I just shake my head. “Have a good night, Mandy. Be careful.”
Her ridiculous, teasing smile fades into a natural, normal Mandy smile. “You too, Callie. Good luck.”
She says goodbye to both of us as she gets out of her car and runs into the house. The house door closes and—
“Ready to go?”
At the sound of his voice, I turn to look back at his still smiling face.
And I nod.
Back to work. Back to therapy.
Chapter 4
day one therapy session—no, day six therapy session
HE STARTS DRIVING…SOMEWHERE. I sit in the passenger seat wondering about that somewhere.
We ride in silence for a few moments. No talking. No music. Obviously. {Except in my head—where The Wallflowers are still singing.}
I glance over at him. Casual tonight. Very casual. Dark jeans. Black leather jacket.
My dress is probably too dressy for whatever we are—
He glances over briefly, catching my eyes. Catching me looking at him.
His mouth turns up in a quick smile, but his eyes are elsewhere. Somewhere serious. He looks back at the road…the one that is taking us to some fresh hell, no doubt.
{No Doubt begins “Don’t Speak.”}
He breathes in slowly, as if he is about to say—
“I think you are beautiful. Don’t forget that.”
What?
He doesn’t look at me. He looks ahead, at the road.
Um…okay.
“Thanks.” I say it with appreciation, but also with confusion. With questions.
He doesn’t say anything else. It is silent again.
AGAIN.
{Gwen Stefani keeps encouraging him to keep his mouth shut. Or is she talking to me?}
I stare straight ahead. And talk. “Why should I not, um, forget what you think, what you say you, um, think about me?”
Lovely, Callie. Poetic. Just—
“Open the glove compartment.”
What the hell?
He doesn’t look at me. And he doesn’t say anything else.
So I listen. I reach in front of me and pull the handle on the glove compartment, knowing, trusting that no one other than him has probably touched it in years. He wouldn’t have told me to touch it otherwise.
Unless…unless this is part of my therapy and he’s going to tell me that some diseased pers—
“Okay, grab the bag inside. Don’t worry—everything is clean.”
Oh. Good. Okay.
I grab the glossy black bag that sits alone in his glove compartment. I wonder where he keeps his car registration and insur—
“All right. Open the bag when you’re ready.”
When I’m ready? What am I opening? A collection of used Band-Aids? Or needles? A stranger’s sperm sample? Some sort of—
“Callie. It’s clean. It’s all clean.”
Right. That’s right. He already said that.
Okay.
One. Two. Three.
Open. Look.
It just looks like packaging. I can’t tell what it is.
Okay…
One. Two. Three.
I stick my hand in the glossy bag and touch the plastic package inside. I pull it out of the bag slowly, no clue what I’m—
Oh.
Scissors. A new pair of small scissors sealed in plastic.
All right…
I look over at him. He glances at me for a second before his eyes return to the road.
“There’s more.” That’s all he says. No explanation. No clue where he is going with this.
I balance the scissors on my lap beside my purse.
One. Two. Three. Hand back in bag. More plastic packaging. I pull it out of the bag and—
And now I know what we’re—no—what I’m doing tonight. And I don’t want to—
“I’m pretty sure that females are supposed to get their hair trimmed multiple times a year. And I know that you haven’t gotten a haircut since, since right before we met.”
I look down at the new package on my lap. A hairbrush, a comb, some hairclips, and a shampoo cape—all secured in fresh, thick plastic.
I put everything back in the black glossy bag.
I don’t want to see it anymore.
He continues to talk. I try to listen. “I really don’t think anything is wrong with your hair—it looks perfect. You—” He stops to cough. Awkwardly. “You look perfect.”
Perfect? Who is he comparing me to? Maybe some homeless—
“But you need to do this, Callie.” Normal voice again. Ugh.
I don’t even ask how he knows about my summer haircut trauma. I know he’ll just bring up stupid medical records from Dr. Lennox telling him about my stupid haircut and stupid blood on—
My head starts to fuzz up.
