by Lila Monroe
His long legs are stretched out and crossed at the ankles, his big feet stuffed into sneakers for once. He’s casually flipping through a GQ Magazine. Good, because being able to point to some very sexy, clean-shaven, and well-dressed hot guys will make my job that much easier.
* * *
But ten minutes later, I’m not feeling so confident.
I had to pick Beard Month to try and make him shave his off.
Dear GQ, thank you so much for putting out an entire issue celebrating man hair in all its glorious forms: full beard, goatee, horseshoe, mutton chops, van dyke, thigh tickler.
Thanks, love Gemma.
OK, I’m making up the thigh tickler, but still. Are you kidding me? Like this wasn’t hard enough already?
“Nope.” Zach says, folding his arms.
“Come on,” I plead. “Just think about it: smooth, professional, clean-cut…”
“I like my beard.”
“Gee, is it a beard?” I ask, sarcastic. “I thought it was a home to a small woodland animal.”
“Barry?” I plea, turning to the barber. He’s as old-school as they come, and usually my ally in makeovers, but today, he just shrugs.
“No means no. I never shave without consent.”
Ugh! I turn back to Zach. “I promise, you’ll love it. Please? Pretty please?”
He grins back, totally unconcerned. “I’ll do a haircut, some trimming, but the beard stays.”
I exhale.
Pick your battles.
He’ll come around.
Hopefully within the next—I do the math—seven days. No pressure or anything.
“Fine,” I agree. “Whatever you want.”
He looks suspicious. “That felt too easy. Are you going to break into my place and shave me in my sleep?”
I smirk. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
His eyebrows go up.
“Not you, obviously,” I say, darting a glance at Barry who seems very alarmed at my mention of guerrilla grooming. “And not really. There was this one guy who was growing a really patchy beard. I threatened to shave it in his sleep. I didn’t though!” I assure Barry, who looks like he’s about to have a bout of the vapors.
Zach laughs. “My uncle had a legit Magnum P.I. when I was a kid. It was … something.”
I’m about to mention that his gnarly beard is … something, but he’s smiling at me and it feels like a real truce. I don’t want to ruin the spell.
“The mustache totally worked on Tom Selleck,” I agree. “On Magnum P.I and especially on Friends.”
“He’d trimmed it some by then,” Barry says, reaching for his scissors. “What?” he says. “It’s my job to notice these things.”
Zach and I laugh.
“And don’t forget he shaved it off for a while there,” Barry adds.
“Blasphemy!” I cry.
“Ah, so you do like some facial hair,” Zach crows.
“The exception, not the rule.” I change the subject. “So where is this uncle? Where did you grow up?”
Zach smiles. “Eddy? He sold his coin laundromat business and is now living his best life in the Turks and Caicos. With a full beard, I might add.”
I roll my eyes. “So your terrible taste in facial hair is genetic?”
He laughs. “Guess so. My dad has one, too. And I grew up in Northern California,” he adds. “Went to school here, started a business with a friend of mine, decided to stick around. You?”
“I moved here after school,” I reply.
“Shouldn’t you be in New York, or Paris, with all your high-fashion friends?” he teases.
I smile. “I’m not exactly haute-couture material, as you’ve already pointed out.” I shrug. “I had a friend coming here, so I figured, why not? Plus, all the tech stuff going on … I figured it could be a good chance to get in at the ground floor somewhere, and hustle my way up.”
“Like this promotion you’re gunning for,” Zach remarks.
I shift. The less we talk about that, the better. Luckily, the shampoo girl appears. “I like your beard,” she says. She reaches up, slides her fingers into that beard, and gives it a gentle tug. “Very sexy,” she purrs. And I swear to God, she is eye-fucking that beard. Thigh tickler indeed.
Zach’s lips spread into a smug grin, eating it up.
Thanks a lot, shampoo girl.
“But it is a bit rough,” she says, giving him a final, lingering stroke. “Maybe some shaping would help?”
Entranced, Zach nods. “Sounds good, thanks.”
“Now why didn’t you agree when I suggested it?” I exclaim, once she’s sashayed away.
Zach smirks. “You didn’t make it seem so … appealing.”
If that’s dude-code for double-Ds, then nope, I am definitely lacking in appeal. Still, I’ll take a win wherever I can get it.
The shampoo girl will be getting one hell of a tip.
* * *
Once Barry is done with Zach and the shampoo girl has given him samples of beard oil—and her number—we head back to our apartment building. There’s no denying that he looks better, but it’s not the transformation I was hoping for.
Don’t get me wrong; his hair looks amazing—short on the sides and longer on top. Not floppy, but just enough to push fingers through. Zach even let Barry put a little product in it, so it’s got volume and he could rival a Ryan (either one) for sexy tresses.
But the rest of him? Sigh.
Baby steps, I remind myself. I have nearly seven whole days left with him.
“So, grooming, done,” Zach says, sounding remarkably positive. “What’s next?”
I snort. “Not so fast, buster. We may have done your head, but we still have the rest of you.”
“What?!” Zach cries. “There is no ‘rest’.”
“Um, one word for you,” I smile. “Manscaping.”
