by Maria Luis
Then again, I don’t have clients anymore either.
My heart seizes again, lungs clamping tightly, and I briefly contemplate ditching the dainty glass Effie’s given me for the entire bottle instead. Nothing says Yay For Hitting Your New Low than drinking to excess on a weeknight.
“Alcohol always helps,” Effie says from her perch on the far side of the sofa. There’s at least three feet separating us, which I’m sure is her way of trying to avoid the stink that is currently me. Smart lady. “Stub your toe,” Effie continues, lifting her glass in a toast, “drink Tito’s. Flat tire, drink Tito’s.” Her dark eyes light with a forced, let’s-laugh-this-one-out-together humor. “Find out that your handyman ran out on you with your check for ten-thousand dollars—”
I’m lunging for the bottle off the coffee table before she even finishes her sentence. The vodka tickles and warms its way down the back of my throat, a reminder that I rarely drink anything heavier than wine or a fruity cocktail weighted with more calories than a burger from McDonald’s. I’ve never been one for the Skinny Girl menu.
Effie’s mouth twitches.
“Just say it,” I mutter morosely, waving the bottle in her direction. “I’m an idiot. A screw-up. A—”
“I was actually thinking about the fact that he took your lucky penny.”
“Bastard.” I down another mouthful of Tito’s and pray to the alcohol gods that I won’t be tossing up my cookies tomorrow morning. A hangover is not in the plans—then again, neither was trusting a scammer.
“Who does that?” I point Tito to the far side of my newly purchased hair salon, which is empty save for the sofa we’re sitting on and the cute receptionist’s desk I picked up at an antiques sale a few weekends back. “It wasn’t enough that he took the ten-K? The jerk went through my desk and took my lucky penny. I’ve had that thing since your mom gave it to me on prom night.”
Aleka Stamos, the hairdresser who gave me my first pair of shears, promised that if I kept the lucky penny on me, one day I’d have the chance to see it in my very own register at my very own hair salon. Envision your dreams, she said, manifest them into reality. The penny’s copper was worn down, smoothed thrice over, and had survived over a decade of being almost handed over to cashiers time and again. Well-earned battle scars, only to be swiped from my register before I even opened Agape’s front doors.
“I’m telling you,” I mutter darkly, “that crossed a line.” Another pull from Tito the Great. “Bastard.”
“You’re starting to sound repetitive.”
My brows lower. “I’m drunk.”
“You’ve had one shot and approximately three gulps of vodka, half of which is drenching your shirt.”
I glance down, and sure enough, not only am I pulling a Yeti in terms of hair growth, I look like I’ve taken a dunk in a pool of D-grade vodka.
What a good look, Miss New CEO.
I can’t even find it in myself to crack a smile at my poor attempt at sarcasm.
Since my teenage years, I’ve worked toward only one dream: running my own hair salon. I’ve never wanted anything else, never deviated from the path I set into motion after the first time I watched Tyra Banks on America’s Next Top Model. Call me crazy, but the show—dramatic as each season was—gave me hope.
I was never the smart girl in school. A C was as good as an A in my book—considering all the work and sweat and tears that the C cost me. My inability to keep up with my peers in class was then matched by my very Greek and very traditional father, who thought sports were a waste of time, as were other extracurriculars like drama and singing. I was, effectively, particularly good at doing nothing. Unless you included my expert skills at babysitting. As the eldest of the three Pappas siblings, I was tasked with taking care of Katya and Dimitri every day after school.
For years.
And that included helping with their homework, which, no surprise there, was more hellish than burning off my eyebrows for just the fun of it.
Back then, I craved the confidence I saw in those women on the show. I craved their vitality and their uncontained excitement and the way they stood proudly as though to publicly declare, This is who I am, and you can either love it or kiss my butt.
I wanted their swagger.
And it may have taken some time, but I learned to cultivate that same swagger for myself until—
“I need a plan.”
