Confess

by Colleen Hoover

  "But how many people who claim to love me from Texas got me a present? Take a wild guess."

  I really don't want to guess. The answer is obvious, and I want to rectify the fact that no one from Texas got her a present today. I would say we should go get one right now, but not while she's drunk and angry.

  I watch her rub her hands up the bare skin of her arms and look up at the sky. "I hate your Texas weather, Owen. It's dumb. It's hot during the day and cold at night and unreliable the rest of the time."

  I want to point out that the inclusion of both day and night leaves little room for a "rest of the time." But I don't think now is a good time to get into specifics. She continues to pull me in a direction that isn't across the street to my studio, nor is it in the direction of her apartment.

  "Where are we going?"

  She drops my hand and slows down until we're walking next to each other. I want to put my arm around her so that she doesn't trip over her "heels," but I also know that she's probably slowly sobering up, so I highly anticipate her coming to her senses soon. I doubt she wants me near her, much less with my arm around her.

  "We're almost there," she says, rummaging through her purse. She stumbles a few times and each time, my hands fly up, preparing to break her fall, but somehow she always recovers.

  She pulls her hand out of her purse and holds it up, jiggling a set of keys so close to my face they touch my nose. "Keys," she says. "Found 'em."

  She smiles like she's proud of herself, so I smile with her. She swings her arm against my chest so that I stop walking. She points to the salon we're now standing in front of, and my hand immediately flies up to my hair in a protective response.

  She inserts the key in the lock and sadly, the door opens with ease. She pushes it and motions for me to walk in first. "Lights are on the left by the door," she says. I turn to my left and she says, "No, O-wen. The other left."

  I keep my smile in check and reach to the right and flip the lights on. I watch her walk with purpose toward one of the stations. She drops her purse on the counter and then grips the back of the salon chair and spins it around to face me. "Sit."

  This is so bad. What guy would allow an inebriated girl to come near him with a pair of scissors?

  A guy who stood up said inebriated girl and feels really guilty about it.

  I inhale a nervous breath as I take a seat. She spins me around until I'm facing the mirror. Her hand lingers over a selection of combs and scissors as if she's a surgeon attempting to decide what tool she wants to slice me open with.

  "You've really let yourself go," she says as she grabs a comb. She stands in front of me and concentrates on my hair as she begins to comb through it. "Are you at least showering?"

  I shrug. "Occasionally."

  She shakes her head, disappointed, as she reaches behind her for the scissors. When she faces me again, her expression is focused. As soon as the scissors begin to come at me, I panic and try to stand up.

  "Owen, stop," she says, pushing my shoulders back against the chair. I try to gently brush her aside with my arm so I can stand, but she shoves me back in the chair again. The scissors are still in her left hand, and I know it's not intentional, but they're a little too close to my throat for comfort. Her hands are on my chest and I can tell I just made her angry with my failed attempt at escaping.

  "You need a haircut, Owen," she says. "It's okay. I won't charge you, I need the practice." She brings one of her legs up and presses her knee onto my thigh, then brings the other leg up and does the same. "Be still." Now that she physically has me locked to my chair, she lifts herself up and begins messing with my hair.

  She doesn't have to worry about my trying to escape now that she's in my lap. That won't happen.

  Her chest is directly in front of me, and even though her button-up shirt isn't at all revealing, the fact that I'm this close to such an intimate part of her has me glued to my seat. I gently lift my hands to her waist to keep her steady.

  When I touch her, she pauses what she's doing and looks down at me. Neither of us speaks, but I know she feels it. I'm too close to her chest not to notice her reaction. Her breath halts right along with mine.

  She looks away nervously as soon as we make eye contact and she begins snipping at my hair. I can honestly say I've never had my hair cut quite like this before. They aren't as accommodating at the barbershop.

  I can feel the scissors sawing through my hair and she huffs. "Your hair is really thick, Owen." She says it like it's my fault and it's irritating her.

  "Aren't you supposed to wet it first?"

