by Amy Harmon
“There’s nothing holding me here anymore. I guess I can go wherever I want,” he whispered.
“You’ll always have me . . . and Sadie. We love you. My mom, Alma, and Abuela love you too. We’re your home. We’ll always be home, whenever you need us,” Cora said, and her voice was choked too. “Just . . . please . . . don’t leave and never come back. Please don’t do that.”
He didn’t know if he could promise to leave and never come back. At the moment, it was all he wanted to do. So he sat in silence for far too long, considering her request. When he finally spoke, he offered the only guarantee he could.
“I love your letters, Cora. Don’t stop writing, okay? If you write, I’ll always write back, and we’ll stay connected. I look forward to your letters. You . . . surprise me.”
“I do? Why?”
“You’re different in your letters.”
“Nah. I’m just me without restraints,” she replied.
“You without restraints. What does that mean?”
“Words are like souls. Soundless, even shapeless. But full of substance. You are getting all substance and none of the distraction in a letter.”
“See? That surprises me,” he murmured. Her letters had been like that. Insightful. Illuminating. Even intoxicating.
She smiled at him, and he noticed again how pretty she was.
“You’re lucky,” she said.
“I am?” he asked, his voice wry. “How do you figure?”
“When my dad died, I wanted to move. I didn’t want to stay in the apartment where he died. We left for a week, remember? The apartment was painted and recarpeted. Mom bought a new couch to make it feel like a different place. Dad’s wheelchair was taken away, and all his things were cleared out. But it was hard living there, seeing him, even though I knew he was gone. You won’t have to stay in this apartment, seeing your mother whenever you close your eyes. It will be good to leave it behind. I’ve never been able to leave my dad behind.”
“I’m sorry, Cora.” He’d never considered how hard it must have been for her to live where her father had died.
She sighed. “I’ve made this about me. I’m good at that. I’m sorry.” She reached up and touched his face.
“What I’m trying to say is, I’m glad you can leave this apartment behind. But don’t leave us behind. Okay? Don’t leave . . . me . . . behind.”
He stared at her too long, the deep red of her lips, the clear blue of her eyes. Cora was all contrast while Mer was a warm blend. Then Cora leaned forward and placed her mouth on his, and all comparisons slid away for another time.
He didn’t hear Mercedes slip quietly out of the apartment, as silently as she’d entered, leaving her two best friends sitting side by side on Noah’s bed, her chest aching, her eyes wide open, her path set.
* * *
Mercedes avoided Noah all week. She didn’t return his calls. Didn’t respond to his messages. Didn’t reach out at all. If he had done the same to her, she would have hunted him down and sliced off his fingers. She wouldn’t have let him get away with it, and she knew eventually he would come looking for her. But by then he would realize what she was trying to tell him, and she wouldn’t have to say the words.
She was ashamed of her cowardice. She cursed herself and called herself ugly names in both Spanish and English. But she didn’t know what to do. At times, she would find herself lost in daydreams of wedding bells and cohabitation, only to shudder and cross herself for thinking it could work. And if it couldn’t work, she wouldn’t risk it. She needed to find her way back to the way it was before, to the Mer that Noah loved but didn’t make love to, to the Mer that he needed, but didn’t need too much. She wanted to be the Mer that would grow old beside him, platonic and persistent, the kind of friend he never outgrew.
He caught her between appointments at lunchtime on Friday, walking up to the counter at Maven, terse and tight-lipped, his timing impeccable. Grim face notwithstanding, he looked good. His pale blue dress shirt was tucked into fitted grey slacks, and he’d rolled the sleeves to his elbows and pulled off his tie. The color lightened his blue-black eyes and contrasted with his dark hair. The counter separated them, but she could smell him, clean and warm, like pine cones and peppermints—and her thoughts tiptoed back to the way he kissed and the way he felt and the way he made her feel, even when she was afraid. Remorse for avoiding him grew in her chest and climbed in her throat.
“Hey,” she said weakly.
