Behind His Eyes

by Claire Kingsley

  "And?"

  "Well, I think he might have been moving in to kiss me, but his brother showed up."

  "Cody?" Melissa asks.

  "Yep. Walked right in and that was it."

  "Oh my god," Melissa says. "You had an almost."

  "An almost?" I ask. "What does that even mean?"

  "You know, that moment when two people who really want to kiss each other almost do, but then they're interrupted," she says, like I should know. She grins at me again. "What would you have done if Cody hadn't shown up?"

  I sigh, looking off through the window behind Melissa. "Let's just say it's probably a good thing Cody came. I must have been losing my mind."

  "You wanted him," she says, leaning over the table.

  "Shut up," I say, and toss a napkin at her.

  "You totally did," she says. "Fuck it, Nicole. You should hit that."

  "Did you really just say 'hit that'?"

  "I did, and I mean it. Let's be honest here," Melissa says. "Ryan is massively hot."

  I cock an eyebrow at her, but my unspoken protest is total bullshit and we both know it. He is massively hot.

  "Stop overthinking it," she says. "You're into him, and I'd bet money he's into you."

  "He probably isn't."

  Melissa rolls her eyes. "Really? Come on, Nicole. You might have been off the market for a long time, but you're not an idiot. Why is he on the festival committee again? I'm betting it isn't because he's passionate about art."

  "He is passionate about art, as a matter of fact," I say. "He's a photographer. But that's beside the point. You're right about me being off the market. Hell, I was never really on the market. I got together with Jason when we were seventeen. He's the only guy I've ever been with. I don't know anything about dating. Not really."

  Melissa taps her chin. "Well, the important thing is to start this on the right foot. How are you looking down below?" She raises an eyebrow and points her finger downward.

  "Down below? Are you serious?"

  "I'm completely serious," she says. "You can't have another almost that turns into oh-my-god-Ryan-take-me-now if you aren't properly groomed."

  I gape at her.

  "You know what, you were right. It is good that Cody showed up and ruined your moment. Now we have time to get you ready."

  "I don't need you to get me ready."

  Melissa raises an eyebrow. "Oh really? Have you even shaved your legs once since you've been here?"

  "Um—"

  She grabs her purse and stands. "Come on. We'll eat later."

  "Where are we going?"

  "Field trip."

  JOSIE'S NAILS sits at the end of a long row of shops. A gaudy neon sign in the window proclaims Manicures! Pedicures! Waxing! and poster of a woman with slick red nails is taped to the door.

  I stop outside. "Wait."

  "What's the problem?" Melissa asks, her hand on the door handle.

  "I don't think I want to do this."

  "No way. You're not changing your mind now." Melissa grabs my hand and pulls me toward the door.

  "I never actually agreed to anything," I say. "You didn't give me a chance.”

  "Stop being a baby," she says.

  "I'm not being a baby. Couldn't we at least drive a few towns away to do this? I don't think I want Josie seeing my lady parts. I know her. She knows my mom."

  Melissa laughs. "She's really good. Promise."

  "She might be the best waxer in the state, but she'll ask questions," I say. "What am I supposed to tell her if she asks why I'm doing this? Nothing is actually happening with Ryan. I don't want Josie talking, and word spreading that we're sleeping together or something."

  "Believe it or not, Josie is very discreet," Melissa says. "Trust me."

  I bite my lower lip, but stop protesting and follow her inside.

  "Hey, Josie," Melissa says.

  "Hey, sweetie." Josie has bleached-blond hair that she wears with her bangs teased up like it’s 1982. Blue eyeliner, light denim jeans, and a slouchy pink shirt complete her endearing, if dated, look. "Having a ladies’ day out? How about mani-pedis for the both of you?"

  "Actually, Nicole here is in need of some grooming of the delicate variety," Melissa says, tossing a wink in my direction.

  "Ah," Josie says, with a knowing arch of her eyebrow. "This way."

  Josie leads me to a back room with an upholstered table. The walls are painted pale blue and a little fountain trickles in the corner. It’s probably meant to be soothing, but it makes me suddenly terrified I'll have to pee in the middle of this insanity.

