyes.
“Come, let’s go back to the bowl,” she says and starts
to stand me up.
“I’ve changed my mind,” I say before I can talk myself out of it. “I want to take it,” I say and stick my hand out.
“Okay, here you go,” she says and then points me in the direction of the bathroom.
DISTRACTED
HAYES
“Hayes, good morning,” Amelia’s graver than-normal voice makes me wish I had ignored her call. I finish tying the laces of my sneakers and sit down on the bed.
“Your voice makes me think there’s nothing good about this particular Saturday morning, so let’s just cut straight to the chase,” I tell her.
“Your uncle and stepmother are mounting a petition to have you ousted as chairman of the board,” she says.
“You’re kidding,” I say and drop my forehead into my hand. That rat faced motherfucker. I’ve been treating him with kid gloves. But they’re about to come off.
“Hayes?” Amelia calls my name when I don’t say anything more.
“Can they do it?” I ask.
“Well, yes. Clearly, because they have,” she says.
“No, I mean, is there a way to remove me? I thought it was a position I held until death,” I said.
“Normally, that is the case. But there’s a clause for removal if you are unfit to hold the role. That is the clause they have evoked,” she says.
“Unfit?” I breathe into the phone in complete indignation. “In what way? By what measure?” I demand.
“By reason of illegitimacy,” she says slowly. Meaningfully.
“Illegitimacy?” I ask.
“Yes. Hayes. They’re demanding a DNA test and I would suggest you comply without any protest.”
“I don’t understand,” I say. “A DNA test for what? That would only help them if I wasn’t my father’s son,” I say angrily.
Amelia is silent.
“Are they implying I’m not my father’s son?” I demand an answer, but my throat is dry and my heart is beating faster now.
“That’s exactly what they’re implying,” she says.
“Based on what?”
“Based on what they say is a discrepancy between your mother’s medical records and death certificate. I don’t know what that means, do you?” she asks pointedly.
“Of course not. That’s ridiculous. I’ll take the DNA test today. Shut this shit down now and then I’m done playing nice with him,” I say.
“Okay. You can be done playing nice with him. But Hayes, is there any way at all, that the paternity test could come back anything other than what you expect? This is an extraordinary move they’ve made. If it’s a Hail Mary, it’s a hell of a gamble.”
“I have a birth certificate with my parents’ names on it. I have the same blood type. I look just like my father and my grandfather. This is ridiculous. It’s an attempt to embarrass me. Send me the details on when and where I can take the test. The sooner the better and I want those results expedited.” I glance down at my watch. I’m late meeting Confidence, and I almost want to text her and ask her to meet me back at her place, but I’m not going to let this asshole ruin more than he’s already tried to.
“I’ll send you the court order. I advise you go to a random lab instead of your doctor for the test. Just to avoid any questions about tampering or manipulation of their process.”
“Fine. I’ll be looking for it. I’ve gotta go,” I say before I hang up.
I should have thanked her. That couldn’t have been an easy call to make. My mind is reeling. My uncle must really hate me to have done this. A paternity test. It’s ridiculous.
And yet … my mind is not easy. I have a kernel of dread in my gut that I will ignore until I don’t have to. But it’s burrowed itself into the lining of my life; its sharp, thorn-like tip burns as it embeds itself into the story of my life. And with every step I take, it burrows deeper and it feeds on years of being denied my rightful place at the head of this family. I’ve been too soft. I’ve been distracted by my feelings. I feel a wash of shame. I’ve had my eye off the ball trying to win Confidence back. I should have seen this coming. I let a woman pull me off course once, and I lost pieces of my legacy that my father scarified for. And I’m letting it happen again.
“But, she’s not just a woman,” my better angels remind me. I ignore them. I can’t let this happen again.
I rush out the door, already late to meet Confidence but slowing my steps because I’m not ready for what I need to do. When I think of what my uncle’s shit is about to cost me … the kernel in my gut pops and the blooms are soaked in shock, resentment, and rage.
* * *
CONFIDENCE
I glance at my phone for the third time. Hayes is never late. But, it’s Saturday. I was a little nebulous about the time, he just erred on the other side of eleven o’clock. I turn around and look at my hair again. She didn’t do a permanent color, but she rinsed it with a golden blonde that makes it look like spun gold in the light. She cut it so it skims my shoulders. I feel naked and cold. But my face looks more … I don’t know … visible.
I’m pregnant.
I stare at my reflection and try to see how I’m different. I must be different. Right?
