by Cecy Robson
Her hand slips across my skin as she clasps it. “Deal.”
“Good.” I say the word slowly, noting how soft and warm her skin feels against mine. I shrug it off, thinking I was just cold. “Now, let’s get back to the fondling above the sweater rule. . .”
CHAPTER 8
Allie
Seamus picks me up later that week at my townhouse. It’s taken several lunch dates and rounds of texting back and forth to get me to this point. I closed on a multimillion-dollar home a few months ago that wasn’t as intense as my “Operation Bust Your Ass Out of the Fucking Cocoon,” as he calls it.
I answer the door wearing a teal blouse and dark slacks.
“Are you meeting a client?” he asks, his extraordinary blue irises taking me in from my somewhat contained hair to perfectly respectable shoes.
“No,” I reply. He follows me into the foyer as I remove my coat from the hall closet. “You told me to free my schedule today.” I look down at my clothing thinking perhaps I need a necklace or scarf. “Should I accessorize?”
“Please don’t.” He makes a face, as he often does, when he feels he said something offensive. For all Seamus is rather abrupt, he’s not cruel. “You look nice. Respectable.”
“That’s exactly what I was going for.”
My glee fades when he makes another disappointed face. “Yeah, we have to work on that,” he adds.
I’m not certain I know what he means, although we’ve had several conversations about the way I dress. I’ve yet to convince him that my clients prefer more professional and less flashy attire. I attempted to compromise by offering to buy shoes with tassels.
I meant it as a joke. That’s not how Seamus took it.
“Women should never wear tassels on their shoes. Ever,” he told me. “And if you buy that shit, I’ll soak them with gasoline, burn them to ash, and put the remains out with holy water. No offense.”
I take in all 6 feet and 200 pounds of him. I only know the measurements of his physique because he’s told me more than once. Some say it’s his favorite topic of conversation. At first, I thought he was simply obnoxious. After a few encounters, I determined he has every right to be confident. Now, I find it strangely endearing. Seamus is who he is and makes no apologies for it. It’s something to be admired and something I wish I had.
Today, he’s in a long-sleeved navy t-shirt and a dark brown, comfortably worn aviator jacket. His jeans look identical to all the ones he’s worn since I’ve known him, only darker. I only know this because I may have admired his legs once or twice, and perhaps his waistline when he stretches. A woman can’t help herself. His “V,” the glorious space that hovers between his waistline and groin, practically blinded me with its jaw-dropping perfection.
“Something wrong?” he asked, when he caught me ogling him like I very much wanted to have a lick.
Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it, big boy, I wanted to say. “You look cold,” I said, instead. No. He looked hot. He always does. Before I could embarrass myself further, I shut my mouth and pretended that I’d forgotten to call a client.
There’s no possibility between Seamus and me. I’m not the typical woman he dates or someone he’d stop to glance at.
“Can I be honest with you?” he asks.
I turn around in the middle of fastening the buttons of my dark brown coat. It’s cold, considering it’s almost April. “I would expect no less,” I say, smiling.
My attempt at humor goes over his ridiculously luscious full head of hair. “You’re trying on clothes. Don’t you have, like, a sweatshirt and sweatpants, maybe some high heels? Like, real high heels? Not the kind of shoes my niece will be sporting as a flower girl.”
“I like my shoes,” I say. I tug on the pant leg to give him a better look. “They’re booties: cute and practical.”
He leans a shoulder against the wall as I shut the closet. “The only cute booty you should be showing off is yours.”
“I . . .”
Before I can enjoy what I interpret as a compliment, he moves on. “And what the hell did I say about practical, respectable, and demure? You were supposed to be taking notes.”
And I did, at our first lunch together and practically every get-together following that. I groan, begrudgingly remembering what should now be our official mantra. “Practical, respectable, and demure won’t get me laid.” I mutter.