  "Um, I've never done this before," I say.

  "A virgin, huh," Josie says. Her bright pink nails click as she busies herself with something on a side counter. "Don't worry. I've done this a million times. It's not nearly as bad as you'd think."

  I stand near the door, feeling awkward, half wishing Melissa came in with me, and half glad she didn’t. What am I supposed to do? Get naked? Take off all my clothes, or just my pants? I showered earlier, but maybe I should have gone home and showered again, so I'd be fresh.

  Josie turns, an empty shot glass in her hand. "Whiskey or tequila?"

  "You give your clients shots before you wax them?" I ask.

  "It will help you relax," Josie says.

  This is such a bad idea. "Whiskey."

  The bottle clinks as Josie pours. "Good choice. Most girls your age seem to think the definition of a shot is tequila. That's why I started keeping it around. But a good whiskey..." She pauses, handing me the glass. "Doesn't even have to be expensive. This one's nice and smooth. Goes down easy."

  I tilt my head back and swallow. She’s right, it is smooth. It burns down my throat, but in seconds I feel the warmth spreading.

  "Okay, Josie," I say, mustering what little courage I can, "let's do this."

  "All right, I need you up on the table, Winnie-the-Pooh style."

  Winnie-the? "What?"

  "No bottoms," she says. "You can keep your top on."

  My face warms. "Oh, right."

  I hesitate, waiting for Josie to leave so I can undress. She keeps her back to me, but makes no move to go. Feeling enormously awkward, I undress. I fold my jeans and tuck my panties inside, out of sight. That makes me feel like a bigger idiot. Josie is about to get real acquainted with my lady parts—she isn’t going to flinch at seeing a scrap of pink cotton.

  I lay down, feeling more exposed than I do at the gynecologist. At least then they give you that big blue paper to cover up with. I tug on my shirt, hoping to decrease the amount of skin showing. My face is on fire. Should I have trimmed first? This is ridiculous.

  "Okay, sweetie," Josie says, her tone suddenly soft and soothing, "you just look up at the ceiling and don't worry a bit about what I'm doing."

  Don't worry? She has to be fucking kidding. Josie takes one leg and bends it, then tips it outward, putting my legs into a sort of flamingo pose. I swear there’s a breeze. I dig my teeth into my lower lip and squeeze my eyes shut while she spreads the warm wax.

  "Do you want to leave a little in the front?" she asks. "How does he like it?"

  "Oh, no, there's no he," I say. "I'm just ... I don't know what I'm doing."

  "Hmm," Josie says, still working. "How do you want it, then? Landing strip, triangle, or totally smooth?"

  I figure if I leave some in front, there will be less wax. "Triangle."

  Josie's hands press against me. I’m too terrified to look.

  "And, go."

  For half a second, I almost think it doesn’t hurt. Then the pain hits me. Despite myself, I shriek and clap my hands over my mouth. It feels like she tore the skin right off.

  My scream doesn’t faze Josie. She pushes my legs apart, despite my attempts to clamp my knees together, and applies more wax.

  Oh fuck, she’s going to do it again.

  "And, go."

  My hands still cover my mouth and I keep from squealing, but only just. The skin burns like hell. I am go
ing to kill Melissa.

  "You're doing great," Josie says.

  "You're full of shit."

  Josie laughs and moves my knee higher.

  Ten minutes later, I have tears leaking out of my eyes, but Josie kept going, and I didn’t die. I start to feel a little proud of myself. I’m going to make it.

  "Okay, sweetie, now I need to do your labia," Josie says. "That area is pretty sensitive, but I'll do my best to be gentle."

  I whimper as I feel Josie's fingers touch me along the soft folds of skin between my legs. This is absolutely insane. This is—

  "Fuck!"

  "There you go," Josie says. "Let it out."

  She pulls again and I let the f-bombs fly. This has to end soon. I think about telling her to stop, but I know I'll never let her start again. Then what will I do? A half-waxed pussy is probably worse than what I had before.

  Josie goes back to the counter, leaving me with my legs splayed wide, my lady garden throbbing. I want to reach down and grab myself, but I’m afraid to touch it. I take a few deep breaths. Did I really do it? I did. I survived my first waxing.

