Page 72 of Just Friends Forever
“Stop it,” I say, even though I can’t help smiling. “I look like a witch who got in a fight with scissors and lost.”
He drops his hand from his face, leaving his smooth guy vibes behind for his usual self. “I’m not just trying to make you feel better. It’s”—his eyes jump to my hair—“really different, yeah, but, Stevie, you could style your hair with spaghetti sauce and still be the most beautiful woman I know.”
My breath catches in my throat. Does he really mean that? He could have said,I’d still think you’re beautifulorI’d still think youone ofthe most beautiful women I know.But he didn’t. He saidthe most beautiful woman I know.
I mean, beauty isn’t everything—of all people, I’ve learned that—but just knowing he thinks of me that way makes my heart pound a little harder.
“Aside from Hilary Banks, of course.” He winks.
“You and your Hilary fetish.” I turn my head to face my reflection. It brings on a new wave of shoulder-sagging dejection. I don’t even recognize the woman in the mirror. “Why didn’t you stop me? It’s your job as my best friend to keep me from making heinous life choices.”
He puts his hands up. “Hey, it’s an unpaid position, and it’s kind of a full-time gig.”
I punch him in the arm, which only hurts my knuckles, while he laughs softly.
“What would make you feel better? The Carlton?” He starts it up, looking like a fool without any music to accompany him. There’s hardly room for it in this bathroom, making it even more ridiculous.
Itdoesmake me feel better, though. How could it not? I think it’s a universal mood enhancer.
“That does help,” I say as he winds down. “I can think of one other thing that might do the trick. Something that would make me feel less alone.”
“What is it?” he asks with a breathless smile. “Anything. You name it.”
I try to keep a straight face. “If you dyed your hair blond. And cut it into a mohawk.”
His smile flattens, and his eyes go wide. He steps back one pace, his hand going instinctively to his hair. Even at this time of morning, right before a workout, it’s perfectly coiffed.
I may as well have asked him to sacrifice his firstborn.
“Settle down there, Troy,” I say with a tentative touch to his arm. “It’s a joke. I would never ask you to do anything to your precious hair.”
He lets out a huge sigh of relief. “Don’t be scaring me like that, girl.”
“Don’t make it so tempting. You ready to go work out now? I’m ready to take out my anger on your weights.”
I get changed and meet him outside. My hair is barely long enough in the front to reach into a ponytail, but I make do with bobby pins, hoping Troy is right and I’ll come around to it.
Should’ve gone with the Musk-inspired name change.
It’s arm day, and I put everything I’ve got—my anger toward my hair, my growing feelings for Troy—into those free weights until my arms feel like jelly.
Whenever I sneak a peek at Troy, the same question pops into my head: what would happen if I told him how I feel? Every time, I get the same feeling I have when I’m about to go over the top of a rollercoaster. It’s adrenaline and hope and fear all at once.
How would he respond? Would it ruin things? Would he tell me I had my chance and didn’t take it? Would I lose him altogether?
My stomach plummets. I can’t lose him. He’s all I’ve got. He’s everything.
We finish our last set, and he wipes his sweat with a towel. “Feeling any better about your hair?”
“My hatred for it still burns bright, and on top of that, I’m embarrassed you saw me cry over it.”
He laughs and throws the towel over his shoulder, which looks extra-large right now after working out those muscles. “Of all the people who could understand crying over hair…”
“I chose the right person to come to?”
He nods. “I’m going to shower, okay? Meet you for breakfast at my place in thirty?”
My shower water runs gray again, letting out the last bits of the extra dye. When I chose black, I hadn’t really thought about the fact that my semi-permanent dye would fade until I’m left with gray hair for a while. This is why I had a hairdresser before. I can’t be trusted.
