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“You want to get paid in sandwichesandoverpriced drinks?”
“Absolutely. I’m good. You should let me.”
I touch my stub of a ponytail. We just started talking about going out in public, but cutting my hair seems like a huge step.
“I’m not talking about a bowl cut. I could just trim it and even it out. Or we can take all of it off, so you don’t evenneeda ponytail. You would look even more handsome, I think.”
“You think I’m handsome?” Our eyes lock, but she looks away first.
Shiloh gives a sharp head bob. “Absolutely. Imagine what the single ladies will do when you have a fresh cut, courtesy of me.”
Single ladies. Getting back out there. Grumbling under my breath, I look at this ball of energy in front of me. To be honest, the only person I would want to be remotely interested in is her.
It can’t happen, though. I’m bound to destroy her heart.
“Well, think about the haircut. I’m glad you’re going to walk with me. The owners live a little off Main. I’ll text you the address.”
“I’ll drive you,” I offer.
“Thank you. It’s a date.” Her eyes close slowly. “It’s a friend date. Not a date date.”
I laugh at her insistence. She wants me to be aware that we are never going to date. It makes my life easier. If she gave me a glimmer of interest, a nugget of intrigue, I might kiss her and see what happens. And what will happen is a shit show.
Shiloh deserves so much more than that.
16
Shiloh
“Ithink I’m ready for you to cut my hair,” Jackson says, as a French bulldog sniffs a patch of daisies, his little snorts so darn cute. Jacques, the French bulldog, is a regular client and likes Jackson more than me, even though I’ve bribed him with treats and belly scratches.
Jacques and his owners, Glinda and Richard Holmstrom, live in a blue Victorian off Main, surrounded by a white picket fence and vibrant hydrangeas. Jackson meets me outside the fence when I walk the dog every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I suit up Jacques, and Jackson waits with his hands in his pockets.
It’s been a month of dog walks together, and he hasn’t missed one walk with Jacques. He even goes with me to the shelter to walk Bubba, who mostly sniffs the weeds growing between the cement cracks around the shelter.
Sometimes we walk and say nothing. Sometimes, we talk about the brewery or his siblings or the dogs in the neighborhood. He lets me talk about the dogs I’m obsessed with at the local animal shelter or the latest episode ofThis is Us.He teases me for being an old lady stuck in a youngster’s body, and I call him a curmudgeon.
One walk I prattled on, and I asked him if my monologue was bugging him.
“No,” he had said. “I like hearing you talk.”
To me, that’s more romantic than ten thousand roses.
Our walks make me feel close to him, and I look forward to seeing him on the other side of the fence, every time.
This week, I’ve been better about shooing away the urges to grab his face, see if there is a spark between us. When I feel like this, I usually make an awkward joke about being friends, how I don’t want to date him, how broken I am from Mark.
I’m such a liar. If he expressed a hint of interest, my clothes would fall off.
We are quite the sight when we walk Jacques. I’m five-one barefoot, and with my uniform of overalls and braids, I look like I’m seconds from being trafficked. Jackson is more than a foot taller than me. The irony since I asked him to join me so I wouldn’t be kidnapped.
We haven’t talked about Amy again.
He doesn’t mention her in passing conversation, or reference what their time together was like. He just lets me talk and sometimes adds words to our conversation, and we enjoy each other’s company. That’s good enough for now.
Now, he’s ready for me to cut his hair. I could bounce, I’m so giddy. While I think he’s handsome with the ponytail, I don’t know how I’ll react to him with shorter hair. I’ve imagined it, though.
I’ll have to contain myself.