Stop thinking about it, Callie. It won’t happen again. It won’t happen again. It can’t happen again.
He keeps driving. In silence.
He looks nervous.
He’s not supposed to be nervous. He’s the doctor here, isn’t—
But he’s not my doctor. He’s just helping me. As my…boyfriend?
Well, that makes me feel like I’m in third grade. Or like I’m—
“Okay. We are here.”
Fabulous.
He parks the car in front of Pierce Meadows Salon & Spa.
Just fabulous.
The car is parked. The keys are out of the ignition, on his lap.
On his lap. I’d like to be on—
CALLIE! Focus. I should—
“The lady who is cutting your hair seems really clean. I went in to see her a couple of hours ago. I didn’t see any cuts or bruises on her hands, and she—”
Memories of my last haircut start flooding my head. The cut. The blood. The—
Callie!
He’s still talking.
“—last thing I have for you is this.” He arches his body to reach into his backseat. He retrieves yet another black glossy bag. As he hands it to me, as I take it, he keeps talking, keeps looking at me. “There are latex gloves in there. And a spray bottle. A brand new spray bottle. I filled it up with water from my home faucet, which should be okay since, uh…” He moves his eyes from mine. “Since you say that I’m…”
“Clean.” I finish his sentence for him.
His eyes fly back to mine. Questioning. Insecure.
I nod slowly to reassure him. You are still clean. Clean. Clean. Clean.
A little smile appears on his lips.
But then it goes away. “Look, Callie. If you want to push this off until tomorrow or later in the—”
And just worry about it all night? Or all week?
“No.”
He looks surprised. I am too.
Okay. No more thinking. One two three. Clutch bags. Open door.
Two copper pumps hit the pavement. Standing now, I look down at them, not feeling them. Not feeling my feet beneath me.
I can’t do—
“Callie.”
He’s beside me, hand outstretched. Face. Oh so patient.
And adorable.
And hopeful.
Okay. Okay. Okay. Gotta do this.
He agreed to the plan I wanted. The no new doctor plan. The no new treatment plan.
Don’t screw it up, Callie.
One. Two. Three.
“I’m ready.”
My heels float closer to him. My sweaty hand finds his open fingers.
And we go in.
BRIGHT LIGHTS. LOTS OF CHAIRS. Mirrors. Various colored little bottles, little products, lined up on shelf after shelf after shelf. Chairs and people and hair dryers and clippers and—
And it’s just like the last salon. The last haircut. Same scene.
Oh, except he is here.
He is here. He is here. He is here.
Oh, and everything is blurry. It wasn’t blurry when I went in last time. Just when I ran out.
He tugs on my hand
, and my feet start moving after him.
Fuzzy smells. Shampoo. Hairspray. Warm hair. Lotion. Nail polish. Salon chemicals.
Fuzzy sounds. Him asking for Sherry. Fuzzy words.
A white nametag on a black apron. “Sherry.”
Fuzzy exchange. He takes the glossy bags out of my hand and gives them to Sherry.
Fuzzy Sherry. Black hair. Short pixie cut. Skinny. Smiling.
Fuzzy surroundings. A few other customers. Far away. A salon chair in front of me.
Fuzzy checking stuff happening right in front of me. He runs his hand…the one not holding my hand…over the salon seat. My salon seat. Fuzzy body movement.
Another tug of his hand, and I’m standing in front of the seat. Staring in the mirror in front of me.
At me.
And…and I look ridiculous.
Shoulders shaking. Makeup running. Eyes panicking.
Ri. Dic. Ul. Ous.
Then I see another face in the mirror. Standing beside me. Him. Still holding my hand, my gross, sweaty hand.
Not judging. Not pressuring.
Not smiling either, though. Nervous.
Okay, Callie. Make this better. You can do this. You can do this. You can do this. Do this. Do this. Do this.