“Won’t get you laid by the right guy,” he clarifies. He holds out his hands in desperation. “Baby, I’m doing this for you. I want you to get the kind of man who doesn’t need a little blue pill to get going or help changing his Depends. You want that, too. Don’t you?”
“I do.” I adjust the sleeves of my long wool coat. “I realize you think I need help in the fashion department, among other things. But, must I point out that sweatpants and high heels don’t go together.”
“You wear clothes you can slip in and out of easily, and the shoes are shoved into a bag.”
“Shoes? As in more than one pair?” I ask.
“Sure. My sisters-in-law—and Wren, who they have to drag cursing and screaming—always bring at least two pairs of shoes when they shop.”
“You know a lot about what women do,” I point out.
He shrugs. “Not really. I just pay attention.”
“I can see that.” Nothing seems to slip past Seamus, even in those moments where it seems he’s not paying attention.
“You have a sundress, or some shit you pull off easily?”
I glance in the direction of the door. “I do, but it looks like it could snow.”
“That’s why God invented the coat,” he says, tugging on the lapels of my wool coat and coaxing my smile out.
I do a quick change into a spaghetti strap sundress and shove my feet into a pair of kitten heels. “It’s freezing,” I say, when we rush out to Seamus’s F-150.
“No worries. I’ll crank the heat. Trust me, you look better already.”
He holds open the door for me. I didn’t expect his chivalry to continue. If anything, I imagined he’d be too busy dragging his knuckles along the sidewalk, given the comments that shoot out of his mouth. And his texts? They were practically grunts. I was more specific, of course. His words were more to the point and seemingly between long admirable looks at his reflection. But here he is, watching out for me.
He pulls away from my street. I live in the historic part of Philadelphia where parking is a daily struggle, but the beautiful buildings make up for it.
We don’t stay in my neighborhood for long. Seamus takes us all the way to Kensington into a neighborhood that deteriorates before my eyes. Trendy little stores and restaurants vanish, replaced by the neon flashing lights of pawn shops and adult toys.
“Oh, hey,” Seamus says. “There’s a two for one sale on rubber penises. I never knew there was such a thing.”
“Rubber penises?” I ask.
“Are you kidding? It’s Philly. I meant sales like that. I’ll bet they sell out.”
An elderly couple hurries into the store. “I bet that, too,” I say, not wanting to focus on how giddy they appear.
At the next block, the row homes grow narrower and the graffiti lining the walls more daring and colorful. “I thought we were going to a hair salon,” I say, watching a crack dealer at the corner drop several bags of white powder into a young woman’s outstretched hands.
“We are,” he replies. “I’m taking you to the best stylist in town. Just do me a favor, don’t look her directly in the eye, she’ll take it as a challenge.”
“What?”
“Oh, Allie, relax. Shaqwana Lopez-Morales is the best of the best. A little psycho, but a lot of the great artists are. Remember Picasso? Didn’t he cut off his ear and mail it to that chick who dumped his ass? I wouldn’t let him babysit my nieces. But I’d let him paint me a portrait.”
“That was van Gogh and I may have to kill you,” I say.
�
��What’s wrong this time?” he asks.
“What do you mean what’s wrong this time? You’re taking me to someone I can’t stare at directly or risk her stabbing me in the eye with scissors.”
“Hey. I never said she would stab you. To her credit, if she’s going to fight you, she’ll throw hands.”
“An honorable psycho, that’s . . . that’s wonderful, Seamus.”
Seamus nods, missing the point entirely. “Yeah, you ain’t nothing without honor.”
He tugs on my long braid playfully. It’s something he’s done more than once.
As hesitant I was to participate in this arrangement, I confess I enjoy his company.
Seamus didn’t remember me. Not from all the times I showed him and his brothers the apartment building they ultimately purchased, nor all the work I did to help them secure a lucrative deal. He didn’t remember me from the years we’d spent attending the same church, nor the years I’d spent separating his siblings from fighting with other children.
He remembered Valentina. Everyone remembers Valentina. I get it. But this day was so much harder than the rest.