  Her hands pause in my hair as soon as I ask her that question. She relaxes and lowers herself until her thighs meet her calves. We're eye to eye now. My hands are still on her waist and she's still on my lap and I'm still thoroughly enjoying the position of this spontaneous haircut, but I can see from the sudden trembling of her bottom lip that I'm the only one enjoying it.

  Her arms fall limply to her sides and she drops the scissors and the comb on the floor. I can see the tears forming and I don't know what to do to stop them, since I'm not sure what started them.

  "I forgot to wet it," she says with a defeated pout. She begins to shake her head back and forth. "I'm the worst hairdresser in the whole world, Owen."

  And now she's crying. She brings her hands up to her face, attempting to cover her tears, or her embarrassment, or both. I lean forward and pull her hands away. "Auburn."

  She won't open her eyes to look at me. She keeps her head tucked down and she shakes it, refusing to answer me.

  "Auburn," I say again, this time raising my hands to her cheeks. I hold her face in my hands, and I'm mesmerized by how soft she feels. Like a combination of silk and satin and sin, pressing against my palms.

  God, I hate that I've already fucked this up so bad. I hate that I don't know how to fix it.

  I pull her toward me and surprisingly, she lets me. Her arms are still at her sides, but her face is buried against my neck now, and why did I fuck this up, Auburn?

  I brush my hand over the back of her head and move my lips to her ear. I need her to forgive me, but I don't know if she can do that without an explanation. The only problem is, I'm the one who reads the confessions. I'm not used to writing them and I'm certainly not used to speaking them. But I still need her to know that I wish things were different right now. I wish things would have been different three weeks ago.

  I hold on to her tightly so that she'll feel the sincerity in my words. "I'm sorry I didn't show up."

  She immediately stiffens in my arms, as if my apology sobered her up. I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. I watch closely as she slowly lifts herself away from me. I wait for a response, or more of a reaction from her, but she's so guarded.

  I don't blame her. She doesn't owe me anything.

  She turns her head to the left in an effort to remove my hand from around the back of her head. I pull it away and she grips the arms of the chair and pushes herself out of it.

  "Did you get my confession, Owen?"

  Her voice is firm, void of the tears that were consuming her a few moments ago. When she stands, she wipes her eyes with her fingers.

  "Yes."

  She nods, pressing her lips together. She glances at her purse and grabs both it and her keys.

  "That's good." She begins walking toward the door. I slowly stand, afraid to look in the mirror at the unfinished haircut she's just given me. Luckily, she switches the lights off before I have the chance to see it.

  "I'm going home," she says, holding the door open. "I don't feel so well."

  CHAPTER NINE

  Auburn

  I have four younger siblings ranging in age from six to twelve years old. My parents had me when they were still in high school and waited several years before having more kids. Neither of my parents went to college and my father works for a manufacturing company, where he's been since he was eighteen. Because of this, we grew up on a budget. A very st
rict budget. A budget that didn't allow for air conditioners to be turned on at night. "That's what windows are for," my father used to say if anyone complained.

  I may have adopted his penny-pinching habit, but it hasn't really been an issue since moving in with Emory. She was on the verge of being evicted after her old roommate stuck her with half of the lease, so things like air-conditioning aren't considered necessities. They're considered luxuries.

  This was fine when I lived back in Portland, but having lived in the bipolar weather of Texas for an entire month, I've had to adjust my sleeping habits. Instead of using a comforter, I sleep with layers of sheets. That way, if it gets too hot in the middle of the night, I can just push one or two of the sheets off the bed.

  With all that considered, why am I so cold right now? And why am I wrapped up in what feels like a down comforter? Every time I try to open my eyes and wake up to find answers to my own questions, I go right back to sleep, because I've never been this comfortable. I feel like I'm a little cherub angel sleeping peacefully on a cloud.

  Wait. I shouldn't feel like an angel. Am I dead?

  I sit straight up in the bed and open my eyes, I'm too confused and scared to move, so I keep my head completely still and slowly move my eyes around the room. I see the kitchen, the bathroom door, the stairwell leading down to the studio.

