Then the women in the salon, both the employees and the clients, are suddenly chattering agitatedly about the evil men crawling through this city. Everyone has a story to share about a douchebag ex.
I listen while preparing the rest of the tools.
"Hey, Wendy," the receptionist calls, approaching me. "Someone’s here to see you."
I glance at the front of the salon that’s lit up by the afternoon sun streaming through the large windows. A male figure stands there, a dark silhouette against the brightness of California August.
My pulse stutters, then speeds up.
I rest the tools in my hands on the tray and look at my client reading a fashion magazine, then at Renita. "I’m going to step away for a second," I inform them both, pulling off the latex gloves and discarding them in the nearest trashcan. I grab thedigital clock and shove it into the pocket of my apron. "Be back when it’s time to apply color."
Then I walk to the front of the salon. Every step feels substantial, like I’m waking in the direction of my goal.
The reception area is a blur of cheetah print and expensive handbags. Women gathered around the register are swapping gossip, the ritual exchange of desperate housewives with too much money and too much free time. And behind it all, by the door, he stands.
He’s taller than I remember, bigger in my mind than in the room.
But maybe that’s because my imagination has always magnified him in my thoughts. He’s holding a drink carrier with two cups of iced coffee.
"Hey, what are you doing here?" I ask as I draw near.
He smiles. "Just passing through."
"Passing through?" I glance at the stretch of busy salon behind me and then back at Cruz. It’s a little loud here with all the blow dryers running and music crooning in the background. "How did you even find me? Because, you know, this is a new one," I say, not covering my surprise. "Guys don’t usually chase me down here."
He offers me the drinks. "I wasn’t sure what you like, so I got a vanilla latte and a mocha."
"Which one is for you?" I ask, eyeing the drinks. They both look great. And I sure could use some caffeine.
"Whichever one you won’t drink." He smirks. "Unless, of course, you want to try them both."
"That’s a lot of coffee," I supply, then motion at the door. "It’s a little noisy in here. You wanna go outside?"
"Sure."
We exit the salon and sit on the wooden bench by the entrance.
"I didn’t catch you at a bad time, did I?" Cruz asks, placing the coffees between us.
"No worries. I've got a few minutes to spare while my client’s bleach sets in." Then I return my attention to the drinks. "Okay, give me that latte."
He extracts it from the carrier and hands the cup over to me. "Here."
"Thanks." I take a sip and look at him. "So you never told me how you found me?"
Cruz laughs softly. "Ah. My buddy gets his hair done here," he explains. "Mentioned you."
"Me?"
"Well." Cruz clears his throat. "He said he saw 'that shorty with fun hair' last time he came in."
"Shorty with fun hair." I taste the words. "Your buddy sure has a cringe way to describe women."
"Nobody taught him, I suppose."
"And you just decided to show up and check it out for yourself?"
"I’ll be home for a while."
