by Penny Wylder
As I’m going through my contacts to find his name, I see Kia’s number right there, and just seeing her name again makes my heart wrench. We never went a day without texting each other or calling just to say hi. Now I’ll go days without getting a text from anyone. I never realized just how much of my time was spent with her until she was gone. Life is a whole lot lonelier without her.
I put the phone down, afraid I will lose it if I keep staring at her name in my contacts. Her number has been disconnected by now. I can’t even call it anymore just to listen to her greeting on her voicemail. There’s no reason to keep her number on my phone but I can’t bring myself to delete it because it feels as though I’m trying to get rid of her. I’ve even saved all of our texts just to remember how we were together, the jokes, the general silliness of our indelible friendship.
I decide not to text Max after all. Suddenly I feel guilty. In all that time I spent with Max, I wasn’t thinking about how much I miss her. I know that’s what she would want for me. She wasn’t the type of person to expect someone to wallow in grief. More than once she told me all she wanted was for me to be happy. She was so selfless, which is why I need to be the same for her and finish her bucket list without distraction. It was obviously important to her if she went out of her way to plan it out so I got her envelopes after her death.
I grab Pride and Prejudice and for the rest of my day off, I read. I’m so engrossed in the novel that the rest of the world disappears. I still have several chapters left to go, but my eyes burn to the point where I have to stop reading for a while. My mind starts to wander and I picture myself as Elizabeth Bennet, and Kia as her sister, Jane. In this fantasy of mine, we both find true love and get our happily ever afters. Max definitely makes a hot Darcy. But I guess if Kia were still alive, Max would be her Darcy. Even though it was her idea for me to sleep with him, it still feels a little like I’m doing something horrible behind her back. I mean, she was the one who wanted him; enough for him to be on her bucket list.
I have to get out of my head. All this guilt isn’t doing anyone any good and it’s just making me feel worse.
I close the book with a sigh and set it on my chest. Though Pride and Prejudice was on Kia’s bucket list, it’s as though the book was tailor made for my tastes. She was far less of a romantic. In fact, I’m pretty sure she would roll her eyes at this point in the book. For me, Pride and Prejudice is exactly what I need.
It’s ten. Max’s shop will have just closed for the night if I’m remembering the sign of the store hours correctly. Setting aside the guilt I’ve been feeling, I text him to tell him how much I love the book and that it’s unfortunate I won’t be able to do much reading on account of work.
We end up texting all night. We talk about our favorite movies and work and our lives in general. I learn he always wanted to be an artist and his childhood heroes were Da Vinci and Dali. He likes classical music and death metal, and he learned sign language so he could communicate with one of his regular customers who’s deaf. He’s nothing like I expected. He’s kind of wonderful, actually. There are no signs left of the asshole who confronted me when I first walked into the shop. It’s like it was a totally different person.
I’m getting tired and my eyes are straining to read the blurry screen. When I look at the time, it’s after three in the morning, and I have to be at work in four hours.
We say our goodbyes and I instantly fall asleep without even changing out of my clothes. When my alarm goes off at 7am, I can barely open my eyes. As miserable as I feel, getting to know more about Max was well worth being a zombie the rest of the day. It’s a good thing I’m a cosmetologist and not a nurse or in some other vocation that involves life or death situations—though I suppose some of the women whose hair and makeup I do will disagree.
After I shower and dress, I go to work. I must look like hell without makeup on. I decide to do it while I wait for my first client to come in. It’s kind of a requirement to wear it since that’s literally my job.
I’m sitting at my station, priming my face when Melody, who is at the station next to me, taps her long stiletto nails on her table to get my attention. When I look at her, she has a smile stretched across her face.
“What?” I ask.
We aren’t great friends, but we’ve gotten closer since Kia passed. Everyone at work has been so supportive.
“You’re glowing,” she says.
Looking in the mirror, I don’t see it. All I notice are the bags under my eyes and my red and blotchy skin. “You’re joking, right? I look like shit,” I say.
“Well, yeah, you do, but under all that shit you’re glowing.” I roll my eyes and put on concealer to hide the bags. It looks much better. “Did you get laid?” she asks.
I swear the girls in here have a sixth sense about these things.
My mind instantly goes to Max, his hard body, those smoldering eyes, that panty-dropping smile of his. I force back the smile that’s threatening to mangle the dismissive expression I try to pull off.
“Oh my God, you totally did,” she says. “You have to tell me everything.”
While each of us works on our clients, I tell them the story about Kia and the envelopes and about Max. How I didn’t even like him at first because he was a cocky jerk and how everything changed.
Our clients, who normally ignore our gossip and idle chatter, join in the conversation, asking questions and giving their opinions. Everyone is saying different versions of the same thing: he’s a keeper.
Of course, I counter with, I don’t even know him that well. Our ‘relationship’ could very well just be a booty call situation and I’m reading far more into it than what’s actually there. But the girls aren’t hearing it.
“Okay, that’s enough,” I say. “Time to talk about someone else.”