I was mortified to be so easily forgotten, especially given my history with Seamus and his family. I wanted to dismiss him as a simple, thickheaded brute. Until he remembered my kindness. When it’s my turn to die, out of everything, it’s how I want others to remember me.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks.
I scan our surroundings. Just as the neighborhood begins to take a turn for the better and resemble an area recovering from the madness surrounding it, Seamus makes a sharp right turn, taking us into the very heart of urban decay.
“That you’re a nice man,” I say, my thoughts and words vanishing in the air as we pass a group of homeless people warming their hands around a fire from an old metal barrel.
Where is this man taking me?
“Thanks,” he says, ignoring my growing panic. “You’re pretty decent, too. Hey. You want to hit Gino’s for steaks afterward?”
“Um. Yes. That would be lovely.”
I don’t think he’s intentionally trying to ease my discomfort. But it’s what he manages to do with his comment and easy demeanor. It reminds me that there is a great deal of sweetness lurking beneath the often oblivious surface.
After we agreed to help each other through our dilemmas, he took me out to an early lunch so we could discuss the details. I didn’t expect him to have such a hearty appetite following the dessert tray he consumed. Nevertheless, he ate an entire cheesesteak like a bear preparing for hibernation then chugged down a milkshake as if his very existence depended on it.
It was nice spending time with him. It was also nice receiving his texts, no matter how brief. I hadn’t realized how little interaction I had socially until I began replying to texts that had nothing to do with my real estate business.
“So, you ready to lose all those inches?” he asks me. “That’s a lot of hair you have going on.”
“No,” I confess. “But it’s something I’ve contemplated for a long time. I just don’t know what I’m going to do with it.” I make a motion with my fingers around my entire scalp. “My hair is gigantic. The only way to tame it is by braiding it the way I do.”
“Don’t sweat it. We’ll donate it to someone who needs it, and trust me when I say you’re going to love how it looks and what it does for your sex life.”
“Sex life?” I ask. “I’m not certain I understand.”
He laughs. “Alz, when I’m done with you, men are going to beg you to take them to bed and be sucker-punching each other just to date you.”
I should be offended, frightened, something. Instead, something that feels too much like hope fills me. “Are you serious?” I ask. “About men possibly be wanting to date me?”
He frowns. “Why wouldn’t I be? You’re hot.”
“Hot?” I ask, wary that he’s having fun at my expense.
“Totally. You just don’t know it, on account of all those clothes and hair that have stifled the fire. Kept it from burning. You hear what I’m saying?”
“I guess so,” I reply cautiously, my thoughts remaining fixed on Seamus believing me “hot.”
“Come on,” he says, stealing a glimpse at my face. “Trust me.”
“I trust you,” I respond.
I do. But as we pull further down the street and a fight breaks out between two teenage girls, trust races off in the distance, laughing at me for being so naïve.
“I remember my first fight,” Seamus says rolling to a stop at a light and watching their friends separate them. “It was second grade and Will Peterson stole my Trapper Keeper. He claimed it was his and threw out all my homework. I was so mad. There was a picture of a horse on the cover. I was going through my cowboy phase, so you can imagine what that did to me.”
“I can imagine,” I agree. My eyes wander over his strapping physique. “I take it you won the fight?”
“Oh, hell no. Will Peterson was as dumb as rocks and had been held back two years. He had like forty pounds on me and totally kicked my ass. But you know what? I got my Trapper Keeper back.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or feel sorry for him. I’m still contemplating both reactions when a sense of pride fills me. There were plenty of Will Petersons in my life growing up. But I never had the courage to fight for my Trapper Keeper. I attributed the low self-esteem to having grown up in my sister’s shadow. It wasn’t until I went away to college and gathered a better sense of myself that I began to fight for what I thought I deserved in all avenues in my life. Except when it came to my family.
