Cut Short

by Julia Wolf

  Anytime I wasn’t busy, my thoughts alternated between Joe Silver and the stone house. Both were things I had desperately wanted, but couldn’t have, and both had broken my heart.

  When I left the salon, just to torture myself, I went uphill toward the stone house instead of downhill to my apartment. I had walked past this house hundreds of times over the years, but I’d never been inside. Something about it called to me, though.

  I sighed, resting my hand on the sold sign. That porch was begging for rocking chairs. What I wouldn’t give to fill the yard with bright flowers and breathe in their sweet fragrance every night when I came home.

  Whatever it was that called to me, the house clearly wasn’t meant to be mine—at least not today.

  Three

  Joe Silver and I met the summer I turned sixteen and he’d finished his first year of college. My girlfriends and I had gone into Baltimore to a club that looked the other way and let underage kids in.

  When Joe took the stage with his band, Cuppa Joe, I thought he was the best singer I had ever heard. I stood mesmerized as he jumped around, singing and wailing his heart out.

  When their set ended, he and his band sat at a nearby table, and one of my bolder friends, Jessica, shouted for them to join us. Surprisingly, they did. With the music blaring, we couldn’t really hear each other, but I kept stealing glances at Joe, only to find him staring back at me through his black-framed glasses and smiling. I had never seen a more attractive man.

  Afterwards, we all trooped over to a diner, seven of us squeezing into a corner booth. Joe talked about all the obscure bands he was digging as I hung on every word. I was so nervous, I barely said anything—until the topic turned to the best movie soundtracks.

  “Have you guys heard the Garden State soundtrack yet?” Joe asked us. “It has The Shins, Colin Hay, even Simon & Garfunkel. It’s legit the best movie soundtrack.” Joe had the kind of self-assuredness only a nineteen-year-old guy could.

  I shook my head, picking at the edge of the stainless steel-rimmed table. “I kind of disagree. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love Garden State. But have you heard the soundtrack for Pump Up the Volume?” I rushed the words out, everyone’s eyes suddenly on me. “And The Royal Tenenbaums comes in a close second. ‘Needle in the Hay’ makes me cry every time I hear it.”

  Joe nodded, seeming to regard me differently.

  Then my friend Jessica poked me, and said, “She just likes Pump Up the Volume because of Christian Slater. She looooooves him!”

  I felt my cheeks burning, but I laughed along to cover my embarrassment.

  When the group moved on to other topics, Joe touched my hand from across the table, and said quietly, “Thanks for the recs. I’m definitely going to hunt those soundtracks down.”

  Internally, I was doing somersaults, but on the outside, I was so nervous, I gave him a small nod and kept my hand as still as possible, willing him not to move his.

  When I got home that night, I went to my computer to instant message my friends about our wonderfully surreal night. I found a message waiting for me:

  SilverJ: Do you know you smell like cinnamon?

  TheRachel: I’m not sure I do. Who is this?

  SilverJ: It’s Joe. We met tonight. I’m Brian’s friend.

  The only name I remembered tonight was Joe, and he was instant messaging me! I was hyperventilating, but he couldn’t see me, so I tried to play it cool.

  TheRachel: Oh, hey, Joe! What’s up? How did you find out my screenname?

  SilverJ: Brian asked your girl for me. The little short one.

  SilverJ: How old are you?

  TheRachel: I’m 16. I’m going to be a junior in the fall. You?

  SilverJ: 19. I’m home for the summer from NYU. Going back in August. I can’t believe you’re in high school. So young!

  TheRachel: Hey, buster, I’m not that young! Maybe you’re just old!

  SilverJ: Maybe I am. I feel old sometimes. So, do you only like Christian Slater movies?

  TheRachel: What’s your major? And I do enjoy a good Christian Slater movie, but I am a lover of all film. :)

  SilverJ: I’m still undeclared, but I think I want to be a teacher. Probably a music teacher. I had this really awesome band teacher, Mr. Parker. He made learning music interesting. I dunno, does that sound weird? And I bet you love Heathers.