“Hey.” He didn’t smile, but he didn’t scold. Not yet.
“I have an appointment at one o’clock. I don’t have much time,” she said.
“I’m your appointment.”
Mercedes scowled down at the ledger, looking for his name.
“We can talk in the back, or we can talk with me in your chair, but we’re going to talk, Mer,” he murmured.
“Your name isn’t on the schedule,” she argued, still evading him.
“I was afraid if I used my name, I’d be pawned off to another stylist, and you wouldn’t be here.” She deserved that, but she shot him a glare anyway.
He regarded her patiently. “Are we going to do this here?”
“Let’s go in the back,” she relented, the knot factory in her stomach going into overdrive. She didn’t want to talk to him on the open floor with ten stylists and their clients pretending they weren’t listening in. He followed her at a comfortable distance, but she could feel his eyes on her back and his mouth in her memory, and she wondered if she could kiss him once more before she told him they should never kiss again.
But when they walked into the employee changing room, he didn’t crowd her or try to take her in his arms. He sat down on the long bench and met her gaze.
Mercedes didn’t sit. She was too unnerved. And disappointed.
“Do I need to find someone else to watch Gia on Mondays?” Noah asked. His voice was level and kind, and Mercedes imagined it was the voice he used with his patients, never getting ruffled, never losing his cool. She knew his patients yelled and screamed sometimes. She knew they cried, and she could picture Noah sitting with them, his face compassionate, his hands folded, looking at them the way he was looking at her.
“What? Why?” Mercedes said, remembering suddenly that he’d asked her a question.
“Because you’re obviously avoiding me. You won’t be able to continue to avoid me if you watch Gia on Mondays.”
“Are you threatening me?” she asked, desperate to turn the conversation away from her own crappy behavior.
“Mer.” He sighed. “Seriously?”
She began to pace. “Don’t you get it? This—right here—is the reason why s-sleeping together was a t-terrible idea. Now you want to replace me! It’s awkward, and you want a new babysitter. I knew this would happen. It’s the reason I fought you so hard.”
“You fought me so hard?” his voice rose mildly.
“Don’t use that tone with me, Noah Andelin. I see right through you. So calm and kind. Well, I’m not falling for it.”
“Falling for what, Mer?” No anger. No mockery.
“Falling for you!”
He stared up at her, eyes gentle, face calm. “It’s too late. Isn’t that what this is about? We’ve fallen for each other. And you don’t know if that’s what you want . . . if I’m what you want. And you don’t know how to tell me.”
Mercedes wanted him. She did. She wanted him so much. She folded her arms and unfolded them. She sat down and rose again, and he watched her, clearly waiting for her to confirm or counter his point. He sat with his legs slightly spread, elbows to knees, his chin resting on his clasped hands. Where did he find the confidence to just lay it all out there like that? Where did he find the courage?
“Remember when you had a few bad days? I came over and bossed you around. And you told me that . . . showering . . . was not what you needed?” Mercedes asked, grasping, trying to find the right thing to say to make him understand. The shower scene was a tricky one to navigate.<
br />
“Yes. And you informed me it was exactly what I needed. You were right.”
“I was wrong,” she argued.
“No, you weren’t. I stunk. I hadn’t showered or eaten in three days, and I was depressed. You were right.”
“I was wrong because I didn’t respect your boundaries,” she countered, wagging her finger at him even though she was criticizing herself.
“My boundaries?”
“Yes,” she said, firm.
“What boundaries? We’ve been best friends since we were eight years old. There are no boundaries. You just wanted what was best for me.”
“But that’s just it, Noah. Nobody gets to decide what’s best for you, but you,” Mercedes said, enunciating each word, loud and clear. “I decide what’s best for me, you decide what’s best for you, and if we don’t respect that, then we have no relationship at all.”
“You’re so full of shit, Mer,” he said quietly. If he’d snapped at her, the way she’d snapped at him, it would have been easier to take, but he said the words with such authority, such soft assurance, that it stung more than it otherwise would have.
