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I sit my coffee down and read the email a few times again. The address isn't helpful in identifying who sent it and he left no contact information for me to do any research. I search the email address online and nothing comes up. It must be a brand new one. Without more information, I can't even consider something like this. And honestly sexual scenes for a movie wouldn’t be my forte. My books have sex, but it's not anything truly epic.
I close the email and choose to ignore it. It's not unusual that I get strange requests, although this one had me curious for a few minutes. Working through a few more messages, I get irritated at the same questions seemingly on replay lately. “I’d love to meet you and get my books signed. Will you be signing anytime soon?”
Do they not understand I’m purposely in hiding and want nothing to do with the public factor of being an author? I regret the day I ever let my face be seen. It’s the very day my life changed too fast for me to comprehend. It was then that I received the PM’s about Brock and his other woman. I guess it only took one picture of us together and his fling wanted to ruin my life. I guess I should send her thank you flowers.
It wasn’t until later that I realized how long it had been going on and how horrible he was being. He honestly disgusts me and has made me lose any hope of writing romance at all for now. Maybe I could write about a woman cutting her cheating asshole’s dick off, but romance… that’s not happening.
I open my latest work in progress and try to get in a few words before I allow myself to fall into the Netflix binge I feel coming. Hell, it’s my normal routine lately, so it’s no surprise that I find myself simply staring at my computer while the words escape me.
Before I have the chance to get situated against my pillows, my email dings again.
Ms. Richards,
I truly hope you’ll consider my offer. Maybe we should chat about the details over the phone. It’s too much to disclose formally. I’ll be expecting your call.
Sincerely,
D~
He leaves his phone number this time, only to leave me disappointed and just as lost when I search for it online. Nothing shows up. Nothing.
He signs with a simple D~. Who does that? Is he too good to leave me his full name? And I’ll be expecting your call… a bit presumptuous of him and doing nothing but sending me huge red flags to avoid him.
“Yeah… that does it.” I adjust my pillows and lay back to fall into my vegetative state of watching movies. I can’t people today and it’s obvious before I’m even finished with my single cup of coffee.
My phone vibrates the bed next to me and even though I already know it’s my sister, I check the message.
Carli: Seven Cami. I made an appointment for you to get your hair done this morning at ten.
Me: Cancel it.
Carli: No. It’s my treat for you. It’ll help you feel better.
Me: I’m good. I’ll fix my own hair for your fucking party. Don’t worry… I won’t embarrass you. I type it all, but don’t send it. She’s the only person I have left in my life that I haven’t pushed away, not from lack of trying. If I send that message, she’ll be over here in twenty minutes to make a point. She’s as determined as I am about things, even though we have different focuses.
Me: Send me the address.
And with that, I shut down all technology, with the exception of the T.V. and let the next few hours go by without any distractions. The quiet in the room matches the numbness in my mind and it feels nice to not think or feel anything.
A glance at my phone sends me into a panic as I realize I have fifteen minutes to get to my hair appointment. Rushing around to pull on some yoga pants and a t-shirt, I step into my shoes as I grab my keys and head out the door. It’s not often that I leave the house lately, so when the sunlight hits me, it catches my attention. Almost making me feel as though I’ve been deep in a cave without any light for months.
The lady doesn’t even ask me what I want with my hair, she tells me my sister already told her what to give me. Foil and paint brushes later, I’m sitting under a heated hood waiting for this shit to process. I haven’t looked up from the magazine since I sat down, even though I’m not really looking at anything in particular.
Commotion catches my attention as a group of women come in, all obviously here to spend time with each other and do that girly shit that I don’t miss in the slightest. They all look like Barbie and it makes me sick to watch them shift in the mirror as the pucker their lips for selfie after selfie. This would be why I don’t go out in public; I can’t tolerate vanity in its ugliest form.
My irritation must be apparent, because one of them turns to glare at me, making sure I look away before she starts making comments to her friends. “She’s just jealous.”
“Ha. Not hardly.” Before I can stop myself, I’ve responded. The timer goes off just then and I hear heels clicking beside me, interrupting me so I can’t continue to let these bitches know just how little I covet what they have.
“Thank you Cami. I’m so happy you didn’t miss the appointment.” My sister follows me back to the chair and I don’t miss the reflection in the mirror of my current bagged head and the tacky cape that makes me look like I weigh twice as much as I do. Jesus, I look like hell.
“I told you I’d get here. Did you come to check on me; make sure I didn’t bail?” I flop down in the chair and prepare myself for a rinse.
“No, my appointment is right after yours, thought I’d come in a little early and help you pass the time.”
“Thought you had to work today.”
“My boss took one look at me and told me to get the hell out of there. He knew today was the party and that I was coming here to let Chloe fix all of my flaws.” The cosmetologist smiles at me; guess her name is Chloe. Wish she could fix all my flaws. “You’re gonna love the color I had her do for you.”