  I swooned when he told me he wanted to be a teacher. I was sure I was madly in love with him and was going to marry him and have a million little blue-eyed babies.

  TheRachel: That sounds perfect for you. You’re an incredible musician, I think you would inspire kids to learn music too. Anyways, I have to go to bed, my mom’s going to kill me!

  SilverJ: Goodnight, sweet Rachel.

  TheRachel: Goodnight, Joe (and yes, Heathers is my jam).

  Over the summer, our groups hung out whenever we saw them at shows and usually went to the diner afterwards. Jessica and Brian were hooking up, but everyone else kept it platonic. Joe and the guys spent hours talking about music—bands I had never heard of. He always tried to include everyone, but I felt like he paid extra attention to me, and I was crushing hard.

  On our last night together before he left for college, Joe crammed in next to me in the same diner booth we had occupied that first night. Usually there was someone between us, or he sat across from me, so this was new. My hands trembled as I tried to eat my cheesy fries.

  “You were right, you know.”

  I turned my head toward him, his face only inches from mine. My heart sped up. “About what?”

  “The soundtracks. Although, I think The Royal Tenenbaums beats Pump Up the Volume.”

  I beamed, thrilled he had taken the time to listen to music I loved. Music was such a huge part of him, so I felt honored he liked my recommendations.

  “We’ll have to agree to disagree,” I said. We sat smiling at each other, our faces inches apart, until Joe’s friend Dan, who sat on his other side and was apparently listening to our hushed conversation, piped up.

  “I don’t know what you two are talking about. Mortal Kombat puts a finishing move on all other soundtracks.”

  We all laughed, the spell broken, but the moment we shared had been special to me, and I thought maybe it was for Joe too.

  When he left for NYU, my heart broke a little bit. We still messaged each other a lot, to talk music or trade complaints about our roommates, only mine was my hippie mother who insisted upon burning incense every waking minute.

  A month into his first semester, he told me he had a girlfriend, and I stopped messaging him. He tried to reach out a few times, but I never replied.

  I didn’t see Joe again until the following summer at a show in Baltimore. I was with my regular group of girlfriends, plus David, the guy who wasn’t my boyfriend but had made it clear he wanted the position. Joe and I didn’t speak that night, just nodded and waved. When I turned on my computer, I wasn’t really surprised to find a message waiting.

  SilverJ: Was that guy your boyfriend?

  TheRachel: Well hello. Why do you ask?

  SilverJ: Oh, so now she replies. Why’d you ghost?

  TheRachel: I’m a bad pen pal, sorry. How’s NYU? How’s your girlfriend?

  SilverJ: I thought we were friends, Rachel. I was pretty sad when you shut down on me like that.

  TheRachel: The idea of making you sad is like a shot to the heart. I’m sorry. I really just got busy with school, and you seemed busy too.

  SilverJ: Forgiven, of course. I can’t be mad at you. NYU is a lot. It’s amazing to be with so many musicians, and I fucking love playing music all day, but my other classes are tough. But the music scene is like nothing else. There’s always a show somewhere.

  TheRachel: I’m glad you found your place. I’m really happy for you, Joe. And the girlfriend?

  SilverJ: The girlfriend is gone. Didn’t last. She didn’t smell like cinnamon.

  SilverJ: That was weird, right? I shouldn’t have said that. Is that guy your bo
yfriend?

  I didn’t reply right away because I was instant messaging my friends, analyzing what “she didn’t smell like cinnamon” meant. The consensus was the ex was a hag and Joe had been crushing on me since last summer. I didn’t know what to do with that possibility.

  TheRachel: He’s not my boyfriend. Just a guy. Why?

  SilverJ: Just wondering. He looked like a dick.

  TheRachel: Oh my god! Goodnight, Joe!

  SilverJ: Will you talk to me if I see you out?

  TheRachel: You know it, pal. Go to sleep!

  SilverJ: Alright, alright! Goodnight, sweet girl.

  One hot July night, Joe messaged me, completely frantic. His older brother had been in a terrible car accident, crushing his leg. We stayed up all night talking, about anything to get his mind off his worries. For the next few weeks, while his brother went in and out of surgeries, we talked. Our talks never strayed outside of instant messages. In person, Joe was the same friendly, but aloof guy, but at night, when we talked for hours? I really thought I knew him down to his soul.

