“Of course.”
Who would I tell anyway? Does she imagine I have friends at the university that I hang out with? That I might tell this story to someone else, and what? Criticize her for wanting to help people who would dare to own a cell phone and want to eat?
In retrospect, my comment about the cell phone was stupid. Because of course a young mother with a daughter at home would need a cell phone. Would need to be reachable.
I felt like a dumbass for not getting that sooner.
She glances at the cell phone in her hand. “Look, if you really need me to, I can try to get you a hair appointment tonight, but we might as well just wait until tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I say stupidly. Because I’m suddenly feeling very fucking stupid. And it’s not something I’m used to.
But she must misunderstand my tone, because she tips her head to the side and says softly, “It probably won’t be as bad as you think.”
“What?”
“Shaving off your beard. It won’t be that bad. I promise.”
I don’t tell her that just now I hadn’t been thinking about the damn haircut that’s been looming over me like a sword. That I hadn’t even been thinking about my soil samples.
When I don’t say anything, she just keeps looking at me, her gaze moving over the scarred side of my face, tracing the mangled tissue from its origin by my temple across my cheek to where it disappears into the growth of my beard.
Even in the relatively low light of the parking lot, I can’t help but think she sees more of me than most people do.
“Can I ask you a question?” she asks.
I nod instead of pointing out she just had asked a question. I’ve learned from experience that those kinds of observations annoy people.
“When was the last time you looked at your face without your beard?”
It doesn’t take a genius to see where she’s going with this. “I know what my scar looks like.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. I’ve had this scar since I was twelve.” I jerk my hand up to indicate my cheek. “I know what it looks like.”
“That isn’t what I asked.” She does that head-tip thing again. “I didn’t ask what it looks like. I asked when the last time you looked at it was.”
I open my mouth but then snap it shut again. “I don't see what that has to do with anything.”
“When I was in high school, I desperately wanted to be a cheerleader.”
The abrupt change of topic surprises me into silence.
“I know.” She laughs. “Shocking, right?”
“Actually,” I say. “It’s not particularly surprising given—”
“I was being sarcastic. Because yeah, I think on some level, all fourteen-year-old girls want to be cheerleaders. But that’s not the point of the story. The point is, I was the smallest person on the team. Which meant I was supposed to be the top of the pyramid. But I was afraid of heights. Terrified, actually. To make matters worse, the first time we tried it, I got dropped. There was no lasting damage, but it hurt. A lot. I bruised my tailbone and it hurt to sit for weeks. Needless to say, I did not want to try again. But if I wanted to stay on the squad, I had to.”
“I understand the analogy you’re trying to make. You’re going to say that you built this up in your mind to be something terrifying. But that when you actually did it, it was not as scary as you thought it would be.”
“Actually, no.” She lets out a rueful laugh. “The truth is I was a coward. I never tried again. The cheerleading coach booted me off the squad.”
“That was extremely irresponsible of her. She should’ve been fired for that.”
“That’s not my point. My point is, I let my fear dictate my life. I gave up something I really wanted because I was afraid. I don’t want you to do that. All my life, I've wondered if being at the top of the pyramid was really as scary as I thought it was.”
She steps just a little closer and puts her hand on my arm. Even through the multiple layers of fabric, I feel the heat and the weight of her touch.