Hayes and I blended our cells together to create a miracle. I think I’m in love already and all I’ve seen is a blue line. Hayes’s DNA has coalesced with mine. That little amalgamation of us has burrowed into my womb and will take from me, blood and marrow. Teeth and bone. And a life will grow from it. I’m falling in love at the speed of light with a blue line. I do what I have been too afraid to since I took four pregnancy tests in the bathroom of Blush. I laugh.
I want to wait and get a blood test before I tell Hayes, but I’m not sure that I can. There’s not a single solitary cell in my body that expects him to be anything less than jubilant when I tell him. We are in such a good place. The litigation with Kingdom is moving along, but so are his side-by-side efforts to help alleviate the suffering of his tenants while they’re in legal limbo. I’ve watched him write checks from his personal account this week that, no matter how much money he has, must have stung a little. But he’s smiled every time he’s paid for something that makes their lives easier. And he’s doing it all anonymously. He doesn’t want the attention, and he doesn’t want to cause any friction with Kingdom’s board. It has just been one more thing about this man who makes me feel like he would move mountains to be with me. I feel the same way.
I can’t wait to tell him what we’ve done together.
“Well, look what we have here,” a voice from beside me calls, and my blood freezes in my veins. I turn my head slowly and take in the tall, dark blond, handsome man whose beautiful smile hides a black, devious heart.
“Barry,” I say flatly and curl my lip in disgust.
“Confidence,” he drawls like he’s making a joke.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“It’s a public place. Or did you have the entire town blacklist me?” He glowers at me.
“I didn’t have anyone do anything. You running around ranting about feminazis and conspiracies did that.”
“That mouth of yours is only good for one thing. And talking isn’t it,” he says.
I roll my eyes at him. “Was that supposed to offend me? Make me cry? Make me care?” I ask with contempt and malice and disgust. “You’re pathetic,” I spit at him.
His expression loses any pretense of charm, and he pushes himself off the window he was leaning on and walks over to me, clearly thinking he can intimidate me.
“You didn’t think I was pathetic when you worked for me,” he says.
“No, I didn’t. But I was also clearly suffering from a clear case of extreme slumming. I’m all better now and I see you for exactly what you are,” I say with a smile. I turn and start down the narrow alley that runs between Blush and Twist. I stop as soon as I realize I’m walking away from people. Away from the light and out of sight. I can hear him rushing to catch up with me. It takes everything I have to not run. I try to reach into
my purse for my phone so I can call Hayes, or 9-1-1. But, my hands are trembling.
I smell it on him like I did my Dad. He’s in the mood to hurt someone, and I just walked down a fucking alley. His hand closes on my arm and spins me around to face him.
“Let me go, Barry!” I yell, and he hustles me farther down the alley.
“I’m just getting started.” He leans forward and puts his face in mine. “And maybe if you ask nicely, once he’s done with you, I’d be willing to give you a—” My hand flies out and up before I can stop to think. The crack of my palm against his cheek and the burst of white-hot pain at the contact make me feel like I detonated a bomb.
He grabs my wrist with one hand and my chin with the other. “You fucking bitch,” he grinds out into my ear. He presses his body into the back of mine and I hate myself for the sob that escapes me when his erection presses into my back. He presses his lips to my ear and whispers, “You’re lucky you’ve got that body. Why don’t you show me what you showed Wilde and Rivers that’s got them so hot and bothered over you?” He grinds into me, and I scream. Loudly enough that it bounces off the dark, stone walls. He covers my mouth with his hand, but not before I can bare my teeth and bite down on his palm. I almost gag at the musty, salty taste of his skin in my mouth. But it does the trick. He lets go and I break into a run. I only get two feet before he’s got me back in his iron tight grip.
The skin on my arm burns as he struggles to hold onto me. I kick him and scream, at the top of my lungs, “Hayes!” before his hand is back over my mouth and his hot breath all over my face. “You think he’ll care what happens to you?” He throws me against the wall and steps between my legs. “I’m going to fuck that cockiness right out of you,” he says and starts unbuckling his pants.
And I start fighting for my life. His hand is still pressed to my face, and now he’s pressing so hard that I can’t open my mouth to bite him or breathe.
I kick, punch, fight, slap. I might as well be fighting an eight-foot wave. He completely overwhelms me. I close my eyes and wail in my throat and beg God to make it stop. I feel his penis, hard and heavy, pressing against the bare skin of my inner thigh, and I think about Hayes and my baby and I want to die. I sob helplessly into his hand and hope he kills me when he’s done. I left Arkansas to escape violent men, and he’s managed to find me anyway.