  "Time to turn over," Josie says.

  "What?"

  "We can't leave the back end fuzzy," Josie says, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world.

  Torn between hysterical laughter and sobbing like a baby, I turn over.

  "Spread your cheeks, please."

  Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me.

  I do as she asks, pulling apart my ass cheeks. Josie pokes, presses, and pulls. I squeeze my eyes shut and smoosh my forehead into the table to keep from crying out again.

  After what feels like an eternity, but is probably five more minutes, she’s finished. She turns me over and slathers on something she says will help prevent ingrown hairs and speed healing. I stare at the ceiling, afraid to move.

  Josie pats my arm. "You did great, sweetie. You can stay there for a few minutes. Get up when you're ready."

  I mumble something as she leaves. Scrunching my nose and squeezing my eyes almost shut, I lift my head so I can see. She left a perfect triangle of dark blond hair and the skin on either side doesn't look too bad. It’s red and maybe a little swollen—but as bad as it hurt, I expected worse.

  Worse is between my legs.

  I open my knees just a bit and gape in horror. My labia are huge. Thick and red, they look like I've been in a fight, using my vagina as my primary weapon.

  Melissa is so dead.

  I get up and dress, slipping my panties on gingerly. Slacks were the wrong thing to wear to my first waxing. They press against my newly shorn skin, reminding me how tender I am.

  "There, isn't that better?" Melissa asks when I emerge from the back room. She gets up from the dryer chair she's been sitting in. "You okay?"

  I glare at her.

  "You'll thank me later," she says.

  I pay the bill, finding it bizarre to tip a woman who just turned my hoo-ha into a throbbing mass of pain. With a glance over my shoulder to make sure Melissa isn’t looking, I scrawl a quick note on the bottom of the receipt.

  Next time Melissa Simon comes in – torture her.

  10

  NICOLE

  P apers are scattered over the countertop. I groan, realizing my mug left a brown coffee ring on a manila file folder. Cheryl Johnson's organization system can only be described as nonexistent. She kept receipts from Old Town Cafe, but neglected to save copies of the festival permits or the sponsorship forms. I let out a heavy sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose.

  My phone dings and I check my messages again. Another email from work. I made the commitment to help with the festival, but if people in my office don’t start pulling their own weight, there’s no way I can stay. Sandra is panicking over details again—details her own assistant is supposed to be handling. I fire off a terse email to her assistant, and cc Sandra. Maybe it’s bad form to make it look like I’m throwing the assistant under the bus, but I feel like I’m ready to snap.

  Bing. My phone again. I eye it with suspicion. Are they pissed at me now?

  It’s a text from Ryan. What are you up to?

  My heart jumps and I chew on my lip before responding. Going through Cheryl's paperwork. Nightmare.

  Sounds terrifying.

  I laugh. Scarier than a horror movie.

  There’s a long pause. I hold my phone in my hands, staring at the screen, waiting for a reply. The screen goes dark and I put the phone down, way too disappointed. This is silly.

  It bings again and I snatch it up, almost giddy with anticipation. What is he going to say next?

  Another email. My shoulders slump.

  There is definitely something wrong with me. I should be grieving. The end of a decade-long relationship ought to call for a period of mourning. I’m still hurt by what Jason did, but every time I think about Ryan, it hurts a little less. However, that’s no excuse for acting like a twitterpated schoolgirl. What am I doing, bursting with anticipation over a stupid text message?

  Bing. I force my hand to slow down and pick up my phone without so much enthusiasm.

  Sorry. Cody being a dumbass. Typical. Are you hungry?

  A smile breaks out over my face. So much for tempering my excitement. Yeah, starving.

  Can I pick you up in 20?

  Sounds great.

  I blow out a breath and gather up the paperwork into a neat stack. Twenty minutes. A sudden rush of nervousness hits me and my stomach turns over. I think about the way he looked, standing so close to me near the windows in his studio. I can’t get the what if out of my head.

  It's okay Nicole. You've got this.