I squeeze his hand, my damp fingers sliding a bit with the pressure.
Then I watch a little movie of myself in the mirror. Legs slowly bending. Body moving downward. Back settling against the fabric on the chair. One hand grasping his fingers. The other hand clutching my purse against my lap.
Then my movie ends. My eyes close. And my stomach starts rattling around in my head…or, wait…my head starts pounding around in my stomach…or—
That doesn’t make sense, Callie. That doesn’t make any sense. You are so far gone that—
A squeeze of my slippery hand.
My eyes struggle open.
And a new face is in the mirror. Behind my chair. Behind me. {And a new song is in my head. “Sherry.” The Four Seasons.}
I watch her, watch Sherry unfold the shampoo cape and place it in front of me, on top of my dress. In a daze, I hold my hair up, lean my head forward to let her tie the cape around my neck.
Her gloved hands touch my neck. They—
And now…a new object in the mirror. Sherry has a new object in her hands. {And another song blasts into my head. Part of the score of Edward Scissorhands.}
OhmyGod. OhmyGod. OhmyGod.
My eyes slump back into the closed position. And I pray.
Please let me get through this. Please let me get through this. Please let me—
She’s touching my hair. With gloves, but still. Her hands are in my hair. Near the bottom. Near the many weeks of split ends.
Eyes still closed. My sweaty fingers still sliming up his hand.
He probably thinks that I’m gross now. And he probably doesn’t want to touch me or sleep with me anymore.
And that is probably good because then I won’t give him whatever diseases I’m going to get during this haircut tonight. Right now. With Sherry.
Sherry. Please don’t bleed on me. Please be careful with those scissors. Please—
Water. She’s spraying water on my hair. On the ends. Saying something about just a little trim.
Just a little trim. Just a little trim. Just a little trim.
{Aretha Franklin. “Respect.” Refrain.}
Just a little trim.
Just like last time.
With just a little blood.
But just a little blood is more than enough for a freaking enormous disease…and a massive amount of hospital visits…and a decent sized coffin at my funer—
She, um, Sherry, starts humming along to the song playing overhead on the radio. “Uptown Funk.” Mark Ronson. Bruno Mars too.
Humming. Humming. Humming.
Shut up, Sherry. Don’t draw attention to the music. He doesn’t like—
“I love this song.”
My eyes fling open at the sound of the words—the words not coming from Sherry’s lips…not coming from my lips…not coming from the lips of any of the other workers or customers in the salon.
No.
Coming from a different set of lips. Coming from a deep, low voice. Coming from him.
I stare at him in the mirror. Standing to the side of me. Holding my disgusting wet hand. Moving his—
What?
Moving his shoulders slightly in time with the beat of the refrain. Smiling.
SMILING.
Are the freaking fumes in this place making him high? Or—
He catches my eyes in the mirror. Catches me staring at him.
His smile gets bigger. He shifts his gaze for a second to glance at Sherry as she trims away at the bottom of my hair. Then he looks back at me, nodding at me encouragingly. Nodding encouragingly. Nodding in time to the beat of the music.
I try to paint What the hell? on my face by widening my eyes and raising my eyebrows. He keeps smiling, though, as he watches Sherry work. And I swear his hips are shaking a little, almost like—
Almost like many weeks ago. Many lifetimes ago. When we were out for Thirsty Thursday with Mandy. When he was dancing. To music.
Wow.
I had forgotten about that. Totally forgotten.
It’s like my hospital visit and the nurses’ conversation about him and his mother erased everything before then.
But I remember now. And…and he can’t totally hate mus—
His eyes find mine again. And he squeezes my repulsive fingers. And he’s still smiling.
I can’t help it. I smile back. And words start coming out of my mouth before I even realize it. “What’s gotten into you tonight?”
He shrugs his shoulders in a, for Dr. Blake, sort of carefree way. “What do you mean?”
“You’re—” My mouth runs off with more words. “Calm. Relaxed. Not super serious.”