  By the end of the summer, his brother started down a long road to recovery, and I felt closer to Joe than ever. I'd convinced myself he felt the same about me.

  The week before Joe went back to college, we were sitting side by side at our diner counter, sipping coffee. All of our friends had gone home early, so we were finally alone.

  “Today should never end. It was the best day ever,” I told him.

  He put his elbows on the counter, his chin in his hands. “What was so great about today? Besides hanging out with me.”

  “Obviously hanging out with you makes any day great. Today it’s the cherry on top of a great-day sundae. I spent the morning gardening with my mom. And something crazy wonderful happened.”

  “What crazy wonderful thing happened? You’ve got me on the edge of my seat.”

  “A few years ago, I planted sunflower seeds. I made grand plans of cutting them and having a vase of fresh sunflowers in my room.” I trailed a finger across the Formica counter. “For some reason, when I was younger, the idea of having my own flowers in my room sounded so grown up. But nothing happened. They never grew. So, my mom and I planted other flowers in that spot, and they bloomed over the years, but I never brought them inside. In the beginning, I would sometimes glare at those beautiful pink replacement flowers, and think, ‘Fuck you, you’re supposed to be sunflowers!’ But mostly, I stopped thinking about them at all.”

  “This sounds like a tragedy,” Joe said, laughing.

  “You might think that! But today, when I was out weeding, I looked at the pink hydrangeas, and growing there, right in the middle, were my sunflowers. I swear, they weren’t there yesterday, but there they were, tall and proud. I had to stop and do a sunflower dance right then and there!”

  Joe’s eyes had gotten wider as I told the story. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you speak this much in person before.”

  I smiled shyly and brushed a strand of hair off my forehead. “I told you crowds make me nervous. But this—just you and me—this is okay.”

  “You’re going to have to demonstrate this sunflower dance. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it.”

  “You’ve never heard of it because I made it up today. It can only be performed in the presence of sunflowers. Sorry, Chuck, you’re out of luck.” I stuck my tongue out to punctuate my statement.

  Joe shook his head and laughed at me.

  “So, do you have a vase full of sunflowers in your room?” he asked.

  I sighed. “No, they looked so happy there, I couldn’t bear to cut them. I’m going to let them be and enjoy them for as long as they last.”

  He nudged my shoulder, and I nudged him back. He leaned in close, and said, “I’m going to really miss you. Don’t ghost me again, okay?”

  I turned to him, my face close enough to his to see the flecks of gold in his eyes, and promised I would keep in touch. He picked up a strand of my red hair, his eyes bouncing between my eyes and mouth. My eyelids fluttered closed, so sure he was about to kiss me. And he did, square on the forehead.

  “Let’s go, kid,” he said suddenly, pulling me to my feet.

  When I got online that night, Joe wasn’t logged in, but I couldn’t hold my feelings back anymore. I just knew he was as into me as I was him, but I thought he must be worried about ruining our friendship, so I sent him an email laying my heart on the line.

  Dear Joe,

  I like you. Like much more than a friend, like you.

  All our conversations this summer have meant everything to me.

  I wanted to kiss you tonight. I should have. I really regret not being brave.

  But I’m taking a chance and being brave now. I’ve had a crush on you since last summer, and I hope I get the chance to kiss you again, because I won’t blow it next time.

  That is, of course, if you feel the same way. I really hope you do.

  Yours,

  Rachel

  I went to bed feeling good about getting it all out there and excited to see his reaction. In the morning, his reply waited in my inbox.

  Dear Rachel,

  Thank you for all the sweet things in your email. You know I think you’re amazing, and you have eyes and a smile to die for. But I’m not feeling it beyond that, so let’s be friends, okay, sweet girl? I’ll see you over Thanksgiving break.

  Your friend,

  Joe Silver

  Completely embarrassed and heartsick, I did what I’d promised I wouldn’t do: I ghosted. And a few weeks later, when David asked me to be his girlfriend, I couldn’t think of a single reason to say no.

