Page 20 of My Girlfriend is Not the Father

Which was nothing at all.

Chapter 8

Jade

Jade probably shouldn’t like the smell of ammonium as much as she did, but she couldn’t help it. As Shayna applied activator on a teen getting a soft spiral perm, Jade withheld from taking a deep sniff as she walked by.

Deep down, even though she didn’t want to admit it, she probably just wanted a distraction. A little singed nose hair to provide a big, fat distraction, because it was Wednesday afternoon, and she had checked her phone no less than twenty times since Sunday to see if Lucy had messaged.

She hadn’t.

But neither had Jade.

It wasn’t like Jade hadn’t thought about picking up the phone and sending Lucy a message. But every time she did, she wondered why Lucy hadn’t contacted her. Maybe Lucy hadn’t felt the zings Jade did as they sat by the water and watched the riverboats. Maybe Lucy hadn’t felt distracted like Jade as she thought about the soft slope of Lucy’s neck, her smooth pale skin, those chestnut waves rolling against her collarbone peeking from her shirt. Maybe Lucy wasn’t damaged like Jade, with the hovering ghost of an ex-wife, reminding her what happened when you let your guard down and opened yourself up.

Of course, Jade had hoped Lucy would reach out. Then again, this was what she should have expected, right? To be met with what she’d always been met with when she opened up a bit, shared a bit, trusted a bit: nothing.

On her way to the front of the shop, Jade tossed the empty perm box for Shayna, who mouthed a silent ‘thank you’ while her client chatted on. She’d been thinking so much about how to broach the whole ‘mentorship’ conversation with Shayna and couldn’t land on a way to not make it seem condescending for a seasoned stylist. So, she did what she did best – complete avoidance of the subject.

At the reception desk, Amanda handed Jade a thick folder.

‘Hey, I printed out the last six months of sales for you,’ Amanda said. ‘You know the trees are weeping right now, right? You can see all this online.’

‘I know, I know.’ Jade sifted through the salon junk drawer for a red pen, welcoming a distraction from thinking about Lucy, even if it came in the shape of her archenemy – numbers. ‘But isn’t it easier sometimes to just read things on paper?’

‘Nope.’ Amanda lifted her water bottle with allegedly written across the front. Jade had bought the bottle for Amanda on a whim last year when she visited a small shop in North Minneapolis, thinking it fit Amanda’s criminology, analytic mindset to a T. ‘I was born in a digital world, woman. I’m not even sure if I know what paper is.’

Jade lifted a brow. ‘Are you saying …’

‘That you’re old? Never.’ Amanda’s sly smile spread. ‘Just ’cause you were born in the late nineteen hundreds doesn’t mean old. It means … seasoned.’

‘Late nineteen hundreds? Such a terrible thing to say. True, but terrible.’ Jade grinned through her scowl and moved to her back office.

With a break in clients, she needed to dive back into figuring out why Shayna had dropped so much in sales. Was it just due to the dreaded re-dos? Was she working fewer hours? Taking longer per client to complete, thus serving fewer clients weekly on average? Once Jade had a solid understanding, she could figure out how to help her.

She fanned the paper across the tiny oak desk. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Numbers had always intimidated her. She was a visual learner – an artist, really. Someone who wanted their clients to feel beautiful and seen. Studying numbers, trends, and earning fluctuations was not her area of expertise. And had Amanda not brought Shayna’s downslide to Jade’s attention a few months ago, Jade may not have even noticed. Other stylists had been steadily increasing their sales, offsetting the loss, so profits had appeared to be stable.

The red pen hovered over the paper, and she circled the areas when Shayna dipped most significantly, and definitely noticed she was seeing a quarter fewer clients every day. Because Shayna always had someone in her chair, Jade didn’t notice that she’d been blocking an hour for a haircut, or three for a basic colour. Hmmm. Okay … Perhaps the day of the week played a role? Or the time of day? Jade was a morning person. By evening, she was useless. But, it had taken her a few years in the business to realise this. Maybe Shayna’s sales dipped on Wednesdays after Taco Tuesday. Or maybe it had nothing to do with days and times, and she had something personal going on besides the break-up a few months ago, which would be a delicate issue to address. As an employer, it wasn’t Jade’s place to pry. But Jade also had to figure out the best way to guide Shayna – and protect her business.

A quick knock against the door jolted Jade upright.

‘Phone’s for you.’ Amanda handed her the receiver and shut the door behind her.

Jade tucked the phone on her shoulder. ‘This is Jade.’

‘Will you please give me five minutes?’

Her heart hammered at the voice. Elizabeth.

Couldn’t she take no for an answer? Every attempted contact felt like Elizabeth was scraping at a barely healed scab in the centre of Jade’s chest. All those years, did Elizabeth feel a fraction for Jade as to what she felt towards Elizabeth? If Elizabeth did, she’d know how hard this was. Every phone call, every sought-out communication, sprung up flickers of memories, flushing Jade with the type of nostalgia that she didn’t want to wade through. Their wedding day, the glorious two-week honeymoon where days passed when they didn’t leave the bed, when they bought their home and took their sweet, sexy time christening each room. The way they laughed, and hugged, and clung to each other. And then … the way their relationship frayed until it snapped, until Jade was a shell of her former self.

Maybe the calls weren’t enough to be considered harassment. But enough was enough. ‘Stop calling me.’

‘Please, this is important.’ The familiar firmness that had helped Elizabeth land multiple promotions at her communications firm echoed through the phone.

Jade breathed through the rising fire in her chest. ‘Is it anything about the sale of the house, taxes, or divorce papers?’

‘Well, no, not exactly … but I really want to talk.’ The firmness softened.