“I have boundaries,” Mercedes hissed. “You didn’t respect them last week.”
“You wanted to have sex with me, and I wanted to make love to you. Is that what you’re talking about?”
“Yes! You make love to a girlfriend . . . or your wife. I’m not your wife!”
“I don’t have a wife, Mer. I’ve come to terms with that. Have you?” He hadn’t raised his voice, but his eyes gleamed.
“Yes. I have. But it’s irrelevant. I am not your wife. Gia is not my daughter. And that is not our relationship. I need you to respect my boundaries, okay?”
He shook his head, incredulous, and unclasped his hands so he could stroke his beard the way he always did when he needed time to regroup or a moment to think. He stood abruptly, and for a minute she thought he was going to walk out. He didn’t. He just stood with his back to her, his head down, his hands in his pockets.
His silence was so loud Mercedes wanted to scream at him to shut up. Her heart was pounding, and her palms were damp. She rubbed them on her skirt and headed for the door, desperate to move, to keep up with her pulse.
“I’ll be at your house Monday morning. Early. As usual. No more Sunday sleepovers unless it’s a double shift and you’re gone. Also, your hair is getting long, and your beard needs a trim,” she ordered, desperate to find her equilibrium and to help him find his. “We won’t have time today. Text me, and I’ll squeeze you in on Wednesday. And bring Gia. Her bangs are starting to fall in her eyes.”
“So this is how it has to be?” he murmured, turning back toward her. The gleam was gone.
“Yes. This is how it has to be.” She would re-establish Noah and Mer if it killed her.
He nodded slowly. “And if I’m not on board?”
“What does that mean?”
“What if I don’t agree? What then? We do it your way or no way at all?”
Mercedes shrugged helplessly. “But . . . it’ll be the way it’s always been, like it was before.” She heard the pleading in her voice and hated it. She shouldn’t have to beg him to be her friend.
He nodded again, but he wasn’t agreeing with her. He was nodding to let her know he heard. “The way it was before. Got it,” he said, monotone.
“So we’re good?” she asked, tentative.
He sighed and shook his head, resisting, but he said the words she wanted to hear, and she ignored the mixed message. “We’re good, Mer.”
“Yeah?” She felt a shiver of relief.
“Yeah.” He didn’t smile, and his eyes were bleak, but they weren’t arguing, and he wasn’t threatening to walk out of her life and take Gia with him. Mercedes could work with an unhappy Noah. It was no Noah at all that she couldn’t bear. He would see. In the end, they would both be better off. Everything would be all right. She would make it all right.
* * *
Mercedes didn’t have any early appointments on Wednesday, and Gloria was opening—she’d been opening since Keegan had left two months before. Mercedes walked into Maven at noon and was greeted by a beaming Gloria.
“He’s back, Mercedes. He’s back!”
Mercedes could only stare, her face blank, her breath trapped.
“What?”
“Keegan didn’t like LA, and until he has something substantial lined up, he’s promised to stay. This place has been buzzing all day. Word has spread, and we’ve had an endless stream of walk-ins and phone calls, all hoping to get on his schedule.”
Mercedes began to cough on her rising dismay.
Gloria made a concerned face and patted her back. “Are you okay?”
Mercedes nodded and smiled numbly before rounding the reception area and walking back to the long row of gleaming stations. The place was packed, and Keegan was in her spot. His old spot had been absorbed in a new layout, and she’d been the only stylist not working that morning. It made sense that Gloria would put him in her station temporarily.
He was smiling and making suggestions, turning his client this way and that, but when he saw Mercedes, his smile slipped a fraction and he winked at the woman in his chair—in Mer’s chair—and excused himself, snapping his fingers at one of the trainees and asking her to wash his client’s hair and bring her back when she was done.
Mercedes strode past him and felt him fall in behind her. She was breathing, but not deeply enough, because her lungs were burning and her exhalations were hot.
“You’re back,” she said, pushing her way into the locker room.