Effie eyes me warily. “How about we wait till tomorrow when you aren’t on the verge of a meltdown?” She casts a quick glance about the empty salon. Before I bought the space, and the small apartment above it, the building had housed a floral shop. A few potted plants still linger here and there, their soil dry and leaves bronzing, even though I’ve done my best to keep them alive.
Turns out that a hairdresser and a horticulturalist are not synonymous occupations, despite the fact that shears are used for both.
My best friend takes another sip of Tito. “How long are you going to make us sit down here in the dark? It’s creepy.”
Ambient light filters in through the bare windows, basking the concrete floors in shadowy figures. Instead of a building meant to kickstart my hopes and dreams, the eerie vibe tonight gives the space more of a haunted-house-attraction appeal. “You own a ghost tour company,” I say, cupping the vodka bottle to my damp chest like a babe about to suck on a nipple, “creepy may as well be your middle name.”
Rolling her eyes, Effie points a finger at me. “You need a lawyer.”
“I need money for a lawyer.” Feeling the all-too-familiar punch to my gut, I strangle the neck of the vodka bottle and try to stem the well of tears burning at the backs of my eyes. I don’t cry—haven’t for years—and I have no plans to start now. But, jeez, learning that Jake Rhodan disappeared with money intended to cover a third of the renovation costs is crippling. Like a kick to a blistering wound when I’m already down and bleeding. “I’ve already reported him to the cops but nailing his ass to a wall isn’t possible until they find him.” My vision swims like I’ve put on a pair of drunk goggles. Oh, right—I am drunk. The room is positively swaying. And when did Effie get a twin? I close one eye. Stare a little harder with my other. Plant a flat palm on the cushion beside me and curse Tito while trying not to slur my words. “What money is left has to go to finding a new reno company or I’m totally screwed.”
Confession: Effie and I both know that I’m already screwed.
Though I once worked for Effie’s mom, I’ve spent the last few years at Twisted, a high-end spa and salon situated in Boston’s ritzy Beacon Hill neighborhood. I cut the hair of congresswomen and celebrities, all while scraping together every penny until I could open my own salon.
Agape, my salon, is the pinnacle of my career.
Unfortunately, I must be on the universe’s naughty list because I’ve been slapped back down more times than I can count in these last few months.
First, my former boss pulled out the contract I signed years earlier without paying much attention to the finer details. It stated, in no uncertain terms, that while I could open a salon within close proximity to Twisted, I was legally bound to one stipulation: I couldn’t bring my clients with me.
Yay to starting from scratch.
And then, of course, I committed the ultimate error in trusting a recommendation for the renovation itself. Seeing as how the reference came from a friend of a friend, from back in high school, I see now that I should have treaded more carefully.
As in, I should have gone with the glaringly obvious choice.
Nick Stamos.
CEO/Head Honcho/He-Who-Does-Not-Smile of Stamos Restorations and Co.
Effie’s older brother.
Also, the bane of my existence . . . and my teenage crush.
But Nick was off galivanting around the world for his thirties-life-crisis, the sober part of my brain offers up, as though reminding me that, Hey, this is why you didn’t ask him in the first place.
I don’t actually know why Nick skip
ped town—for once, Effie didn’t spill the beans—but Drunk Me nevertheless shushes Sober Me, and baldly announces, “I need your brother.”
My best friend chokes on her vodka. “You hate him.”
“I’m desperate.”
“If he heard you say that, you’d never live it down.”
“I never live anything down when it comes to him,” I grumble, not even bothering to hide the exasperation lacing my tone. This is why no one should ever be judged for youthful infatuations. All those hormones brewing—it messes with the brain and causes severe lapses in judgment, like that time I convinced myself that Chris was the hottest *NSYNC member. Two decades later and I don’t even remember what Chris looks like. “I swear to God that man has a memory like an elephant. Nothing ever gets past him. It’s annoying. He’s annoying.”
“Like an elephant?” Effie’s brows lift with curiosity.
“Elephants never forget.” When she stares at me blankly, I roll my eyes and help myself to more vodka. “I saw it on Jeopardy. Anyway, that doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I have a plan.”
“A plan for my brother to overhaul this sad, empty shell of a space into something beautiful?”
