Page 59 of Brash for It
The heat climbs my cheeks again.I tug the collar of my blouse.“It’s not that obvious,” I lie.
“Mm,” she says, noncommittal.Her gaze flickers softer for a heartbeat.“Happy suits you.”
I’m too surprised at her answer.Lana gives the flowers one last look, then nods in a way that feels like a truce.“Tell him he owes the front desk a bigger tip jar,” she says, breezing past.“Your phone is going to ring off the hook with women rescheduling so they can ask how you tamed the wildest of them all.”
Trina laughs.“Don’t encourage the chaos.”
“I live for it,” Lana tosses back, and disappears.
I stand there, hand on the vase, heart doing a strange relieved stutter.I was braced for another dig, the way she warned me weeks ago.Instead I got a moment of peace, maybe even happiness for me.The knot I didn’t know I’d been holding loosens another click.
The morning picks up.The phone does, in fact, ring more but by happenstance.I book a facial for a woman who whispers like she’s telling me a secret about cucumbers.I move a massage to Friday for a man who apologizes six times for having a back ache pop up.I sell two gift certificates and explain, three separate times, that a pedicure does not have to include glitter but could if it would heal anyone’s inner child.That is our current promotion and I’m dreading cleaning up behind them.Glitter is like the worst thing because it goes everywhere.
Every now and then, a client glances at the roses and then at me.I watch the little lift in their faces, like maybe the idea of being claimed—in a way that isn’t possession but promise—still means something in a world that keeps telling us to ask less, expect less, be less.I’m not less today.I’m enough to fill this whole room.
Between appointments, Trina leans on the counter and drops her voice.“So.How’s the boat, Captain?”I shared with her what Kellum has said.This is what having a real girlfriend is like and I’m thankful for her.
I duck my head, grin at the card.“Steady.”
“And the first mate?”
I bite my lip, but the happiness comes out anyway, bright and uncontainable.“He’s a keeper.”
She deadpans.“I can see that.”
Trina’s smile goes small and warm.“Look at you.”
I don’t tell her about last night.I don’t need to.The evidence is on my neck and in the curve of my mouth turning to a smile just at the mention of him.Some things don’t need a whole paragraph.They just need a woman standing upright with her shoulders back, head high.
Around noon, I catch myself touching the hickey again, fingertips grazing the tender edge.For a second, Lana’s voice from earlier flutters up, warning painted as wisdom.Best you’ll ever have.Don’t expect him to keep you.The old me would’ve swallowed that whole, called it realism, braced for the fall.
The new me looks at the roses instead.Two words.No performance.No grandstanding.No claim on anything but responsibility.Mine.Not because I bought you,not because I own you,not because I said so.Because we both said so.Because last night, when the water steamed and my heartbeat climbed into my mouth, he gave me an exit and I made a choice to remain steady with him.
The best part is, I chose it in daylight again this morning.And I’ll keep choosing him, us, this.The mark on my neck is not a secret shame.It’s a signature I signed first.
By two o’clock, I’ve had three separate women ask, with conspiratorial winks, whether the roses are “for something special.”I reply each time, “For a good day.”It feels right.
At three-thirty, a woman in a blue sundress comes in for a mani and pedi.She’s a regular who comes weekly for a manicure and pedicure.She does the basic service because every week she’s going to want a different color and won’t wait to make it worth it for a set of acrylics or to do gel.She looks at the roses, and sighs dramatically.“I told my husband if he ever sends me flowers at work, he has to include cash for the tip jar because all my coworkers will have to listen to me talk about it.”
I laugh.“You’re not wrong.”
She leans in because she’s seen us.“Tell me it’s the biker.”
“It’s the biker.”
She claps her hands once, delighted.“I knew it!My cousin used to date a Hellion.They’re a mess, but they are very hmm.”She searches for a word, settles on, “intense.”
I blink.It hits in that place that’s still learning a new language.Intense.Yes.He is.
By the time closing comes, I am ready to be home with my man.
Absently, I think about Brian and the kind of “big” that used to rule my days—cars, houses, fancy trips, and his control.Then I look at the roses and think about Kellum and the kind of big that matters now: one word in thick handwriting, a hand on my hip at the kitchen counter, a camera over a back door, the long way home on a bike because I asked for wind.
Trina waits until I’m counting out the last twenties to lean in and whisper, “You know you have a hickey, right?”
I choke on a laugh.“Apparently the whole county knows.”
“Good.”She winks.“Let them talk.”
