Missed Connections Page 9

  “I know.”

  “No one likes a cocky—” But my words are cut off by the way his thumb hits my temple and works back to land behind my ear. “Wow.”

  “You were saying?”

  “Can I rent your hands for an hour or four?” I gaze up into his deep-blue eyes. “I promise I’ll wash them when I’m done.”

  Pete laughs. “No way. You’d abuse the privilege.”

  “Damn right I would.” I sigh and enjoy the warmth of the water as he rinses the conditioner from my hair. “Ever thought of becoming a masseuse?”

  “Yeah, but then I wouldn’t get to make people pretty.”

  “True. But massages make people happy.”

  “But they don’t improve the scenery. And I’m all about the packaging.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  He wraps a huge, white towel around my hair. “I’ll put you in with Lenora while I set up the color.”

  He leads me to the pedicure station and sticks my feet into the peppermint-scented water. Pete had called last night as I was leaving Inner Space, still chuckling about the label maker, and asked if I wanted a spa night and haircut. Since he doesn’t trust anyone else with my hair, he’s forgoing his pedi to take care of me, leaving me in Lenora’s capable hands. “You spoil me.”

  “Someone’s got to.”

  I wiggle my toes and send a cheeky look his way, smiling at Lenora. I close my eyes and think of Blake for a moment before wiggling my eyebrows at him. “I’m working on that.”

  “Oh?” He pours some cream and powders into a container, mixing colors.

  “Not actively, but one of the massage therapists is pretty cute. Really cute.”

  Pete wrinkles his nose. “A hippie?” He’s not a fan of their chemical-free lifestyle choices.

  “No, he seems pretty normal.” I smile, thinking of the forced-labor sugar yesterday.

  “Hmm. What does he look like?”

  I try not to flinch as Lenora exfoliates my heels. My feet are way too ticklish. “Who’s that guy you like from Magic Mike?”

  “Adam Rodriguez?” His voice raises an octave. “Are we talking Tito?”

  I know it’s Tito, but I couldn’t resist. “Yes, but with less chin and a tighter ass.”

  “And you aren’t naked in his bed because…?”

  “Because I’ve only met him twice. And we were at work yesterday—not the best place for a torrid affair, though his hands made sweet, sweet love to my shoulders for a couple of minutes.”

  “And you weren’t naked on his massage table because…?”

  “Oh, to live the way you do.”

  He mixes more powder into the cream. “If I were one of the Golden Girls, I’d be Blanche Devereaux.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  “I am double-jointed,” he says with a Southern accent.

  “Yes, but shoulder pads aren’t your thing.”

  “Maybe not. But I was thinking of working more sequins into my wardrobe.”

  “You were not.” I snort. “Though the lack of flash in men’s clothing is a little unfair.”

  “It’s getting better, what with the hipsters.” He mixes things while Lenora blazes through the rest of my pedi.

  “You done over there?”

  “Yup, we’re finished,” Lenora answers him.

  Blue polish and small pink-and-white flowers improve the nails. “Wow, nice work!”

  Lenora smiles. “Thanks.”

  I walk carefully over to Pete and sit in the chair.

  He clips a smock over me. “Your coworkers sound terrible. They made you work all day today, extending both of our days—”

  “I’m sorry and I so appreciate you opening the salon after hours just for our spa day.”

  “—and they turned Jack into your errand boy.” He tactfully doesn’t bring up the specifics of my dad’s situation in front of Lenora. “And why?”

  “In case anyone phoned.” Annoyance washes over me.

  He raises an eyebrow. “And how many people called?”

  “One. And it was a wrong number.”

  “Yeah. Be careful with the hot masseuse. Even if he’s not one of them, that kind of behavior may be contagious. Now.” He flips my hair. “What did we have in mind?”

  I take a breath and decide to go for it. “I’m going to make your wish come true. You get to do whatever you want.” His eyes get big, and I feel the need to add a qualifier. “No Chelsea shave—nothing that involves shaving my head.”

  He nods, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “I’m going to add some color. And we’re going to go a bit shorter. And more dramatic.”