I nod sharply and feel the corresponding roll of nausea crawl through my belly. Motion-sickness and I’m not even driving. The back of my skull collides with the sofa’s armrest, the sole of my foot crashing down to the floor like dead weight.
This must be what rock bottom feels like: cradled Tito’s bottle, unshaven armpits and an unwaxed upper lip, and the single prayer that the one man who I’d prefer to avoid for the rest of my life is now my only hope.
Rock bottom sucks, big time.
“He doesn’t come cheap.”
I sigh, resignation settling heavily over my chest like the set of dumbbells I purchased years ago and have never used. Cutting hair all day means my biceps and arms are perfectly lean. The same, however, cannot be said for my butt and thighs, both of which fight my jeans on the regular. J.Lo has nothing on the Pappas butt, as the women in my family like to say.
“No, Effie,” I tell my best friend, “he doesn’t come cheap.”
It’s a good thing he owes me—and I’m finally ready to collect.
3
Mina
“Holy shit, this is going to be the best damn pee of my life, I’m telling you right now.”
Tulle and lace and pearl beading fill my hands to overflow as I keep my gaze locked on the bride’s upturned face—not that I can see anything below the belt.
Effie’s cousin Toula hovers ass over toilet, her wedding dress hiked up to her shoulders, as she manhandles the metal handicap railing with one hand and clutches my forearm with the other to keep from toppling over. One wrong knee bend and she’ll be face down . . . or ass up, depending on which direction gravity pulls.
Her stiletto heel skids across the linoleum with a whine as she tries to redistribute her weight. She wobbles, eyes flicking up to meet mine in panic, and then sinks her pointy, coffin-shaped fingernails into my forearm.
“You owe me,” I tell her as her shoe connects with mine. When Toula asked that I come with her to the bathroom to check her hair before the wedding reception, there’d been no mention of “bathroom” duties. This is what happens when you play nice with everyone—you risk the possibility of being peed on. I inch my shoes back a solid two inches in self-preservation. “I don’t care if you saved me way back when after I got stuck in a bathroom stall and couldn’t get out. We’re talking—”
“Don’t Rose and Jack me, Mina,” Toula pleads with all the drama of an actress, which is, to the surprise of no one, her day job. “I’m too young to go out like this.”
The urge to roll my eyes has never been more potent. “The toilet isn’t the damn Atlantic Ocean, Tou—” A stray layer of tulle sticks to my mouth, my glossy lipstick acting like suction, and I spit out the fabric, batting it away before I’m the one succumbing to Death by Wedding Dress.
“Eep, don’t let go!” Toula cries out.
With nimble hands, I grab the dress before any bits of tulle can take a dip in the toilet water. A relieved sigh stabs me in the chest when I catch it all. No doubt I look like Easter threw up all over me—so much tulle, so much lace. All I need are the bunny ears and a carrot. “All right, you’re good. Go forth with the mission.”
“I can’t tell if I’m over the toilet.”
Oh, for the love of—
I yank the dress skirt higher, out of the way of impending disaster. “Squat and pray. Just squat and pray.”
And please don’t pee on my shoes.
Toula screws her eyes shut, her mouth pursing in overt concentration. Good Lord, she might actually be praying. Laughter climbs my throat, just as the trickling, telltale sound of urine hitting water echoes in the linoleum-covered bathroom.
Effie’s cousin drops her head back, moaning with pure, unfiltered relief.
“Didn’t the bridal shop prepare you for this?” I ask, stepping to the side when Toula gives her butt a firm wiggle. If I even dare try to give her some toilet paper, I’ll probably lose my hand in the countless layers of fabric. Instead of opting for a sleek, modern cut, she’s gone for Cinderella-impersonator, tiara included. Family friend or not, she’s on her own from here on out. Mark my words, my duties are hereafter complete.
I’m in desperate need of a cocktail.
