Page 55 of Counting On You

She’s not ready for it yet.

I get up to inspect myself in the mirror.

The more I look, the more I decide that I like it.

I run my hand through my hair and then turn to catch her expression as I ask, “What doyouthink?”

“I think you look sexy.”

“You do?”

Her eyes linger on my mouth. I know what she’s thinking. Under different circumstances, I’d just go for it. But instead, I fight the urge to kiss her and let the moment pass.

“Yeah, I do.” Her cheeks flush a little and she looks away.

She’s attracted to me. In spite of whatever she’s trying to make herself believe, her body gives her away.

The thought brings a smile to my face. “Have you ever thought about opening a salon?”

“Why would I?”

I shrug my shoulders. “You’re not half bad at this. Besides, you’ll already have a returning customer.”

“I don’t think I could.”

“Why not? I tip well. You could probably earn a living from my tips alone.”

She shakes her head, but her eyes glaze over, as though the thought has already occurred to her but she’d decided not to pursue it further. “For starters, I love my job.”

“The one at the nursing home?”

“That one.” She catches my glance. “It’s hard, but I like working with old people. I know what most people say about old folks, but…” There’s a challenging glint in her eyes. Defiance, like the people in her life have often questioned her choice of work and she’s determined to show them. I grimace, and she laughs. “Oh, my God, you, too? Please don’t tell me you hate the elderly.”

“Sorry,” I say and grimace again. “It’s not hate, per se. But I can’t help it. I find old people unbearable. I work in marketing, but when I was younger, at the beginning of my career, I interned in a call center for insurance stuff, and I hated it. You can’t reason with them. Can’t come to an agreement. We had this policy that expected us to keep every conversation under three minutes. Have you ever tried that? It’s impossible. Just because they’ve lived through more stuff than we have, they think we ought to listen to their stories I don’t give a fuck about.”

“Well, I have a different opinion on that.” She brushes a strand of hair back and her jaw sets stubbornly. “Sure, their stories are longwinded and often suit no purpose, and yes, they can be unreasonable, but I like them. I think there’s something to learn from each and every one of them.”

I frown. “Why?”

“What do you mean by why?” She mirrors my frown, and I sense our first disagreement—one of many. “They’re dealing with the aftermath of losing friends and family. Every day, they struggle with being alone because their grown-up kids and grandkids can’t be bothered to visit them. Now, this doesn’t apply to everyone, but most of them are forgotten, which is a pity. We have so much to learn from their experiences.”

“Like what?” I ask, unimpressed.

“Like to treasure life and learn from past mistakes. You wouldn’t believe the stories they could tell you if you only cared to listen. I’ve learned that challenges make couples stronger and that love doesn’t need to be searched for. That you can’t force it. That love at first sight exists. I’ve heard so many love stories that I know I want it for myself. I want to get married, grow old together.”

Staring at her, I wait for repulsion to wash over me, but nothing happens.

“You have your boyfriend,” I point out.

“Yeah. I have Bruce.” She turns her head away, and in that instant I know something’s going on between them, and it’s not pretty. Her posture’s rigid and there’s a strained expression on her face.

She looks upset—I can see it in her eyes.

“Did I say something wrong?” I ask carefully.

She shakes her head. “I’m going to get dressed.” With that, she storms out.

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