I finish up on my client. It’s a bride’s maid look with red lips and a halo eye. Despite the distractions, it turned out amazing.
“You look beautiful,” I tell her and send her off to the next station so Tiana can do her hair.
As I’m putting my makeup back in my kit, I see movement in my mirror and look up. Max is standing at the entrance of the store with Lydia, the store manager. She stands behind him so he can’t see her, and she is jumping around, pointing at him to get the other girls’ attention. It works and they look kind of confused until he walks toward me.
My heart is beating a mile a minute. I forget to breathe and my head gets light and I start to sway, feeling like I will pass out. I don’t know why I’m so nervous to see him again. Maybe because he’s on my turf and I know everyone is going to have something to say about it. What is he even doing here? I mentioned where I work in one of our texts, but I didn’t think he was really paying attention because he didn’t say anything about it after. Clearly, he was. He must have looked up the address.
I can feel my co-workers’ glittery eyes watching my every move—and his. He can probably feel it too, which would explain the shy smile and the flushed cheeks.
“Hi,” he says when he’s standing in front of me.
“Hi.”
I want to give him a hug, but are we there yet? I’ll wait for him to make the first move when it comes to PDA.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, making sure to lift my voice so he knows it’s a happy surprise.
“I was hoping I could take you out to lunch.”
The girls around me make swooning sounds. I try to ignore them.
My lunch break isn’t for another hour and I have a client coming in any minute. “Oh, I—”
“Of course she can,” Lydia says, interrupting me. “Jaimie can cover your next client, right Jaimie?”
All conspiratorial smiles, Jaimie says, “Of course I can.”
I love these women.
I gather my purse. On our way out, I get enthusiastic thumbs up and girls mouthing the words, “he’s so hot”. They don’t even know the half of it.
We ride in his jeep with the top down. I
t’s a good thing I wore my hair in a sloppy bun today or my hair would be all over the place. I like riding beside him, his tattooed arms resting over the steering wheel, people glancing at us each time we pull up to a stop light. He lifts his other arm, draping it over the back of my seat, fingers caressing the back of my neck, causing me to shiver despite the warm day.
We go to a brightly colored little Mexican restaurant. I’ve lived in this town my whole life and never tried any restaurants that weren’t chains. Kia was always on me about being more adventurous, but I never listened. I will now—even if that starts with eating at new places.
“I was surprised to see you today,” I say.
“Really?”
“Well, yeah. I barely mentioned where I work.”
“I’m an artist. I notice details.”
The waiter comes and takes our orders. I try something completely random on the menu that I can’t even pronounce. Max gets the same thing. I guess we’re both feeling adventurous today.
“So,” he says, sipping his beer. “I was thinking we should go out tomorrow.”
I pause midway to my straw. Is he asking me on a date?
“Okay.”
“Do you like art?”
“Doesn’t everyone? I mean, I don’t know much about it, but I like to look at it.”
“One of my employees is having an art exhibition downtown. We should check it out.”
My nerves rise up like a swarm of butterflies in my stomach. My mind is spinning a mile a minute. I’m sure his friends will be there. Does he plan on introducing me? How will he introduce me? Friend, acquaintance, the chick he’s sleeping with? It shouldn’t be that big of a deal but for some reason, it feels huge.
“What should I wear?” I ask.
“Something nice.”
We eat our food and the conversation comes naturally. I manage to make him laugh, which is the most wonderful sound. Again, it makes me wish I were funnier just so I can hear it all the time. Next trip to the book store, I’m getting a comedy how-to book.
As we’re leaving, I grab my purse and my copy of Pride and Prejudice falls out. He picks it up off the ground for me and looks at the spot where my bookmark is placed.
“You’ve made some progress,” he says, handing it back to me.
I put it in my purse. “Not as much as I’d like, but my work schedule makes it difficult me for me to put a real dent in it during the week.”
“You can always come over after work and I can read to you,” he says with a sly grin.
I match his flirty tone. “Not a bad idea.”
If there were more time, I would’ve dragged him back to his apartment, but since Jaimie was already covering me, I didn’t want to push my luck by being late. He takes me back to the salon. Before I can get out of the jeep, he reaches for me and pulls me into a deep kiss in the parking lot. The wall-to-wall windows of the salon give my co-workers the best seats in the house and I feel their eyes all over us.
“I’ll pick you up at seven,” he says when we finally come apart.
I get out of the jeep. In the side-view mirror I can see everyone—including customers—pressed up against the glass. I shake my head and smile. Of course, I expected this kind of reaction from them. They probably haven’t stopped talking about Max since I left. As soon as I turn toward the building they scatter. When I get inside, they pretend to be reading magazines or curling hair with cold irons.
5
I have nothing to wear and my apartment is a mess. What if, when he picks me up or drops me off, he asks to come inside. I can’t let him see my place like this or he’ll think I’m a hoarder. It’s mostly the boxes Kia’s mom gave me. I decide to put them in the closet for now until I can go through them. It doesn’t take long. My nerves about going out with Max tonight give me an adrenaline boost. The last box I grab is labeled clothes.