  And when he asked me to be his wife a few years after that, I could think of many reasons to say no, but I said yes anyway.

  Four

  Sleep was hard to come by that night. My body tossed and turned while my mind refused to settle. I lay awake thinking of that wraparound porch, how I would have painted it, maybe redone the steps. I knew it was neurotic to be so obsessed with a house I never could have afforded, but until today, I’d held out hope that somehow the stars would align and it would be mine.

  And then there was Joe. I couldn’t help replaying our last night together, just as I’d done a million times before. What signal had I missed? How had I gotten him so wrong? All night long it was Joe Silver…the stone house…Joe…David…stone house…work...

  When I woke up, I wandered aimlessly around my apartment for a while, half-heartedly dusting my knick-knacks as I went. When I got dressed, I decided to wear something bright and cheerful to work to perk me up and clear the fog out of my tired mind. I chose a sleeveless purple top with mustard skinny jeans, a long, green beaded necklace, and silver flats. With my flaming red hair, I was a walking rainbow.

  I had some time before my first appointment, so I walked down Main Street to my favorite coffee shop. I ordered my usual iced coffee, and carried it along the hilly street, passing shops and cafes on my way back to Salon 410.

  Eliza looked up from the reception desk. “Hey, Rach. Love the outfit!” she said.

  “Oh, this old thing?” I spun around, preening. “Thanks. What’s up?”

  I sat next to her behind the desk to check my appointment schedule on the computer. It looked like it would be a busy day, mostly color and highlights, with a few haircuts in between.

  “We are having a glass of wine after work,” Eliza said in her typical half-whisper, “and you’re telling me what really happened yesterday. Frannie texted me and said something crazy went down, but wouldn’t elaborate.”

  I sighed. “The wine, I’m looking forward to. The rest, not so much.”

  She grinned. “Too bad! You’re going to spill.”

  I laughed. “Of course I am, although hopefully not the wine.”

  The day flew by in a blur of foil and color and cuts. After my last client, I sat in the chair at my station and took off my ballet flats. Unsurprisingly, they were filled with cut hair. I used my blow-dryer to blow the h
air out of the shoes, then from between my toes, and—because I had found hair there many times too—I blasted down my shirt for good measure.

  After locking up the salon, the three of us strolled down the street to the wine bar. We strictly referred to it as “the wine bar,” the actual name long since forgotten. Once we cozied up to the mahogany bar, each of us with a glass of wine, my girls and I rehashed the Joe situation.

  Through tears of laughter, Eliza asked, “Oh my god, so you just said, ‘nice seeing you,’ and ran away?”

  “I didn’t run! It was more like power walking. And I’m telling you, the hug melted my brain.”

  “Did he tell you why he was in Tiber City?” Frannie asked Eliza.

  “He said he was checking out the neighborhood. Just think! If you had gotten to the salon a bit earlier, you could have cut his hair!”

  I covered my face with my hands. “Could you imagine? That would have been beyond awkward.”

  Eliza pulled my hands down. “So, you’re planning on avoiding him for the rest of your life?”

  “I think it’s a good plan. What are the chances I’ll see him again anyway? I don’t think I’m capable of being normal around him! He has no idea that I’ve built up all these feelings around what happened back then. I’m sure I was just a minor blip in his life. It’s funny how that works.”

  “Rachel, there is no way you were a blip,” Eliza said. “Even if he didn’t feel the same way, nobody who gets to know you could forget you.”

  I smiled at her. “That’s really sweet, E, but he definitely did not feel the same way about me. Then I took that unrequited affection and lumped it all on David. We know how that ended.” I sighed. “Anyway, enough of that. How’s Edward?”

  Eliza and Edward had been together forever. I hardly ever saw him because he was too “busy” to drop by the salon, even on weekends, and he “didn’t like crowds,” so he never joined us when we went to bars or concerts.

  “He’s Edward. Not much to say. You know how busy he is during tax season, and he’s incredibly stressed out all the time. I try to stay quiet and tidy and keep out of his way.” Eliza swirled her wine around in her glass, not looking up.