Split Ends (15 page)

I could tell. I mean, running into the gym for safety— that just screams
“I'm so concerned about you.”

“I did. That was my cousin's fiancée. She thought . . . well, never mind. It was a misunderstanding. We worked it out and had dinner together.”

“Your cousin,” he says slowly, like he doesn't believe me. But soon after his eyes brighten, which seems to signal a renewed interest in our friendship. Albeit a little late. Although he's very good-looking, he's pretty-boy Hollywood good-looking, which does nothing for me. I like them intellectual, and call me odd, but men who are willing to use gel in their hair for that proper bed-head look turn me off. It doesn't help that I have to interact with my ideal every day. Or that said ideal has been called out of the country on business and I haven't seen him in a few days. And you know what they say about absence and the heart. No, none of that helps.

“I live with my cousin. Well, and his short-term roommate, but there's nothing—” I slice my hand through the air. “—nothing going on.”

He laughs. “Who are you trying to convince of that?”

I'm so obvious.
“It's your turn.” He points to the cash register, where a perky young woman is ready to help me. Shoot, I didn't study the menu. Nick distracted me!

“Good morning. What can we make for you today?”

All I can think about is Nick standing behind me, ready and willing to judge me by said order. Just like that poor girl who hired him to run behind her. “I'd like a good starter coffee. Espresso, I mean.” I lower my voice. “Something for people who don't really drink it. Um, let me think . . .” I put a finger to my chin.

“How about one of our Carmel Ice Blended Drinks or an Extreme Ultimate Ice Blended Mocha Drink?”

I make the mistake of turning around and seeing Nick shake his head.

“Way too much fat.”

“But I like fat, and I don't hire people to run behind me.”

“Everyone likes fat until they have to work with me to get rid of it. It's painful. Are those fat calories worth the pain of burning it off? Are they worth visible panty lines?”

“Ew. But no.” I'm a 4. And I feel fat here, so I'm going to give Nick the benefit of the doubt on this one, but only because he's here. I'm not getting into the eating-disorder-of-the-week club.

The sighs from behind me are becoming apparent and it's clear the patience for the espresso-impaired is extremely low before the first morning cup of java. Mental note: experiment with new things apart from rush hour.

“I'll just wait,” I say and pull away from the counter only to see the line is now ten people long. I know I didn't take
that
long.

“You don't drink coffee?” Nick asks me.

I shrug. “Never got started on it. Not the hard stuff anyway. Someone told me to try—oh, there it is! A vanilla latte, please.”

“Sugar-free, non-fat,” Nick corrects. The gal rings it up as though it is not my cash paying for it, and I want sugar and fat.

“Iced or hot?”

Another momentary brain malfunction. “Iced.” I mean, it's not like it's twenty-below here in Southern California. Ever.

She then calls out a string of words that I suppose is my order. The really sad thing is that I could name most any alcoholic beverage without thinking twice about the ingredients. Not that we don't have Starbucks in Wyoming.It's just that they are where the tourists go—not Sable. The locals in Sable all go to Milly's if they want coffee, disdaining corporate coffee and the tourists. If they want to pay three dollars or more for a drink, they go to the Hideaway and made sure they take away a buzz for their troubles.

My drink is ready quickly, as I think I held up the line.

“A tall, black coffee, no room,” Nick says.

“It was good to see you,” I call to him with a wave at the door.

“Wait a minute.” He pulls a few bills out of his wallet and tosses them at the cashier. “Keep the change.” He jogs over to me. “You can't keep me in suspense. I want to be here for the big moment when you get your first taste.” He watches me intently.

I place a straw in the cup. Well, I try. I have trouble finding the hole and lose a good portion of my drink onto the top of the cup. I finally start to take a swig, but Nick pulls the cup out of my hand.

“What are you doing?”

He puts both cups on a nearby table and points down. “You're wearing it.” Taking a napkin, he starts to pat at my thigh, where a drizzle has fallen onto the slacks Scott lent me.