  NINETEEN MINUTES LATER—NOT that I’m counting—Ryan pulls up. My dad’s home, tinkering in the shop out back, so I slip out the front door. I don’t really want to answer awkward questions from my parents about where I’m going. It feels surreal, like I’m a kid sneaking out to meet a guy they don’t like. Not that I ever dated someone they didn’t like. I really only dated Jason, and everyone loved him.

  The sight of Ryan stepping out of his car pushes all thoughts of Jason from my mind. He’s dressed in a blue t-shirt and dark jeans. His hair looks wind-blown, like it always does, and his jaw is covered in just the right amount of stubble. What would that stubble feel like on my cheek? On my—

  "Hey," he says. He walks around the other side of the car to open the door for me.

  "Thanks."

  He shuts the door and gets in the driver's side. "I figured you were working. Thought you might be hungry."

  "I really am," I say. "Come to think of it, I don't know if I've eaten since breakfast."

  "You do that a lot, don't you?" he asks as he pulls out of the driveway.

  "Do what?"

  "Get so busy you don't take care of yourself," he says.

  I give him a sidelong glance. "Maybe. So, what, we've worked together on this thing for a few days, and now you know all about me?"

  He laughs. "Oh no. I'm not going there."

  "Going where?" I ask. "You seem to have me all figured out. You knew I'd be hungry."

  "Lucky guess. It's seven o'clock."

  Suddenly I wonder why he invited me to dinner. Is this a date? Are we supposed to be working? I tuck my hair behind my ear and try to sneak a glance at him. He seems relaxed, but that could mean anything.

  "Is pizza okay?" he asks.

  "Roma's?" I ask. Roma's was one of the go-to Friday night hang outs when I was in high school. "Sure, I haven't been there in years."

  "Neither have I," he says. "I thought it might be kinda fun to go."

  We pull up to the red building and get out. It’s a mild night—the wind from the past few days has blown itself out, and the sky is soft and turning purple.

  Ryan holds the door for me, and it’s like walking into the past. Everything is exactly the same. Low walls with rough wood paneling separate each booth, and patrons sit on red vinyl benches. The scents of garlic, oregano, and cheap beer mingle in the air
. An alcove on one side has a line of ancient arcade games, their screens still blinking and colorful. The menu has all of five choices, the same as it always has. We order at the counter and take a plastic number sign to a booth near the back.

  The walls are covered with years of graffiti—encouraged by the owners. Kids doodle, people sign their names, and the locals make a point of covering anything that looks like it’s been written by tourists. In a town whose primary industry is tourism, we get a little possessive of our turf. Roma's is ours.

  "Sometimes I feel like nothing here ever changes," I say. "If you told me we had to go to class in the morning, I might actually believe you."

  Ryan grins. "Except if we had class in the morning, I don't think you'd be here with me."

  "Well, it's not like you ever asked me," I say.

  "And risk the wrath of Jason and his buddies? No thanks."

  "He wasn't that bad," I say.

  Ryan raises his eyebrows.

  "Okay, he probably was," I say.

  "I'm sorry," Ryan says. "I probably shouldn't bring him up."

  "No, it's actually okay," I say.

  "I'll be honest," Ryan says. "I'd like to throat punch that guy right about now."

  I laugh. Man, it feels good to laugh. "I'd pay good money to see that."

  A waitress brings our dinner. Roma's pizza is simple, and greasy, but holy shit is it delicious. Huge slices of pepperoni cover the thick cheese. It’s positively sinful. We chat about the festival a little, but it isn’t long before we’re on to other things: movies we've seen and want to see, places we've been, where we'd love to go if we had the chance. For me, it’s Europe. For Ryan, the Caribbean. Watching him smile, I think I might trade in backpacking through Europe for a white, sandy beach with a shirtless Ryan. We joke and laugh, poking fun at each other. I can’t remember the last time I was so relaxed. So free.

  I giggle as a string of cheese sticks to my chin. Ryan reaches across the table and runs a finger down my jaw to wipe it off. He sits back with this pensive look on his face, that insanely cute little furrow between his eyes.

  "What?" I ask.

  "Nothing," he says. "I just, kind of wondered if I should do this or not. But I'm glad I did."