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I squeeze my eyes shut. This is the absolutelastthing I want to talk about.
“That looks like a yes,” Island mutters.
Pulling out my phone, I pretend to scroll through social media just so Island will get the hint.
But she doesn’t.
“How’s Adam holding up?”
I clamp my mouth shut.
“Well, how are you holding up then? Seven years is a long time. Somemarriagesdon’t last that long.”
I sigh heavily.She won’t stop if I don’t answer. “I’m fine.”
“Is that why you suddenly want to braid your hair? Because you’re fine?”
My lips tighten. Before I can tell her to leave me alone, the bells above the door jangle.
A woman with pale skin, dark hair and a sturdy build roughly drags a little girl inside the salon. The child catches my eye. She’s small, not more than six years old. Her skin is cocoa-brown and her eyes are teary.
“Fine. Don’t tell me,” Island is saying, pushing up my chair by the foot handle. “I’ll just come to my own conclusions.”
My eyes follow the woman and the child as they march across the salon. Where have I seen this kid before? Something about her looks familiar, but for the life of me I can’t place it.
“I have an appointment under ‘Gardener’,” the woman says brusquely. She has a slight accent on the end of her words. It sounds Eastern European. Russian, maybe?
“Right this way.” One of the stylists points to a chair.
Island ties up half of my hair and starts working on the other half. “By the way, I saw Adam’s name trending last night. He won something. It was Inventor of the Year, I think? I clicked on the link, but I didn’t see a single picture of him in the articles.”
“Hm.” My eyes are still locked on the little girl. Her skin is as smooth as dark marble and her features are cute and dainty. She’d look like a little model if not for that strange hairstyle. It looks like her mom didn’t use any water when she tried to brush her hair.
The little girl glances up. A stronger sense of familiarity washes over me. I’m great with faces and it bothers me that I can’t figure out where I’ve seen her.
“That man isfoine,” Island is saying in the background. “I don’t give a crap about technology, but I’d buy a copy of that boring engineering magazine just to look at his face.” Island smirks at me in the mirror. “Tell Adam to stop running from the camera. He should embrace his genetic gift and offer himself as eye candy. Tell him it’s for the good of mankind. Orwomankind.”
“I’ll pass that along,” I mumble.
Island arches an eyebrow when she sees my distractedness. Glancing around, she mumbles, “What are you looking at?”
I say nothing.
The stylist across the room smiles kindly at the little girl. “Get in the chair, sweetie.”
It’s a high jump for the tiny toddler. She struggles to balance on the bottom rung in order to climb on. After a few failed attempts, the woman grabs the kid and sets her roughly into the chair.
I gasp.
Island stiffens.
The stylist looks mildly uncomfortable.
It’s not as if the mother threw the kid like a baseball or held her to the point of leaving bruises, but it’s obvious that she’s handling the child out of frustration rather than patience.
Maybe it rubs me the wrong way because the mother and child are two different races. Or maybe I’m thinking too much. Either way, I can’t take my eyes off them and now, neither can Island.
The little girl, oblivious to her audience of two, sits straight up in the chair. I notice that despite her questionable hairstyle, she’s dripping in designer brands. Everything, from her shoes to her dress to her little necklace are recognizable as miniature versions of huge fashion lines.