“I am.”
“That’s not what you agreed to.”
“Well, I have to make a living.”
When she stared at him, dumbfounded, he ran his hands through his hair and tried again. “Look, Mercedes. I just . . . can’t . . . I just . . . I don’t want to go. My life is here. I’m happy here. People like me. I have clients and I make damn good money.”
“Yeah . . . okay. Which brings us to the crux of the matter. You took twenty thousand dollars from me. Are you going to give it back?”
“I can’t. I’m sorry. It’s gone. I told you . . . I had a problem only money could fix.”
“And Gia?”
He stared at her blankly for a heartbeat before his expression cleared. He hadn’t known who she was talking about.
“I haven’t decided,” he lied.
“I see. And when will you decide?” She was so angry her voice was trembling, but she kept her eyes steady on his.
“I don’t know, Mercedes. And it’s really not any of your business. You inserted yourself into this, and I’m not going to be run out of town by you or anyone else,” he snapped, as if she had done him wrong and not the other way around. “You want to talk terms, I’m all ears. But unless you’re willing to part with some serious cash and some side benefits, I think I’ll keep my options open.”
Mercedes turned and strode from the room. Someone said her name, but she kept walking, her heels clacking, her stride long. She stopped in front of Gloria, who looked at her in surprise. There must have been something in her face, something in her eyes, because Gloria’s face paled before she even began to speak.
“I’ve worked here since I was fourteen years old,” Mercedes said quietly. “I’ve given Maven my heart and soul. I’ve given you my loyalty and my energy, Gloria, and you’ve always treated me well and made me believe I had a future here. But I won’t work here with Keegan Tate. Either he goes, or I go.”
“Mercedes,” Gloria said, stunned. “Why?”
“He’s a snake. He’s a cheat. He’s a liar.”
“Oh, no. Did you sleep with him, honey?” Gloria whispered, reaching for her hand. Mercedes stepped back. “No. I have more self-respect than that. I’m smarter than that too. But I did trust him, and I paid pretty dearly for that trust. It won’t happen again.”
“Mercedes, come on.” Keegan was standing in the arched opening between
the style floor and reception. He’d apparently heard most of what she’d said.
“Keegan? What’s this about?” Gloria said to him, her eyes wide. “What did you do?”
“Mercedes is the one with the issue. I’m just here to work and glad to be back,” he answered mildly, folding his arms.
“Mercedes? Can you be more specific?”
Mercedes considered spilling the whole sordid story for all of five seconds, long enough for Keegan to pale and her protective instincts to kick in. She wouldn’t be telling a single soul that Keegan Tate might be Gia’s biological father.
“I don’t think Keegan would appreciate specifics, Gloria. He knows what he did. I know what he did. That will have to be enough.”
“Mercedes, I-I can’t just fire Keegan because you say so,” Gloria stammered.
“All right. Then consider this my two-weeks’ notice, Gloria,” Mercedes said flatly. She turned and brushed past Keegan, who was smart enough to step out of her way.
“Oh, and I’ve got an appointment in five minutes, and I need Keegan out of my work station and as far away from me as possible. Otherwise, today will be my last, and don’t think I won’t tell all my clients that he’s the reason I’m leaving.”
* * *
For several days Mercedes swam in an eddy of outrage and despair only to find herself at outrage again. By the following Friday, four days from her final shift at Maven, she’d escaped the whirlpool only to be thrust headlong into quicksand. Her fear was a soul-sucking hole that worsened every time she made a move. And worst of all, she couldn’t call for help. She hadn’t told anyone what had happened. Her coworkers knew she was leaving, but none of them knew why. Her clients knew she was leaving—they’d all been given a card, and she had their contact information—but she hadn’t filled them in either.
She’d quit her job. Her savings were severely depleted, and she had no immediate prospects. She’d never worked anywhere else but Maven, and she’d always had a plan. She didn’t anymore. For the first time in her life, she had no idea what she was going to do.