“Three words for you.” Zach counters. “No fucking way.”
“Come on,” I urge him. “Don’t you want to—” I stop dead as the elevator doors open I see the mountain of boxes stacked in front of my door. There are at least a dozen big ones, and it must have taken the delivery guys forever to hoist them up here.
Shit.
“Moving out?” Zach asks.
“Don’t get your hopes up.” I move closer and check the packing slip. “They’re for the women’s shelter I volunteer at. I bugged a couple of big stores enough that they agreed to donate some of their old clearance stock. I can’t believe how much they sent. This is awesome.”
Except for the part where they sent it to me, instead of the shelter.
As if reading my mind, Zach takes in the boxes. “I don’t suppose you have a dolly and a moving truck hidden in that apartment of yours?”
I shake my head. “I could call and ask them to re-deliver, but I don’t want to annoy them, after they’ve been so generous. And the shelter doesn’t have the man-power to come pick everything up …” I wrack my brain, trying to think how I can single-handedly move this mountain.
Then Zach gives a shrug, and reaches for the nearest box, effortlessly hoisting it onto his shoulder. “So we’ll do it,” he says. “My Jeep is parked downstairs. This should only take a couple of trips. Or maybe I can strap a few to the roof,” he says, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully.
But I’m still wondering if I heard him right. “You mean, you’ll help?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“Because you’ve been Mr. Amenable up until now?” I can’t resist shooting back. Zach quirks an eyebrow, and I realize, I’m trampling all over his generous offer. “I mean, thank you!” I exclaim, throwing my arms around his neck.
Shit, why do I keep doing that?
I catch a whiff of Zach’s brand-new aftershave, and feel the brush of his beard—now soft and groomed—against my cheek.
It feels amazing.
I quickly step back, flushing. “Uh, I’ll call and let them know we’re coming,” I babble quickly. “Are you sure you
don’t have anywhere else you need to be?”
“Nope.” Zach hoists another box, his biceps rippling. “It’s your lucky day. I’m all yours.”
He heads back down the hallway, leaving me weirdly unnerved by his promise.
And how good it sounds to me.
8
Zach
- Day 3 -
It only takes half a dozen trips back upstairs, so imaginative repacking, and a couple of lengths of bungee cord to get everything squished into my Jeep.
“I knew all those years playing Tetris wasn’t for nothing,” I joke, as we get on the road. Gemma gives me directions to the shelter, and I program them into my GPS.
“Thanks again for helping,” she says, still sounding shocked I offered a favor. “I really appreciate it.”
“Hey, it’s for a good cause, right?” I reply.
“The best.” Gemma replied. I glance over. She’s almost hidden behind a couple of boxes, but I’m curious.
“Have you been volunteering there long?”
“A couple of years,” she replies. “They ran a big Thanksgiving clothing drive a while back, I went to donate some clothes, and found out they always need help. A lot of the women are escaping really bad situations,” she explains. “Violence, abusive marriages … Sometimes they have to leave with nothing, and need basic clothes and essentials. But sometimes, it’s something as simple as needing someone to put together a good outfit for a job interview. I mean, I do that for my clients all the time, so I’m happy to lend a hand, and use my contacts to try and get more donations, too.”
“That’s great,” I say, feeling kind of guilty. I’d written Gemma off as an airhead fashionista, but it sounds like she goes out of her way to use her talents to help people, too.
“It’s like I told you: changing the way someone dresses can change the way someone feels about themselves,” she replies. “It may seem shallow, but sometimes all it takes is a stylish outfit to remind someone that they can be more than they imagined—really give the confidence to start over again. And when everyone’s judging you by what you’re wearing, or if you look professional enough to give you that break … it can really make the difference.”
I think about that for the rest of the drive. I guess I’ve never needed that boost, but I’ve been lucky enough to get by just fine in my schlubby sweats. Still, I can’t deny that I felt pretty good yesterday, walking around in that outfit Gemma picked out for me—even if I couldn’t help wondering who had worn the secondhand clothes before me. And if the reaction of that assistant at the barbershop was anything to go by, my haircut and trim are having a big impact, too.
There might just be something to this makeover thing, after all.
The shelter turns out to be a nondescript house in a residential area. We pull up out front, and grab the first load of boxes, and Gemma leads me inside. “Cynthia!” she calls, over to where a stern-looking middle-aged woman is in the lobby area, checking her phone.
Cynthia looks up, and frowns. “Gemma. What is all of this?”
“Donations!” Gemma says happily. “I called in some favors, and annoyed some people into submission.”
Cynthia frowns. “I don’t know if we have space—”
“In the basement!” Gemma interrupts. “I have some old clothing rails set up down there already. I promise, once everything’s unpacked, it’ll fit.”
“Well … alright then.” Cynthia purses her lips, and then moves on.
I look after her. “So, that went well.”
Gemma laughs. “Oh, don’t worry. She’s always like that. She’s a sweetheart really, she’s just a bit … crusty.”
We stash the first load in the basement, and I get back to unloading when Cynthia returns with a dolly.
“Can you stack those on the cart?” she asks me in a crisp tone.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, feeling like I’ve been called to the principal’s office.
