Page 69 of Hero Hair

Turning to glance behind me, I see Moose. He’s wringing his hands between his thighs while working his jaw left and right. He’s been on edge since we’ve left. Sitting next to him is Smith. And he’s a ball of sunshine and rage since he broke up with his girlfriend. No one thinks the separation will last just because of how miserable he is. Tahoe breaks the moment by cursing loudly when he loses a level on his game. I text my mom to let her know I’m safe and home and I have no idea when I’ll be able to visit and, no, she can’t come visit me, and when the standard conversation is finished, we’re landing at the compound at work.

Groups of people scurry as we arrive and others rush toward our aircrafts to help unload. When my boots hit the familiar pavement, I sigh. It’s relief tinged with grief and I think that’s how it will always be. Ignoring the buzz of everything going on around me, I find my car in the lot. When I notice blood on my jacket, I remove it. It’s not mine. I start my car and head toward Teala’s apartment, settling in for a drive that is sure to be longer than I want it to be.

Entering her parking garage made me uneasy. Noticing an unfamiliar car in one of her spots forced even more emotions to the surface. I parked in one of the other spots and cleaned myself the best I could given the circumstances. I’m still pretty filthy and could use a shower or five. Our accommodations haven’t been the best over the last few days. It’s feast of famine. We’re either staying in the nation’s finest five-star hotels or we’re sleeping in fucking dirt with one eye open. I’m told it’s part of our charm. The latter is why I just smoothed a deodorant stick through my hair and brushed my teeth using a bottle of water.

My fist is hovering over the doorbell and I’m suddenly struck with a sense of unease—the notion I should have called first. I press the button before I lose all resolve. It’s been a month, and one would assume another minute or two wouldn’t break me, but I feel as if I can’t wait another second longer. My fist is about the slam on the wood when the door opens.

It’s not her.

It’s a man I recognize from our very first dinner out. As a man she described as someone who was a patron at her studio. Yoga man’s face goes through every emotion in the book. Surprise, fear, and then confusion as he takes in my appearance and half-assed uniform. I’m wearing the camo pants, but I left the bloody jacket and hat in the car. I have on a white tee that was probably white when it was issued, but now has chosen to stay a nice shade of dusty gray.

“Hi,” the man says, finally regaining his wits.

I don’t return his pleasantries. “Where is Teala?”

He clears his throat, opens the door further, and I step through. I see her then. She’s coming around the corner from the hallway to my left. She stops cold in her tracks when she sees me.

“Macs?” she whispers, my name a foreign object on her tongue. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming home?” Her eyes turn down in the corner and I can tell the waterworks are coming and there’s nothing I can do to stop them.

I’m almost too stunned by her appearance to speak. I stutter a letter or two. “I wanted to surprise you,” I say. It’s a lie, but it’s also kind of the truth. I make a point of turning to the side to look at her male friend. “Looks like I succeeded at that.”

“You didn’t reply to my message. I wasn’t sure what to think after all this time. He’s here for a yoga class. I have a few friends coming over,” she says, realizing I’ve intruded in on her new life.

My stomach grumbles and it’s not from hunger. It’s from a fear I’ve never known the likes of.

“I’m not comfortable teaching in my studio yet, but figured it would be okay to start here at home for a class or two per week,” Teala explains using her hands.

I take another step into the room because the kitchen bar is blocking her and I want a full view. I have a better memory than most, but it never quite does Teala justice. She’s the Achilles’ heel even on the subconscious level.

The guy closes the door behind me, and I startle. I’d forgotten about him during my study of her body. I send a quick glare in his direction, and he cowers into the living room, mumbling under his breath. I’d take care of him now if I didn’t have larger things to worry about.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

She has deep, dark circles under her eyes. It changes her face drastically. Her hair is shorter. Much shorter. It looks like she took a hacksaw to it—one side more jagged than the other. She’s always had a thin frame, but what I’m looking at now isn’t healthy. “Tay-la,” I annunciate her name to get her attention.

She’s looking around the room. Anywhere but in my direction and it’s so intentional it forces my heart rate to speed. It’s been a while since I’ve had to worry about the nuances of determining a woman’s mood.

“I’m okay.” She smiles weakly.

I’m not unskilled enough to know okay is a trigger word. It’s almost never used when someone is okay.

“Do you mind coming back another day? I’m so sorry,” she says to the yoga guy, her gaze flicking to the guy on the couch.

The awkwardness in the room ratchets up a notch and I’m not used to being the interruption. I’m the interrupter.

Teala tugs the hem of her tank. She looks about ten pounds lighter? More than that? I survey her thin frame quickly so she doesn’t notice. Yoga guy leaves without another word, and I lock the door behind him, without taking my eyes off her. She reminds me of a caged animal that can’t be trusted. How did I not know what was happening? Why did I assume she was okay these weeks while I was away? She didn’t call me. No contact. The only logical assumption was she was fine. She gestures to the couch, but I shake my head.

I pinch my shirt. “I’m filthy. You don’t want me on your furniture,” I tell her.

Her hooded eyes appraise me very specifically. I recognize desire immediately.

She sits down instead. Running her hands through her hair absentmindedly it’s like a light bulb flicks on. Her hair. Her appearance. The disaster I’m seeing. If playing pretend was ever warranted, right now is when I need to make it count. I ask her what’s going on using a look. Instead of telling me, she cries. Or what I perceive as crying. No actual tears arrive.

“I can’t cry tears anymore. How fucking pathetic is that? I’ve used them all up!” She rattles on and on about inconsequential things she knows I don’t care about to avoid the truth. I recognize what’s happened straight away and my heart seizes in panic.

My body tingles from my toes all the way up to my hair. “Shut up,” I command. I’m not angry at her, but it’s going to come off that way.

Her eyes turn down in the corner and her bottom lip quivers. I run a hand over my face to keep from watching the emotions play across her features. None of them are the ones I was expecting to see right now. She’s not flying into my arms or ripping my clothes off with the desire to love me. She’s looking at me, knees pulled up to her chest like I’m the feral animal in her living room.

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