  I'm in Owen's apartment.

  Why?

  I'm in Owen's big, comfortable bed.

  Why?

  I immediately turn and look down at the bed, but Owen isn't in it, thank God. The next thing I do is check my clothes. I'm still fully dressed, thank God.

  Think, think, think.

  Why are you here, Auburn? Why does your head feel like someone used it as a trampoline all night?

  It comes back to me, slowly. First, I remember being stood up. Bitch. I remember Harrison. I remember running to the bathroom after he betrayed me by calling Owen. I hate Harrison. I also remember being at the salon and . . . Oh, God. Really, Auburn?

  I was in his lap. In his lap, cutting his damn hair.

  I bring my hand to my forehead. That's it. I'm never drinking again. Alcohol makes people do stupid things, and I can't afford to be caught doing stupid things. The smart thing to do right now would be to get the hell out of here, which sucks because I really wish I could take this bed with me.

  I quietly slip out of it and head toward the restroom. I close the door behind me and immediately begin looking through drawers in order to hopefully find an unused toothbrush, but I come up empty-handed. Instead, I use my finger, some toothpaste, and an ungodly amount of amazing wintergreen mouthwash. Owen has great taste in bathroom products, that's for sure.

  Where is he, anyway?

  Once I'm finished in the restroom, I search for my shoes and find my Toms at the foot of his bed. I could have sworn I was in heels at some point last night. Yep, definitely never drinking again.

  I make my way to the stairs, hoping Owen isn't in the studio. He doesn't appear to be here, so maybe he left to avoid having to face me once I woke up. He obviously has his reasons for not showing up, so I doubt he's changed his mind about how he feels. Which means this is probably the perfect opportunity to get the hell out of here and never come back.

  "You can't keep avoiding me, Owen. We need to talk about this before Monday."

  I pause at the foot of the stairs and press my back against the wall. Shit. Owen is still here, and he's got company. Why, why, why? I just want to leave.

  "I know what my options are, Dad."

  Dad? Great. The last thing I want right now is to do the walk of shame in front of his freaking father. This isn't good. I hear footsteps approaching, so I immediately begin to scale the stairs again, but the footsteps fade just as fast.

  I pause, but then the footsteps grow louder. I take two more steps, but the footsteps fade again.

  Whoever is walking, they're just pacing back and forth. After several back-and-forths, they come to a stop.

  "I need to prepare to shut down the studio," Owen says. "It might be a few months before I can open it again, so I really just want to focus on that today."

  Shut down the studio? I catch myself creeping back to the bottom of the stairs to hear more of the conversation. I'm being so uncharacteristically nosy, it makes me feel a bit like Emory right now.

  "This studio is the last thing you should be worried about right now," his father says angrily.

  More pacing.

  "This studio is the only thing I'm worried about right now," Owen says loudly. He sounds even angrier than his father. The pacing stops.

  His father sighs so heavily I could swear it echoes across the studio. There's a long pause before he speaks again. "You have options, Owen. I'm only trying to help you."

  I shouldn't be listening to this. I'm not the type of person to invade someone's privacy and I feel guilty for doing it. But for the life of me, I can't make myself walk back up the stairs.

  "You're trying to help me?" Owen says, laughing in disbelief. He's obviously not pleased with what his father is saying. Or failing to say. "I want you to leave, Dad."

  My heart skips an entire beat. I can feel it in my throat. My stomach is telling me to find an alternate escape route.

  "Owen--"

  "Leave!"

  I squeeze my eyes shut. I don't know who to feel sorry for right now, Owen or his father. I can't tell what they're arguing about and of course it's none of my business, but if I'm about to have to face Owen, I want to be prepared for whatever mood he's going to be in.

  Footsteps. I hear footsteps again, but some are coming and some are going and . . .