Um, excuse me
. I step away from him and his probing napkin. Then I look down.
Shoot!
I grab the napkin myself and start dabbing. Scott's going to kill me. Luckily, the pants are black. But still . . .
Good grief, I just want to cut hair.

Finally, I give up and sigh. “I have to go back to work. Nice to see you, Nick.”

“I'm still waiting for you to drink that.” He nods toward my icy cup as though I'm about to have an out-of-body experience.

Grabbing the cup, I sip then nod my head, disgusted by the bitter taste. “It's strong.”

“It's straight fake sugar. Stick with the coffee. Want to try the real stuff?” He holds his coffee out toward me. “No calories as long as you don't add cream and sugar.”

“Thanks, but I have to get back to the salon. I just wanted to see what I've been serving . . . I mean missing.”

“No, really, I don't mind.”

I take a swig so he'll go away. “Mmm, yes. Still disgusting.”

“You have shoes on today. Your hygiene looks pretty good. I'd lay real odds you actually took a shower since I've seen you. Are there any more stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame you've become attracted to? You know, people volunteer to keep them clean. Maybe you should volunteer for Cary's.”

“I'll keep that in mind, thanks.” I'm sure Nick is charming in some form. “Good to run into you. I don't think I'll be doing so in the future, since I'm going to stick with Diet Coke.”

“It's an acquired taste,” Nick says. “You'll be hooked in no time.”

“As in acquiring a complete lack of functioning taste buds? I think that stuff must kill them, like sniffing too much weed killer, you know?”

“So I won't see you here tomorrow is what you're saying?”

I shake my head. “I'm thinking not.”

“Then I guess this is my one shot to ask you out. I would have done so when we first met, but the whole living-with-a-guy, psycho-ex-girlfriend thing just seemed like something I didn't want to take on. I may be in shape, but I don't have a death wish either. Today, it's a different story.”

Okay, but to me, the story today is that you ran like a little
girl into your bat cave, and I'm looking for a man who will
cross time for me
. I'm used to guys who have ridden bulls or at least broken a horse or two, so a guy who leaves me on the street with a psycho woman so he won't get his hands dirty . . . ? Not exactly on my list of sexiest men alive.

“So, dinner?” he asks again. “How's Friday night?”

No. Just say no. No need to be nice. You'll never see him
again.

“Sure, that would be great,” I hear myself say.
I am so
lame.

“Great. You want to meet me at the gym around seven? I have a business card today.”

No, I don't want to meet you at the gym. I want you to
come get me, like a proper date.
Does he want me to come take a look at his abs before we go?

“You know, I'd better call you that afternoon, just to make sure things are going well at work. I'm still not sure about my schedule at this point, and I really have no way to get to your gym.”

“So you want me to pick you up?”

“Isn't that generally how it's done?”

“Oh, of course. I just thought it was convenient for you. It's just two miles up the road.”

“How is that convenient, exactly?”

“Right, you've been on your feet all day. My mistake. Usually women sit at desks all day and the walk does them good.”

“Are you going to critique what I eat? Because the coffee-fat-content thing doesn't really do anything for me.” It pains me how much I sound like my mother.

He purses his lips and is silent for a moment. “I will try really hard not to, but do me a favor—don't order the prime rib, all right? Or lobster. Heavens, don't order the shellfish.”

“I'll make it easy on you.”
Are you going to wear more
than a tank top?

“So how's Friday sound? Is that okay for you?”

Frighteningly scary, that's how it sounds. Dane is due
home on Saturday.

“Can we do it a little later just in case I don't get off early?”

“I understand. All those starlets want to look perfect for the weekend.”

“And they'll want coffee while they do it,” I mumble.

“Are you going to give me your phone number? Or do I have to beg.”

“Oh, right.” I'm mortified and finally make the admission. “I don't actually know my phone number yet. I'm working for Yoshi, but I'm not exactly in a position to get phone calls there.” Or exist, quite frankly. “Why don't you give me yours?”

