Pace reached out a hand, and I reluctantly turned the list over. This made it all feel so much more real.
He folded it away into a pocket and patted it gently. “I’ll keep it safe.” I believed him.
It was a good idea, great even, and also it made me want to throw up. I couldn’t think of any reason not to put a time limit on this. If I couldn’t do these things by the Winter Ball, then I was well and truly hopeless. I’m sure Dr. Spinner would agree that a SMART goal (specific, measurable, achievable, relevant, and time-bound) was always best.
“Okay,” I said. I was already exhausted by this day.
He dusted his hands, officially putting all that to bed, and looked around with a giant cheesy grin.
“Where should we start today?” He had that same pent-up energy of his latest bestie labradoodle. I suspected that if I had a spare ball to throw, he’d chase after it without thinking. Actually, I might have a spare ball in Grandma’s giant bag.
My palms prickled as he looked at me expectantly. A flush was spreading up my neck. Justspeak.
“I-I thought maybe a pedicure? Because it’s pretty warm?” And why was I saying everything in a question? I was better than this. “But maybe?—”
“That’s a great idea!” he said excitedly (proverbial tail wagging).
“No. I didn’t really think that one through. I don’t want anybody in this town to see my feet. Let alone touch them. That was a terrible idea.” Feet were so weird. This was so weird.
“I’m sure your feet are fine.” He was already walking backward. “You know, Mr. Ellis, the delivery driver? He goes and gets them every month.” We shared a grimace. “That guy walks all day, every day—rain or shine. You think they are going to be worried about your feet?” he said.
“The people working there see feet every day,” I said in agreement to comfort myself, but even as I did, my fingertips started to tingle, and that jelly feeling in the back of my knees returned. I imagined the pretty, dainty women of the nail salon all whispering about me as I passed them in the road.You should have seen those hooves, like she never even takes care of herself.
“Exactly. You’ll be okay. Plus, they won’t be even looking at your feet when they see mine.”
“Yours?”
“Yeah. I should get one too. It might surprise you that I’ve never had one. And between the running and the life of a fireman ... Wooo-eeee. Those ladies have their work cut out for them.”
Here, my body produced an ambiguous questioning sound. I squeezed my arms tight around my middle and looked around for any excuse to bolt.
“We will just go, and you’ll ask if they have any openings,” he said. His gentle brush against my arms loosened them and brought my attention back to him, grounding me. I let out a slow breath.
“And if they’re booked up, we will try somewhere else. No harm, no foul.”
All harm. All foul.
He noticed my lack of movement.
“What’s the worst that could happen?” He dropped his head to meet my eyes, sincerity just radiating out of him.
It opened the tap in me.
“I guess ...” I dropped my hands to my side. Maybe if he could get a glimpse of my worries, he would see that it’s not so easy. “I won’t know what counter to go to. What if I go in the wrong door and I have to walk all the way across the store in front of everybody, thinking about how ridiculous I am? What if the ladies are all talking about me? I worry I’m going to say the wrong thing. I worry that they’re going to think that I’m an ungrateful white woman.”
“Wait, wh—” Pace tried, but I couldn’t stop now.
“These salons are often run by Vietnamese women. And before you accuse me of making vaguely racist assumptions?—”
“I wasn’t?—”
“I actually looked into this once because I almost worked myself up to going. And I was so afraid I was going to think or say the wrong thing. I wanted to make sure I was correct in assuming the women were Vietnamese. So I researched it and learned that most nail salons in the US are run by Vietnamese women, and there’s actually a rich history behind it that’s pretty interesting. Then I listened to this in-depth podcast about the history of why that is and some of the harsher complications that go along with it. And then I started to worry about privilege and power dynamics, and who did I think I was to let someone wash my feet? That feels intimate, you know? And I never did end up going, but I really want to feel pampered and pretty. And then that makes me feel guilty and a pawn of the patriarchy, because how many men worry about having pretty feet?”
“Well—”
“And then I end up painting my own toenails, but it’s never really the same, and at the end of the day I don’t even rememberthe last time I wore sandals in public, so it’s all for naught anyway.”
My lips sucked in.