  “No spoilers. Just do it before common sense sinks in.”

  Pete flaps his hands. “Honey, I’m going to make you fabulous.”

  “Are you saying I’m not already?”

  He scrunches his face. “You’ve always been adorable. Now, I am going to make you irresistible. Mr. Massage won’t be able to keep his hands off you.”

  Jack’s hands flash through my mind, but I suppress the image. He’s even more off-limits than Blake, despite the “no dating coworkers” rule. Jack texted me earlier to let me know he’d picked up Dad’s prescription and delivered it. I definitely owe him one. “Sounds great.”

  Pete stirs the batch of color and begins applying foils. I close my eyes and wait blind, not wanting to see anything except for the reveal.

  We rinse and blow-dry and let things set, and nearly an hour later, he spins me around to check myself out in the mirror.

  He’s only taken a few inches off, but I look so different.

  The way my hair frames my face makes my eyes look huge and my cheekbones stand out. I look like someone with style. I’m a bit surprised to realize that is something I’ve let slip during these past few months. My hair feels ultra-silky when I run my hands through it. It just hits the tops of my shoulders, and some razored layers give body and take it into sexily tousled territory instead of fussiness.

  “Pete.”

  “I know.” His smile is smug and so deserved.

  He’s darkened my hair a couple of shades—which makes my skin seem luminous, instead of pale and pasty—and added a few deep-red highlights that bring out the green in my hazel eyes.

  His gaze meets mine in the mirror, and he snaps a picture with his phone. “He won’t be able to tear his eyes off you.”

  The only reason I think of Jack now is because Pete’s face is so similar.

  * * *

  My apartment feels emptier when I get home from seeing Pete. He fills up a room like nobody’s business, a crowd of one. I turn on my computer and switch on the fan, pouring a glass of lemonade before I change into my pajamas.

  Pete was really excited about Blake, but I don’t know if anything will come of that—or if I even want something to come of it.

  True, it wouldn’t be like I’d have to see him every day at work, which I think could really burn a couple out. Me time is healthy and so necessary in relationships. I can’t imagine living together, working together, and hanging out together. Where’s the breathing space in that?

  But Blake might already be dating someone, so even thinking he’s available is jumping the gun. Massage therapists don’t typically wear rings—at least not at work—so the fact that there was no wedding ring means nothing. He’s attractive and obviously has a good sense of humor and a job, but beyond that, I know nothing about him and have no idea how to find out more.

  I’d want another couple of interactions to gauge if he’s interested in more than flirting, and with the way our schedules are set up, we never cross paths. Asking him out implies I’m more interested than I am at this point. Really, I want to get to know him a little better to see if I even want to date him.

  I grab my glass and an apple before settling at my computer. My first stop on the Internet is Craigslist Jobs. The mouse hovers over Missed Connections, but I resist. If things get worse with Phyllis and Inner Space, I could be out on my ass again.
I’d rather find something else first. Not that any job is one hundred percent secure, but Inner Space barely pays me enough. At least, in another place, I’d have the opportunity to stash a little away in savings again.

  The ads are slim. Only seven new listings in the past two weeks, and a couple of them are ones I’ve already seen and rejected or replied to and gotten no answer. I resend résumés to the latter listings anyway and scour the usual job sites, including a few newspapers. Naomi has replied to my email, but there’s nothing at her new clinic, and she hasn’t heard of anything else.

  I dig around in different law firms’ websites, seeing if they’re hiring, and even send a few résumés out just in case, but a fruitless hour later, it looks like I’m stuck at Inner Space for the time being. Who knows? Maybe things will get better. The longer I’m there, the more Ziggy and Fern will get to know me. And I’m a hell of a lot better employee than Phyllis is. I actually do my work, and do it correctly.

  The two emails I get make my pulse pick up until I read them. Two spam messages: one trying to sell me Viagra, the other from a Nigerian prince needing to send me all his money. If only that were true. How can these scams still survive this many years after their inception? Are new scammers discovering the Internet and thinking, “OMG, if I tell people I want to give them money, they will fall all over themselves giving me their bank information! Maybe I can get some money out of them if I tell them they need to send me some money first. Yes! It’s genius!”