“There's something eerily suspicious about a woman without a phone number.” He pulls a card out from his black Adidas' pants and smiles. The light gleams on his face. What are they doing to the men here to give them that sheen? Are they slathering Brylcreem on their face? Or am I the only one without a blue peel? Is there a significant beauty secret that has been left out of Wyoming editions of
InStyle
.

“If I give this to you—” He draws the business card toward his chest. “—how do I know it will not be lost, eaten by the dog, given to Ashlee Simspon, or sent to Wyoming to incite wild rages of jealously?” He downs the coffee in a giant gulp and crushes the cup in his free hand.

I grab the card and plop it in my purse. “I guess you're going to have to trust me.”

“I'm always up for a challenge.” He winks at me and heads out the door. As he starts to jog up the street, he turns around and gives me one last smile while he jogs backwards. He is the complete opposite of me: cool, comfortable in his own skin—he can run backward, for crying out loud—and I'd lay odds that he went to his high school prom.

I have a date. Go figure.

chapter 10

I am not a has-been. I am a will be.
~ Lauren Bacall

I
toss my nasty-tasting, sugarless drink down one of the rinse sinks at the salon and spray the milk residue down the drain. Just the sound of spraying water makes me wish I got to cut hair. It's Pavlovian.

I now contain enough nervous energy to keep a hummingbird airborne for a month—without the aid of caffeine. I have two business cards in my pocket—Dane's, in case I need a ride home, and now Nick's. I don't even know if two men
had
business cards in Sable. Oh, wait, I know Bob the septic guy did, because it was stuck to our refrigerator.

Of course, one of the cards means more to me than the other. Dane's been in France, so it's not like I could call him for a ride, but I haven't left that business card home once. I've written him several e-mails. I sent him none of them.

While the salon is busy with action for the day, I sneak to the back room and call Kate at the Hideaway. I miss her, and I haven't had a date in years, so it's not like I don't have something to say.

I close the door to the mixing closet and dial the number.

“The Hideaway Hair Salon.”

“Kate?”

“Sarah Claire!” I hear her squeal and then the regulars calling my name in the background.

“Is that my girls?”

“I told them you saw Cary Grant's star. They want a picture. Hang on, I have to put Mrs. Rampas under the dryer.” She drops the phone, and I hear the familiar whirl of the dryer and Kate's footsteps. “I'm back.”

“I have a date.”

“With Dane?”

“No, the trainer I met at Cary Grant's star.”

“The one with bigger boobs than you?”

“Pecs. And yes.”

“Whatever. Is he smart? Seems to me he's not that smart. You have to find a smart one, Sarah Claire. Are there any smart ones out there?”

“Of course there are. Dane said he'd introduce me around when he got back from France. At his church, I mean.”

“You haven't been to church since you got out there?”

“I've been reading the Bible. Quit making me sound like some kind of heathen.”

“You don't have to wait for Dane to go to his church, do you?”

“Do you want to hear about my date?”

“Yes, what's Muscle Boy's name.”

“Nick Harper.”

“Does he have that skin you keep talking about? The skin-peel kind.”

“Yes.”

“Ew.”

“It's still a date,” I remind her.

A date is something I haven't been able to accomplish in the last three years of living in Wyoming, not because there aren't men, but because my singles' group consisted of guys I grew up with. Guys I remembered eating paste in kindergarten and who ran the nude relays in the snow to celebrate a football win. It's hard to be led in prayer by someone who ran the highway with little more than athletic shoes. To go so far as to think of creating children with a paste-eater is mentally impossible.

They've all turned into fine men, incidentally, but it's too late for me. Once you've known a guy to snack on Elmer's or taste someone's lip gloss in class, all romantic notions die forever.

“Well, let me know how it goes,” Kate says flatly. “She's got a date,” I hear her say to the posse. “Pretty boy.”

I hear their groans.

“Dane isn't due back until Saturday,” she tells them.