  I slowly open one eye and then the other. I try to smile at him, because he looks so defeated standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at me. He's wearing a blue baseball cap that he lifts up and flips around after running his hand over the top of his head. He squeezes the back of his neck and exhales. I've never seen him with a hat on before, but it looks good on him. It's hard to picture an artist wearing a baseball cap, for some reason. But he's an artist, and he definitely makes it work.

  He doesn't look nearly as angry as he sounded a minute ago, but he definitely looks stressed. He doesn't seem like the same wide-eyed guy I met at the door three weeks ago.

  "Sorry," I say, attempting to prepare an excuse for why I'm standing here eavesdropping. "I was about to leave and then I heard you--"

  He scales the first few steps, coming closer to me, and I stop speaking.

  "Why are you leaving?"

  His eyes are searching mine and he looks disappointed. I'm confused by his reaction, because I assumed he'd want me to leave. And honestly, I don't know why he seems confused that I would choose to leave after he failed to contact me for three weeks. He can't expect me to want to spend the day here with him.

  I shrug, not really knowing what to say in response. "I just . . . I woke up and . . . I want to leave."

  Owen reaches his hand around to my lower back and urges me up the stairs. "You aren't going anywhere," he says.

  He tries to walk me up the stairs with him, but I push his hand off of me. He can more than likely see by the shock on my face that I'm not about to take orders from him. I open my mouth to speak, but he beats me to it.

  "Not until you fix my hair," he adds.

  Oh.

  He pulls his cap off and runs his hand through his choppy hair. "I hope you're better at cutting hair when you're sober."

  I cover my mouth with my hand to stifle my laughter. There are two huge chunks cut out of his hair, one of them front and center. "I'm so sorry."

  I would say we're even now. Destroying hair as beautiful as his should definitely make up for the asshole move he made three weeks ago. Now if I could just get my hands on Lydia's hair, I'd feel a whole lot better.

  He slides his cap back on his head and begins walking up the stairs. "Mind if we go now?"

  Today is my day off, so I'm free to correct the damage I've done to his hair, but
it kind of stinks that I have to go to the salon when I otherwise wouldn't have to. Emory marked the weekend off on the schedule for me since it was my birthday yesterday. She probably did this because most twenty-one-year-olds do fun things on their birthday and want the weekend to celebrate. I've been living with her for a month now, so if she hasn't noticed already, she'll soon discover that I have no life and don't need special "recovery days" reserved on the calendar.

  I realize I've been paused on the steps and Owen is upstairs, so I make my way back up to his apartment. When I reach the top of the stairs, my feet stop moving again. He's in the process of changing his shirt. His back is to me, and he's pulling his paint-splattered T-shirt off over his head. I watch as the muscles in his shoulders move around and contract, and I wonder if he's ever painted a self-portrait.

  I would buy it.

  He catches me staring at him when he turns to reach for his other shirt. I do that thing where I quickly glance away and make it completely obvious that I was staring, since I'm now looking at nothing but a blank wall and I know he's still looking at me and oh, my word, I just want to leave.

  "Is that okay?" he asks, pulling my attention back to him.

  "Is what okay?" I say quickly, relieved by the sound of our voices, which is now eliminating the awkwardness I was about to drown in.

  "Can we go right now? To fix my hair?"

  He pulls the clean shirt on and I'm disappointed that I now have to stare at a boring gray T-shirt instead of the masterpiece beneath it.

  What are these ridiculous, shallow thoughts that are plaguing my brain? I don't care about muscles or six-packs or skin that looks so flawless, it makes me want to chase his father down and give him a high five for creating such an impeccable son.

  I clear my throat. "Yeah, we can go now. I don't have plans."

  Way to appear more pathetic, Auburn. Admit you have nothing to do on a Saturday after ogling his half-naked body. Real attractive.

  He picks the baseball cap up and puts it back on before stepping into his shoes. "Ready?"

  I nod and turn to head back down the stairs. I'm beginning to hate these stairs.

  When he opens the front door, the sun is so bright, I start to question my own mortality and entertain the thought that maybe I became a vampire overnight. I cover my eyes with my arms and stop walking. "Damn it, that's bright."