Kia and I were the same size and we always shared clothes, though her clothes were far more expensive than what I could afford. I was taller, so her skirts and shorts tended to be on the shorter side. One of her regular length dresses on me would turn into a mini. Since I don’t own a single thing appropriate for an art gallery, I decide to finally open one of Kia’s boxes.
When I see what her mom has given me, I’m both excited and heart-broken. Thousands of dollars’ worth of designer labels. All of her favorites, things I coveted for years, are all mine now. I would give every single one of them away if I could have my friend back.
Lifting out a little black Chanel cocktail dress, I fight the tears as I put it up against me and look in the mirror. Then I hug it as if I can still feel her in it.
“Wish me luck, Kia,” I say.
I do my hair and makeup first, wearing nude shadow and a bright red lipstick. I pull my hair up to show off the body-hugging backless dress. Then I finish it off with a pair of studded Louis Vuitton’s to give the look more of an edge—it’s an art show, after all.
Max rings the doorbell right at seven. Checking myself one last time in the mirror, I let out a long breath and open the door.
“Holy …” he says, the word trailing off when he sees me.
He looks pretty amazing himself, wearing black slacks, a white button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and a nice black watch. There’s just something about tattooed guys wearing nice watches that really does it for me. It’s a weird thing, but it’s my thing, and if I weren’t so worried about messing up my hair and makeup, I’d drag him inside and tear his clothes off right now.
I didn’t realize he was holding onto something until he hands it to me. A gift.
I take the box. What could this be? Opening it, I look up at him and smile. It’s an audio book of Pride and Prejudice.
“So you can listen to it on your way to work when you don’t have time to read,” he says.
Oh my God, he’s so thoughtful.
“Thank you so much!”
I throw my arms around him, squeezing him in a tight hug. His hands wander over the bare skin of my back. It tickles yet feels amazing. I’m so turned on right now.
“We should get going,” I say.
Before I can’t control myself around you anymore.
The top of his jeep is back on as we drive to the gallery, so my hair stays in place. The art gallery is in another trendy part of town with hipster coffee shops and organic food trucks parked along the sidewalks. It’s just as I imagined it would be. A little pretentious, a little weird, a lot of people who are either dolled up or look homeless—artsy types. We go inside. It’s packed full of people. I’m immediately captivated by the art on display. They’re beautiful and so detailed. Most of the paintings have ‘sold’ signs in front of them. His friend must be a popular guy. And those prices! Holy shit. Not a single piece of art was sold for under 10k. Who the hell has that kind of money to throw around? All of these people, apparently.
Waiters walk around serving champagne. Max snags us two glasses.
“Does all this art belong to your friend?” I ask him. I don’t see a name on any of them. There’s a signature in the corner, but without putting my nose right up to it, it’s too small to read.
Some of it is tattoo art in water color, some are portraits using acrylic or oils. All different kinds of mediums, but it all has a similar feel to it and looks like it was done by a single artist.
“I wouldn’t exactly call us friends, but yep, every one of them. What do you think? You can be honest. I don’t really even like the guy.”
I walk from painting to painting. He follows silently behind me. I think he wants me to criticize them, but I can’t. They’re far too beautiful for that.
“They’re perfect. I’ve never seen anything like them before. That detail, I’m … speechless.”
“Speechless. Really?”
I hand him my flute of champagne and step closer to a painting of a little boy standing in the rain, reaching out toward a woman who is walking away. Looking at it, I feel a profound sadness. It reminds me of
Kia leaving me and suddenly tears are welling up in my eyes and I’m struggling to keep them back. I can feel Max’s eyes on me, watching.
“Have you ever looked at something so beautiful it breaks your heart?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says.
When I look at him, he’s watching me with the strangest look on his face, studying me as if I were part of the exhibit.
He starts to say something, but is interrupted by someone I assume is a reporter based on the name tag, the camera around his neck, and the way he carries himself.
“Are you Max Savage?” the man asks. He’s young, maybe early twenties, and has an eager way about him.
“Yes, I am,” Max says.
“I’m Jared Fresher with Art Times Magazine. I was hoping to get a few words with you about your exhibit for the cover of next month’s feature.”
I look at Max, then the reporter, then back at Max. Wait, what? His exhibit?
“Um,” Max says, avoiding eye contact with me. “Can we do this tomorrow? You can call me at the shop and we’ll set up an appointment.” He hands the man a business card he pulls from his pocket.
Once the man is gone I say, “This is your art?”
He shrugs in response.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wanted your honest opinion.”
“Well,” I say, hooking my arm in his and pulling him toward the next amazing painting, “my tears should tell you everything you need to know.”
His smile lights up the room.
“I love them,” I say. “Every single one of them.”
“Let’s get out of here,” he says.
“Already? I didn’t get to see them all.”
“I’ll give you your own private tour this weekend.” He leans in, whispering in my ear. “Right now, I need to be alone with you in that dress.”