  Or they’re just lazy and uncreative, which is more likely.

  Another email hits my inbox from an unfamiliar address. I open it.

  From: bwilde@mail.com

  Subject: Label maker

  I think the label maker got you a treat. Check the drawer when you come into work. Nice seeing you again. Blake.

  Blake’s last name is Wilde? I grin, mark him as a safe contact, and hit Reply.

  I get another email before I can send my reply to Blake. It could be another email from him, so I save my response as a draft and go back to my inbox.

  It’s another email from my old boss.

  How have they not noticed I’m cc’d on these? Lawyers should pay attention to details, no? I hit Reply, intent on asking them to remove me from their contacts, but then I read what’s in the email.

  From: reception@BladeLAW.com

  Subject: River Inn Chinese

  Do not order from River Inn Chinese again. We all got significant food poisoning. Won’t be in the office for a couple of days. Reschedule all appointments for today, tomorrow, and Wednesday.

  My heart sings with schadenfreude, and I delete my reply unsent. Maybe I won’t bring their attention to the situation just yet. To celebrate, I head back to Missed Connections.

  This Weekend

  I click on it.

  I can’t describe what you were wearing, as it was your eyes that caught my attention. Such a fascinating shade between green and hazel.

  My eyes are that color.

  Gorgeous, but not as gorgeous as your sweet smile. Your initials are S. J.

  My heart pounds a little faster, but my nerves rise too. My initials are S. J.!

  This is the closest one I’ve seen to being about me!

  What if it is about me?

  I don’t know what to think about that. I’ve read about these interactions, these Missed Connections, for so long, and now that one might be me, I’m left a little…conflicted. The only person I encountered was Blake. Could it be him?

  The memory of his hands roaming over my shoulders morphs into thoughts of him taking it further. Those fingers, maybe this time covered with oil, dipping under the fabric of my shirt, sliding down to cup my breasts. I’d tip my head back, and he’d lean over and kiss me while his fingers teased my nipples, sliding warmly over them.

  Excitement rises to the surface again, drowning out the nerves. I’d actually really like it to be him. Maybe this is his way of getting to know me better before anything happens. I go back to Blake’s email. What should I write? Something cute and fun, but not presumptuous. I won’t bring up the Missed Connection. Yet. I settle on:

  From: sarah@mail.com

  Subject: RE: Label maker

  Is the label maker trying to pay for my silence?

  Then I add a winky face and hit Send.

  Chapter 12

  I don’t walk so much as strut from the train station to work on Tuesday morning. If I’d known how amazing the makeover would make me feel, I’d have given Pete free rein ages ago.

  Fern is standing at my desk when I cross the reception area. “Morning, Fern.”

  “Hello, Sarah.” She stares at me for a second, and I wait for her to say something about my hair. “I have a bunch of old files for you to archive today.” She looks at me—my hair, my shoes, and back to my face.

  “Sure.” I slide past her and put my purse in the lower drawer of the desk. If Fern noticed, she doesn’t seem to care about the change in my appearance. Oh well, I didn’t do it for her anyway. The tall stack of manila folders is dusty and some of them are stained, stacked in a pile about two feet high. “I’m surprised I never came across these. Where have they been?”

  “These were some we kept at home.”

  I’m pretty sure that’s illegal. “I’ll get to it then.”

  She hesitates, as if wanting to say something, but leaves silently.

  An hour later, I’ve made a decent dent in the pile of folders when the craniosacral therapist, Ginny, emerges from a room and comes to the front. “Hey, Sarah.”

  “Hi. How are you?”

  “Fairly well.” She writes something in her client’s file and puts it in my tray. We’re not that chummy, but her smile is always warm. I think she’s just an aloof person, but her clients float out of the office feeling amazing, so I’ve got nothing but respect for her. And since her clients don’t undress, she just changes the top sheet and pillowcase herself, saving me time and energy. “Love your new haircut.”