Seamus rolls to a stop in front of Bare Beauty, A Salon for the Diva-lushus You. Hip-hop music blasts from the open doorway and women in barely-there clothes in very thick “fur” coats strut out. It may be a cold day, but there’s plenty of heat seeping from Bare Beauty.
“Here,” he says, yanking my door open and offering his hand. “Let me help you out.” I didn’t even notice him come around, too entranced by what resembles hell’s version of the Steel Magnolia’s salon.
“Allie,” Seamus says when I don’t move. “Shaqwana has a full day and she did me one to get you in. I don’t want to be late and piss her off.”
I hurry out. I don’t want to anger her, either. I’m not sure I want to do anything with her. “Are you certain this is the right place for me?” I ask.
“I thought you trusted me,” he says, a smirk forming across his face and giving him a very unfair extra-dose of sex appeal.
“All right,” I say, taking his arm and allowing him to help me down. “Let’s do this.”
“Hi, Seamus.”
“Hey, Seamus.”
Two women wearing the equivalent amount of material as the scarf around my neck flounce out of Bare Beauty. “Whaddup, ladies?” he says.
He places his arm around me and leads me forward when the “ladies” glare at me like they want to “cut” me.
“You don’t know their names, do you?” I whisper as we head inside.
“Nope,” he admits. “But I’m not letting them know that. They’ll cut you.”
I so didn’t want to be right about that . . .
The hip-hop music blasting from the salon grows that much louder when we step in, the deep bass vibrating the floor at my feet.
Idle chatter cuts through the music and the laughter rings loud and clear. Seamus leans into the reception desk perched directly in front of us, rows of old plastic chairs on either side filled with women flipping through magazines or hanging tight to their children playing on their phones.
“Hey, baby,” a pretty young Latina with braids down to her back says. “What you want done?”
“Seamus!” A woman from the rear end of the salon shouts. “It’s okay, Yesenia. I got him.”
I don’t have to guess this is Shaqwana Lopez-Morales. Not with her name affixed to the neon-teal sign atop her station with an arrow pointing to the ch
air I’m to sit in.
From a distance, Shaqwana seems fabulous, and when I say fabulous, what I really mean is superbly provocative. Seamus leads me forward when it becomes apparent I’m not moving. I haven’t felt intimidated by anyone in a very long time, but Shaqwana leaves me speechless.
A short, tight, gray skirt barely covers her epic, global Latina butt cheeks. Matching gray boots skim the lower half of her thighs and a white sweater clings to breasts that were either cosmetically enhanced or unfairly molded by Athena herself to perfection.
Shaqwana’s hair is a mane of silky twists defying gravity to expose her round face with equally large brown lips glossed to a blinding sheen. My best guess is she’s of Peruvian descent or possibly Colombian, having had received the best genes her ancestors could bestow.
It seems odd Seamus would know her. This place isn’t easy to locate. “This is who cuts your hair?” I ask, barely able to get the words out.
“Oh, hell no,” he mutters. “I wouldn’t be caught dead getting a cut here.”
“What?”
He doesn’t answer me, too oblivious to see that I’m all but running out of here and flailing. If he notices how quiet the rows of women getting their hair done grow as we pass, he doesn’t show it. Some are young enough to be teens, others old enough to be grandmothers. Most are of Latin descent, a large number first generation, speaking in thick Spanish accents.
“Sorry about your grandmother,” a woman with a high braided bun tells Seamus as we pass. “Hit me up when you’re done mourning.”
“You got it,” Seamus tells her.
“Oh, God,” I squeak. We’re almost to Shaqwana. I stumble when I realize she has a lazy eye.
“You’re challenging her,” Seamus mumbles hanging tight to his grin.
I presume he realizes I’ve met one of her two eyes. In my defense, I’m not exactly sure where to look.
“This her?” Shaqwana says, motioning to me to sit with an irritated flick of the comb in her hand.
“Yeah, this is Allie,” Seamus tells her. “Thanks for fitting us in.”