I watch in the mirror as he leans down beside me…and beside Sherry…to whisper in my ear.
But he doesn’t whisper right away.
He breathes out first. Right into my ear. Right into my body.
My insides start to shudder. Shiver.
Perhaps tonight should be the night that we—
He starts to talk. “I am calm. I am happy. I’m with you.” He breathes into my ear again. Breathes right through me.
Oh my G—
“And you’ve made it through your haircut.”
What? I what?
My eyes, still looking through the mirror, move away from his reflection. Move to her reflection. To Sherry’s reflection.
But she’s not behind me anymore. Not in my line of mirror vision at all.
My gaze flies to the ends of my hair. The smooth, healthy-looking bottom of my hair. Hanging neatly over my shoulders.
Wow. I did it. I made it. I—
Breath back in my ear. Eyes back on mirror him.
His eyes. Twinkling. Twinkling relief.
Another exhale in my ear. A surge of warmth through—
“You made it, Callie. I’m so—”
He pauses and just looks at me.
So…what?
So pleased with our progress (like a psychologist)?
So proud of me (like a second grade teacher)?
So—
“So happy, Callie.”
Happy. He’s happy. Because for once I didn’t screw up.
Mirror me smiles at reflection him. “I’m happy too.”
And he’s still just so close. And his cologne smells so…perfect. And he’s not technically my doctor anymore, so we aren’t doing anything wrong. So I turn my head and put my lips on his warm cheek. Kiss him. Right here in the middle of Pierce Meadows Salon & Spa.
He lets go of my fingers to thread his hands in my hair.
Maybe he does this to confirm that there is nothing potentially devastating in my hair. Maybe he does it so he can politely let go of my soggy fingers. I don’t know why.
But he’s smiling at me. A
nd his hands are in my hair, on my neck. And his eyes are starting to heat up, starting to burn into mine.
My mouth falls open. “Let’s get out of here.”
His eyes get darker.
I can do this. I can take him home with me.
Mandy already knows that something is going on…and it’s not like I need her permission. She’ll just call Melanie and make fun of—
His forehead falls against mine. And he…groans?
Groans? Why? Does he have to be somewhere? Can he—
“We aren’t done yet, Callie.”
WHAT? My eyes fly back to the ends of my hair. And everything looks good. Straight. Done.
I try to reassure him. “No—it looks fine. This is what my hair looks like after a—”
“I’m not talking about your hair, Callie.”
What? Again.
His fingers fall out of my hair, down to his sides, and he straightens his body to stand over me. Awkwardly.
“We have more to do here.”
More? “I don’t under—”
“Are you ready for your manicure?” I look back into the mirror. Sherry. Sherry’s back. And she wants to do more to me. Now to my nails.
Ugh.
I glance at Sherry’s smiling reflection. Then I look at mirror him.
Him. Eyebrows raised. In question. In pleading. In hope.
Mouth in a sort of smile.
Eyes. H.E.A.T.E.D.
And I don’t know why. Maybe because I know we’ll get out of here faster if I just agree. Maybe because Sherry has already cut my hair, already touched me without bleeding. Or maybe because I am a little drunk on the salon fumes. For whatever reason, I shake my head in defeat and mouth “okay” to him through the mirror.
His eyebrows go up even more. In shock now. He—
“Do you have what I need?” Sherry starts talking again, and she holds her hand out to him.
His eyes leave mine to look at Sherry.
“I do.” Quiet, but confident. Like a priest has just asked him if he vows to—
{Pachelbel himself begins to play his oh so famous Canon in D.}
And he reaches slowly, cautiously into his leather jacket pocket and pulls out—
ANOTHER glossy black bag.
Seriously? How much beauty product shopping did he do?
He glances at reflection me for a second before carefully handing the bag to Sherry.
And now I watch Sherry. Ready to see her open the bag. Ready to see what awaits me.
Forever Checking (Checked Series Book 3) Page 3