On this trip, I find Gemma’s been waylaid, chatting to a woman in her mid-twenties with a toddler perched on her hip. “… I just imagined them naked, like you said.” The woman is saying.
Gemma laughs. “It only works if they’re not gross,” she says, smiling. “When will you hear about the job?”
The toddler says something and holds her arms out. Without missing a beat, Gemma plucks her from her mother and places her on her own hip, like a natural.
“Not until next week. But the woman in HR said I had a really good shot.”
“Of course you do!” Gemma insists. “I bet you rocked that interview.”
“Only because you showed me exactly what to wear, and what to say,” the woman insists. “I can’t thank you enough. I wouldn’t have known where to begin. You know clothes weren’t high on our list,”
Gemma waves away the praise, but I can see real gratitude on the woman’s face.
I feel kind of weird eavesdropping, so I leave them to talk and finish unloading the Jeep. Now that we’re at the shelter and I see first-hand what she does, how important it is, I know for sure I’ve been underestimating Gemma. She’s humble about it, but she takes real pride in her work. And she’s actually making a difference, despite assholes like me giving her a hard time about her fashion career.
Like she feels my gaze, she glances over and smiles. Not one of her careful, suspicious smiles she gives me when I’m teasing her or when she’s yanking my chain.
No. This is a real smile. An open smile, filled with joy. One that tells me so much about her—about a different side of her that I never imagined existed.
A side that it turns out I like. Very much.
* * *
After I finish up with Gemma, I decide to head over to Martin and Julie’s place. They’ve just moved into a swanky townhouse in the Marina District, thanks to the proceeds from the sale of our business. Martin texted me to come see his new home theatre system, which I’m sure is a bullshit excuse for another intervention. But he did add that he has some cold beer in the fridge. Proving he knows what buttons to press.
“Nice haircut,” he comments when I get there. I’m surprised he doesn’t make a crack about my beard, but instead, he just hands me a craft beer and we move into the media room.
Okay, so maybe this really is about the home theatre. I drop into the buttery soft, leather recliner aimed at a huge TV hanging on the wall. The TV is so big, it practically is the wall.
“Sweet setup.”
He smiles. “Ready to have your mind blown?”
“That depends,” I say, looking at him askance. “You going to put on some furry porn?”
“We don’t watch furry porn!” he protests, adding, “In the living room.”
I nearly spit out my beer. “Asshole,” I laugh.
“I’ll put on a game so you can get the full effect.”
He’s not kidding about my mind getting blown, either. A few games later, I’m almost dizzy from the realistic graphics on this thing.
“I need to sit in a dark closet for a while,” I say, putting down my controller.
“Right?” Marty laughs. “Totally overstimulating, but in the best way. Super Bowl is going to be epic. I think David will be in town, that buddy of mine I was telling you about. The one looking for a partner on his project,” he adds meaningfully.
So maybe this is an intervention, after all.
“Marty,” I say in a warning tone.
“Come on. We’re not trying to bust your balls. We just--”
“Worry about me, I know,” I sigh. “And before you bring it up again, this is not about Lisa. I’m not moping. I’m not rebounding, I’m not fucking my way through my grief over a failed relationship. I’m just … living my life. The way I let you do when you decided to settle into domestic bliss with your furry friend,” I added, just as his partner in crime opens the front door – with takeout.
“What did I do to deserve you and a bucket of chicken and fries?” Martin asks, leaping up to help her.
“You married me,” J
ulie grins. “And you always do laundry. Hey Zach,” she adds, calling over to me. “Staying for dinner?”
“Like you have to ask,” Marty says with a loud snort “Free food? He’s staying.”
“Right?” Julie laughs. “He’s such a freeloader.”
I grin as I take a seat at the kitchen island, because we all know it’s the furthest thing from the truth. Marty actually lived with me for several months while we were starting out, building the app. I was broke then, but he was worse off and couldn’t even afford his rent. We don’t talk about it much but if it hadn’t been for me, he’d have had to move back home. I didn’t think twice at the time—I knew we were close to bringing in the big bucks, and I wasn’t about to let my partner go under—but I guess it’s the reason he and Julie are so protective of me now, like they’re trying to return the favor.
Except I don’t need their concern.
I watch them now, setting out plates and silverware, moving like a well-oiled machine. They’re so in sync, they don’t even need to speak, a kind of connection I’ve never had with someone else—not even Lisa.
The realization makes me stop.
Can that be true? We cared about each other and had fun, sure, but it was never intense and intimate like Marty and Julie. They have something really special, and as much as I loved Lisa, it never looked like this.
My thoughts linger all through dinner, until the happy couple start making eyes at each other, and then I make my exit, before they bring out the bear costumes. But driving home, I find myself going back over things with Lisa, wondering where it all went wrong. Was it that I just got complacent? Things were easy with her—until they weren’t—and I guess I fell into a rut, thinking that we just made sense. Lisa was the one pushing us on to the next phase, moving in together, and everything else, and I was happy to go along for the ride. After all, that’s what you did when you loved someone, right?
But looking back now, I wonder if what I felt was love, or more like comfort. Safety. Knowing someone was there who had my back. And when that all fell apart …