And then, if I’m lucky enough, Nick Stamos will appear like the white knight he isn’t, and I’ll have the chance to plead my case. I’m already dreading the moment when his pewter-gray eyes land on me, shrewdly giving me a once-over that has always—always—left me feeling lacking. Wanting. Like I’m forever disappointing him, even though I don’t care one bit about what he thinks of me. I don’t care anymore, at any rate. I used to, back when I was a disillusioned youth.
If there was ever a chance of me knowing what exactly goes on behind those uniquely colored eyes of his, I’ve long since given up figuring it out. Nick’s as stone-cold as an ancient Greek statue. If there’s any luck in the world, he’s the opposite of an Adonis and has a dick small enough to fit behind the requisite leaf coverage.
You know that’s not even remotely true.
With an imaginary needle, I pop the very vivid memory of a teenage Nick straight from my head.
At any rate, the likelihood of him agreeing to my proposition is close to nil, but I haven’t gotten this far in life by going belly-up and accepting fate’s bad hand.
Vini, vidi, vici, right?
I came, I saw, I conquered.
I’m working on the conquering bit, but I have no doubt that some magic can be spun to maneuver things into my favor. Not that Nick has ever allowed himself to be maneuvered into anything. Not that time when we were kids and I begged him to sneak Effie and me out of Greek school or that horribly awkward moment on prom night when I thought for one crazy second that he might actually—
Nope, don’t even go there.
I suck in my bottom lip and focus on the situation at hand.
“How about putting a warning label—No Solo Bathroom Trips—on the dress tag?” I tell Toula when she flushes the toilet. “Or, maybe, I don’t know, go eighteenth-century and cut a slit in your underwear for easy access?”
“Bad news, I’m not wearing any underwear.”
I’m not even surprised. When we were kids, Toula spent an entire summer stripping naked. She flashed everyone from the mailman to the family dog to unassuming passersby outside her front yard. When we turned eighteen, she opted out of college for a career in burlesque.
Unless it glitters and shimmers, Toula can’t be bothered.
As for me, I like clothes. Hell, I love them. There isn’t a skirt I won’t wear or a top I won’t try at least once, but my love for clothes can’t compare to how much I obsess over getting my hands into someone’s hair. Un-creepily, of course.
“Let me make sure the bobby pins are holding up.” I motion to Toula after she’s washed her hands in the
sink and I’ve done the same. “Once you’re announced into the reception, I’ll be lucky if I get another chance to fix you.”
Dutifully, Effie’s cousin drops her chin to let me survey my handiwork from earlier this morning. I’ve arranged her black hair—the same charcoal hue as mine now that I’ve removed my usual hot pink—in an elegant up-do with sweeps of locks here and loose braids strategically placed there. I straighten the bobby pins, sticking the butt of a pin between my molars while I tug and rewrap a braid. Once Toula hits the dance floor in an hour, I’ll let nature do as it wants but until then . . .
“You sure you don’t mind me posting the picture on Instagram?” I ask, slipping the pin from my mouth and into the thick, intricately styled bun at the nape of her neck. “I don’t want you to feel—”
Toula flashes me a quick grin. “I told you earlier, it’s all good. How else are you going to build clientele for your new salon?”
Not for the first time, I feel the sting of my current reality. It zaps me right in the heart before burrowing deep in my gut. It’d be all too easy to sink into the black blanket already clinging to my legs, all while subjugating myself to endless nights of Tito’s, cryfests, and more hours of reality TV than my brain can possibly digest. Crying isn’t a solution to my problem, though, and neither is alcohol.
I’m an entrepreneur, something I never once imagined might be possible years ago. A CEO, for heck’s sake. Me, Ermione Pappas, Cambridge’s Most Likely to End Up Flunking Out of College. Okay, so that wasn’t a real vote in the ballot senior year, but some asshole had scrawled it across the final printed sheet in the cafeteria for all to gawk at like lemmings tripping over each other to all rush off the cliff together.
If I’m a hot mess, I’ll own it. But the hot-mess express is about to embark on its grand finale voyage, if I have anything to say about it.
C.E.O.
I may need the three letters stamped across my forehead as a constant reminder to myself that I’m as kickass and well-deserving of success as anyone else.
