Page 9 of Running Into You
“I’m sure he didn’t mean it that way.” I scoff, already regretting the detailed recap of Monday evening I’d just given her. “It was the end of the day, and I was still in my work clothes. Did I mention my face was probably crimson, even though I’d only had one glass of wine?” I ball up my fists and let a full-body tremor run through me in an attempt to release the tension inside of me.
“Honey, you’re only going to have one eyebrow if you keep moving like that.” I relax and she resumes her work. Her dark brows knit together, creasing her otherwise flawless brown skin.
I may have embellished a bit when I told Josh that I’ve made a few good friends. I have made exactly one good friend, and she is currently removing unwanted hair from my face. Maggie was recommended to me by a girl in my master’s program. I had been lamenting that I could never go to an esthetician because every product known to man makes me break out. I have a list of allergies that is longer than the fifth Harry Potter book and was skeptical when Taylor swore by her. I’ve never been so happy to be wrong in my life. Not only is she exceptionally skilled at waxing and threading, but she also makes all her own products and designed an entire skin protocol just for me. After my first appointment, she suggested we meet for coffee a few days later, just so she could assess my skin and see if we should make any adjustments to the products I was using. When it was clear that my complexion was thriving under her care, the conversation quickly turned to books and then to our other shared interests. By the time our coffee cups were empty, we already had plans to go to an art installment that weekend.
“When is the date?” she asks, bouncing on her heels. Her dark curls are pinned up, but a few tendrils shake loose. Her teal scrubs provide a splash of color to the otherwise sterile environment of her treatment room. The ivory walls are bright enough that she is able to keep the lighting soft and still be able to see what she’s doing. All other cabinets, machines, and her treatment chair are the same shade of brilliant white. Maggie shares her salon space with an independent hairdresser who rarely sees clients since getting married.
“It’s not a date.”
“You said he called it a date.”
“Yes, but—”
“So, you corrected him when he called it that?”
“No, but you’re missing—”
“In that case, it remains a date. Stop arguing and tell me when it is.” So smug and so sweet at the same time.
“I’m showing him around on Saturday,” I cave. “I’ll be taking him to the best places to buy groceries and take his dry cleaning. This is not dinner and a movie. Besides, he thinks of me like a little sister.”
“Grocery stores are very sexy, Betty. Especially produce sections.” She looks away dreamily and I don’t want to know what image she’s conjured in her head.
“You’re making too much out of this,” I say, waving her aside.
“The guy that you compare all others to is not only sleeping a few walls away from you, he’s single, saying you look incredible, asking you to go places with him, and calling it a date. But, sure, I am seeing what I want to see.” The sarcasm drips from her words like warm honey.
I falter. I do compare every guy I meet to Josh and none of them ever measure up. It’s not Josh himself, but the feelings he evokes in me. I’ve experienced attraction to other men, obviously, but never to the same level. He’s always been this unattainable image in my head that I have allowed myself to fantasize about for far too long. Even after I “swore him off” in high school, I wasn’t able to completely erase him from my mind. It got easier not to think of him with the distance, but this recent close encounter has undone a decade’s worth of progress.
Maggie softens as she studies my expression. “Let’s try a little exercise. I want you to close your eyes and think of a man other than Josh.” Maggie is a big “visualizer” and often uses little exercises like these when she thinks I need help getting out of my own way.
“Do you charge extra for this kind of therapy?”
“Just do it.”
I oblige. I picture Andrew because he’s the only other man who has been of remote interest lately.
“Now,” Maggie’s voice is calm and even. “I want you to imagine that everything that happened with Josh the other night happened with this man instead.” My mind unfolds the scene. Andrew is in my apartment with a glass of wine, his body angled toward me on the couch. I see him looking me over with approval and frank appreciation. The air around us is charged. I feel him pull me into that last hug. “Does it feel like this man has brotherly feelings toward you?” My eyes snap open.
“You tricked me, and your tip will be affected.”
Maggie’s shoulders shake with silent laughter, and she pats my knee. I sit up and rake my fingers through my flattened hair. Is it possible that Josh could be looking at me in a new light? He never showed interest in me before, but we’ve spent minimal time together since I was fifteen. And he was with Eleanor. Regardless, even if he were to develop feelings for me, I’d find some way to ruin everything. I don’t do relationships. I’m not meant to be someone’s partner. Everything about Josh screams committed relationship guy.
“I made you a new blend.” Maggie hands me a square bar of soap. “I’ve added more jojoba oil to this batch. The air is getting drier, and I don’t want that pretty face of yours getting all crusty.” The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in real life referring to me as pretty is almost laughable. Maggie is gorgeous. Like, I don’t know why she isn’t in magazines, level gorgeous. Her almond-shaped eyes are surrounded by layers of long dark lashes. She has full lips that men can’t seem to help staring at when she speaks. Don’t even get me started on her rich brown skin, which is so perfect it’s almost as if she doesn’t have pores.
“You are amazing,” I say as I accept the soap.
“You are correct.” She winks and starts to tidy her work area.
“Any more thoughts about upping your production and selling online?” Maggie’s soaps are a godsend for people with sensitivities. She uses natural ingredients and tailors the product to each customer. With the proper marketing, she could have a booming business. I’ve offered to help her set up an Etsy shop on more than one occasion.
Maggie’s natural light dims. “Mark thinks it’s too risky.”
Mark. She’s been with him for several years and to sum it up briefly, he fucking sucks. I’ve hung out with him a handful of times and he never fails to act like a condescending prick. I hate him and I’m quite sure the feeling is mutual. I’ve never heard him say a kind word to Maggie, and it kills me. I have no idea why she’s stayed with him for this long, but I know it’s a sensitive subject for her. If I could find a way to break whatever hold he has over her, I would gleefully do it. She deserves better.
“I don’t know,” I say carefully. “I think you would be turning people away. But more soap for me.” I nudge her and she perks up a bit. Maggie has an amazing ability to look on the bright side. I’ve never seen her wallow in disappointment for long before she picks herself up and focuses on what she’s grateful for. On more than one occasion, I’ve viewed it as toxic positivity, but I don’t feel it’s my place to point that out. All I know is that she’s an amazing friend who has seen me at my worst and has never let me down. She loves to take care of others and I’ve benefited from that trait more times than I can count.
“There is a craft fair on Sunday. Do you want to go together?” If there is one thing Maggie loves more than helping others, it’s craft fairs.
