Once we roll to a stop outside my place, I climb down, still not entirely convinced this actually happened.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say, already turning toward the door. Then I pause.
Bingo card.
Compliment someone without sarcasm.
I look back at him. At the machine. At the man who showed up without questions because she asked.
“…Thanks for not running me over the other day,” I add, because apparently we’re committing to honesty now.
Virgil snorts.
I hesitate again. Then nod toward the Zamboni.
“And… I really like your Zamboni.”
There it is.
My first compliment.
It feels like I just dislocated my heart.
Virgil studies me for a long beat. Then nods once, slow and approving. “Careful,” he says. “You keep that up, people might start thinking you mean it.”
I don’t answer that. Because I think I do. Mean it.
Sleetwood Mac hums back to life, rolling away like it was never there in the first place. I watch it go for a second, then turn toward my house, the weight in my chest shifting into something I don’t have a name for yet.
Chair Of Accountability
Gisele
You can learn a lot about a person by where they sit. Who takes the chair. Who hovers by the door. Who looks for exits before they even know why. Around here, we’ve got a chair that’s seen everything—first dates, last chances, truths people didn’t plan on telling. And today, it’sabout to see a man who doesn’t know he’s already halfway to changing.
Playlist: “Electric Feel” by MGMT
Bennett shows up forty-three minutes early.
I know this because I’m in the middle of restocking the color station when the front door chimes and there he is—six foot two of coiled tension in jeans and a Slammers hoodie, looking around the salon like he’s walked into enemy territory and isn’t sure where the exits are.
This should not make me smile. It does anyway.
“You’re early.”
“I was in the area.”
“You live on the opposite side of town.”
He shoves his hands in his pockets, jaw tight. “Traffic was light.”
The lie is so obvious I almost call him on it. But there’s something endearing about watching Bennett Foster, captain of the Slammers, master of control, show up early because he couldn’t wait.
I set down the box of foil packets I’m holding and give him my full attention. Nervous, early, freshly-showered Bennett Foster standing in my salon.
I gesture to the waiting area. “You can sit while I finish setting up, or—”
“I don’t need to sit.”