  “Thanks.” I grin and show her next client into a room before checking the laundry, but it’s not finished. Ginny is just closing the door to her room when I pass by on the way back to reception. Phyllis, Ziggy, and Fern are hanging out there with herbal tea when I get back.

  Phyllis catches my eye, then refocuses on Fern. So annoying, but at least I can go to lunch soon. Phyllis continues, “I just find the whole thing incredibly unhealthy. I mean, what kind of energy does that put out into the world?”

  I settle behind my desk and begin checking the messages, half listening to their conversation.

  Ziggy clears his throat. “And that’s the thing. It’s all about balance, but it shouldn’t all be external.”

  “It shouldn’t be about the external at all,” Fern admonishes. “Appearances aren’t important in the least.”

  Surely, they’re not talking about me?

  Phyllis continues. “I mean, I cut my hair myself at home because I don’t agree with the trappings of the antiwoman fashion industry. It’s so inorganic.”

  “Completely. All the chemicals are terrible for a person’s body, but the treadmill of insecurity is terrible for their soul. For their energy. And for what, to attract a mate?” Fern’s voice burns with passion.

  Ziggy nods. “Unfortunately, they end up attracting someone who is only interested in their wrappers and not who they are as a person.”

  My fingers fumble my pen. They are literally talking about me in front of my face.

  Fern sighs. “It’s just sad that people will go to such lengths to capture love. It really says something about them that they will stop at no cost—to their bodies, health, or energy systems. I mean, if they only knew what such dramatic changes do to their root chakras.”

  “Never mind their root chakras—think of their hara lines.” Ziggy sets his tea down.

  “If only they’d be in my class. I could teach them so much in such a short time!”

  “Of course you could, Fern. But some people will resist prog
ress no matter what,” Phyllis says, simpering.

  “It’s the way they cling to the things harming them that scares me. But I can’t force someone to evolve beyond the physical and focus more on the spiritual. Nourishing the soul.” Fern sets her cup down as well. “Shall we?”

  Ziggy nods and looks over at me as though I’ve appeared from thin air. “Oh, Sarah! You’re back.”

  I don’t know what to say. “Yes.”

  “Fern, Phyllis, and I are leaving early for a course. We’ve cleared our schedules.”

  “Oh. Okay. Will you be back today?”

  “No.”

  “Too bad you can’t come with us.” Phyllis smiles.

  “Well, I’m working. So…”

  She purses her lips and makes eye contact with Fern. The “see” look isn’t lost on me. “Maybe another time.”

  “Maybe.” My throat burns and I don’t dare say another word. A couple seconds later, they’ve gone, and I take the phone off the hook, needing a moment to gather myself. For people who are all about building others up and helping people connect to the lightness within, they sure know how to tear a heart out.

  It’s a makeover. No bunnies were drained of their blood for the red highlights in my hair. It isn’t in an outrageous Mohawk with swear words shaved into the sides of my head. I didn’t take a day off work to get it done and lie about it. It’s not like I’ve come in dressed unprofessionally and then sat here gazing lovingly at my appearance in a tiny mirror. Not liking someone’s decision is one thing, but talking shit about it in front of them is another.

  If I didn’t have a few hours left before I could leave, I’d cry. But I won’t.

  And yet, a small tear gathers at the corner of my eye.

  The law firm wasn’t a great place, but at least there was one paralegal who wasn’t a total ass and we used to have lunch together. Even Brenda, who fired me, was friendly. It’s so lonely in this place without anyone to chat to or do lunch with. Ginny’s nice but obviously uninterested in engaging, and Blake’s never here when I am.

  Screw this place. I need an early lunch.

  I buy a turkey panino with extra, extra bacon—the better to eat my feelings with—from the bodega next door and take it to eat on a bench in the shade in the dinky park nearby. At least it’s not a dog park—in this heat, the smell wouldn’t be conducive to lunch. I flop down and stretch my legs out, wishing I’d brought something to drink. Fresh air that doesn’t reek of sage oil and judgmental hippies helps a little, but distance doesn’t give me much relief. I need to download some of this embarrassment to someone who will make me feel better about the situation and myself.