"Sounds good."
I'm overwhelmed. It's been a whirlwind of a day, and I've barely had time to think, let alone process everything that’s happened. But I go along without a word because what else am I supposed to do?
I greet the guys on my crew, mostly guys with checkered pasts like myself—rough dudes with criminal records suited to the work of demolitions. Riley takes us to a dive bar not far from the worksite. The other guys all get beer, but I'm not ready to try booze yet, so I stick to ice water. The cheeseburger is the best thing I've ever eaten. The guys all watch me devour it, likely each of them remembering their first meal on the outside.
After sitting at the table with the crew, sipping ice water and watching them chat and laugh and hurl playful insults at each other for a couple of hours, the gathering breaks up and Riley drives me back to the apartment. He parks outside my building with the engine idling.
"So. First day of work as a free man tomorrow. I'll be here to get you at seven-thirty. Cool?"
“Sounds good,” I answer. “Thanks for everything."
He holds out his fist, and I tap my knuckles against his. "Hey. One thing, Bear. First night alone might be rough. Just, you know, don't do anything dumb, yeah?"
"I'm good. See you in the morning." I give him a chin lift as I close the door and head up to my new place.
Close the door.
Sit on the couch in the peace and quiet for a few minutes.
Now what? It's just past eight in the evening, and I have no clue what to do with myself. No TV, no phone, no books, no friends, nothing to lift with. No cellmate to talk to.
It's dead quiet. Still. Stifling.
Yeah…I’m gonna need something to do in my off-hours so I don't go crazy. The first order of business is gonna be some books, some sort of weight-lifting equipment, and probably somewhere to go or something to do that's not gonna get me in trouble.
I end up laying in bed fully dressed, listening to traffic rush past outside, mind wandering and spinning.
Eventually, I fall asleep, knowing I'll wake up at dawn regardless.
Freedom is trickier than I'd expected.
Two
NOELLE
"…And then he just leaves. Just like that! Can you believe it? He just leaves. Whodoesthat?" Shelly Crawford, the client in my chair, chatters nonstop as I apply the dye to her hair.
I don't exactly tune it out, more just let it wash over me, occasionally offering up an encouraging word or two to keep her going. With Shelly, it's easy enough. Her current diatribe is about her latest online dating fiasco, one in a long series of them. She has terrible taste in men and never seems to learn.
She keeps chittering away as I let the dye set. I'm only half listening, the rest of my mind going back to my attempt at dating, a fiasco of epic proportions. He was a guy I met during a short-lived experiment with going to the gym, an attempt to shrink my backside a little. He was cute, seemed nice, and when we exchanged numbers and texted a little, he didn't even send any dick picks. The actual date, though? Horrific. He talked about himself the whole time, his financial portfolio, his workout splits, his favorite lifts, and his fantasy football picks. No question about me. He didn't even offer to pay for me and then tried to stick his tongue down my throat in the parking lot.
Nope.
That was several months ago, and I haven’t even tried to date anyone since.
Such is my luck. I've been in a funk ever since my divorce from Brennan. I mean, good riddance—he was cheating on me with no fewer than three different women, but still. We were married. I thought I loved him; I thought he loved me. So yeah, Nat and Nik warned me he was skeezy. Nate and Noah told me they saw him making out with a girl at the ice rink over the winter. The flags were there; I just didn’t see them. Didn’t want to? Chose not to? I don't know. It doesn’t make finding out the man you thought you were going to love forever was a philandering scumbag any easier.
I haven't been able to find my balance ever since—and that was over a year ago.
I rinse Shelly out and set about styling her long, voluminous, shiny, now-platinum blonde hair—no sign of the infringing gray strands. She's still yammering on about some reality show she's been watching, and Ium-humandno wayin all the right places—a skill I've long since mastered after twelve years as a cosmetologist. I got my cosmetology degree a few months out of high school, got a job at a salon, and have been cutting and styling hair ever since—now I lease a chair here in Lux Locks Salon in downtown Three Rivers.
The dream, of course, is to have my own salon. I'm close, too. I almost have all the funds I’ll need, and I have the formal business plan, and I've been scouting possible locations for months. The trouble is that Three Rivers real estate isn’t cheap, especially downtown, which is where I want to be. I could easily get a space on Division over on the other side of town, but I’m not willing to compromise on the dream of having a salon right in the action. I just have to keep waiting for the right space to come along, and I know it will.
Someday. I hope.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket just as I’m putting the finishing touches on Shelly's hair. I wrap it up, cash her out, and then head in back to check the message before my next appointment shows up—Kelly, the salon owner, has a strict no phones out on the floor policy.
The message is a text in the thread between my sisters and me, creatively namedTHE GIRLS.
