Page 6 of Hero Hair

He finally responds, “I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. I guess I thought trying something new might be a good thing. Break up the monotony, you know?”

“Sex is always a good thing.” I make an inappropriate joke that would get me banned in all fifty states, and Moose merely rolls his eyes. I start one of the showerheads and wait until the water turns lukewarm and grab my bottle of soap.

We thought Moose was gay for a long time. He’s probably the best looking guy on the Teams, behind me, of course. He doesn’t sleep around at all, and I think I’ve only seen him date one blond chick like five years ago. His mother set him up with her, and she looked absolutely terrified at the beach party our command throws yearly.

“Do you sleep around a lot?” I ask. Curiosity wins out in the end. Is he a closeted version of myself?

I glance sideways to glimpse his face. He shakes his head, his eyes closed as soap streams down his face.

“You know I don’t. Carina set me up with her friend. Smith was there, and I couldn’t reasonably say no. She owns a yoga studio. Her head is on straight.”

For the moment I squash the image of fucking a woman with her legs bent behind her head in humping dog position in favor of learning more about my friend. “Carina’s friend? So she is most definitely hot as fuck?” Well, sort of learning something about my friend, mostly worried about my prospect.

He cranks the water off. It halts with a groan. “Of course she’s hot. I just told you that. She isn’t looking for anything serious. Her morals line up with yours. She’s serial.”

“Now I see why you couldn’t say no. Alcohol involved?”

He shakes his head as he wraps his towel around his waist. It barely makes it around. “Teala knew what she wanted before she took one sip. And she didn’t want a second date, or even the possibility of more. Trust me, I asked.”

Teala. I like her name. It’s different. I grew up in Florida, so the Caribbean was always where my family would vacation. The teal blue waters quickly became what I associated with my family and being together. I still head down to an island when I run into time off.

“I asked multiple times actually. It was hard to believe,” Moose says, eyebrows raised.

“Jesus, Mother of Mary. She really is me in woman form. I appreciate you thinking of me, buddy. I’ll call her tonight. What about you, though? Going to swipe right and keep up your awesome streak?”

Moose doesn’t have the app on his phone. He would never. I wonder why he even agreed to the date with another woman when it’s so obvious he’s hung up on someone else.

He laughs. “Not for me. You hold the lion’s share in that market anyways. I wouldn’t want to steal your panty-dropping thunder.”

He closes down—the wall he builds around his personal life slams into place. I accept the closure and prattle on about an upcoming trip and how I’m working on built-in shelves in my living room. He gives me a few tips and tells me about how his cousin’s television slopes to the right because he fucked up his own shelves so thoroughly.

“You’re so supportive of my DIY obsession. Please, only tell me stories if they end with perfection,” I bark, smiling at my friend.

“Just fucking with ya. His shelves came out perfect,” he counters.

Moose and I make plans to meet at the gym tomorrow morning before work, and we go our separate ways.

The sun sets in the distance on my drive home. I pull up to my house and admire everything I’ve accomplished on the outside. The stucco is fresh and the shutters are newly painted. I had to replace every single window in this fucking beast. The bay window in front is in the shape of a half moon. My kitchen is on the other side of it. Every single tiled shingle was installed with my own two hands. I’m in the mindset of if you want something done right, you do it yourself. Even if you have no fucking clue what you’re doing. I learned as I went. Friends taught me. YouTube was there for me, and that’s the end of story.

There would be no way I could afford this house if it wasn’t a fixer-upper. Southern California real estate is something of a unicorn. Everything is overpriced. Even the shanty shack bungalows down by the Mexican border. I got this for a steal. It’s in a great neighborhood and I even have a little bit of land. My neighbors are far enough away that I can’t smell their morning dragon breath. It’s a luxury.

I unlock the door and disarm the security system. It smells like paint, wood, and sawdust. I’m pretty sure I’ll be cleaning up sawdust for the better part of a decade after I’m finished with the renovations.

Tossing my keys on the farm house table I built last week, I head for the fridge. It’s not a kitchen. Not yet, at least. No cabinets or drawers exist, but I do have beer and eggs. I pop the top off a Sam Adams and head for the sliding glass door in the rear of the house. My view overlooks a canyon and the sun is setting over the ocean in the distance. If I had unlimited funds, I would have bought a small condo right on the water so I could surf every morning and all weekend, but something inside me urged me to buy the bigger house and tackle all the projects that came along with it.

Once the burnt orange sun disappears completely, I take the last swig of beer and head inside to the sofa in my living room. Using the remote, I click on the oversized TV sitting on the floor. I can’t help but hear the way the news anchor’s voice echoes through my empty house. I need more furniture. Or another beer.

Beer is probably the answer.

Sometimes the silence I’ve created is too fucking loud.

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