Page 32 of Hold Me Today

It felt safer that way. We stuck to our lines, to our roles as older brother and best friend, respectively, and continued on with life. Until she came to my rescue and had my back when I was spiraling.

Now she’s the one spiraling. The “pro bono” renovation might as well be my form of repayment, though I have no illusions that she feels anything remotely “more” for me at this point.

Asking Mina to help keep the paps off my back keeps the playing field between us equal.

I scratch her back. She scratches mine, even if I highly doubt the media’s interest in me will last longer than a few weeks. I’m not fooling myself: a construction guy in Boston isn’t nearly as exciting as Dom, a former NFL tight endanda sports analyst on Sports 24/7. Poor bastard is already getting the brunt of the press, if our few phone calls are anything to go by.

But I wanted Mina to keep her pride, even when it’s easy to see that her pride’s already been scraped raw, and now . . .

Now she’s fucking late, wasting timeandmoney. Both of which are coming out of mypocket, not hers.

Impatience boils deep under my skin, and I shove my phone into the back pocket of my work jeans. She thinks I’m such a rule-follower?Maybe it’s time to change that.

Turning on my heel, I move back to the guys. When I’m within earshot, I gesture toward Mark. “Pick the lock.”

He makes a weird gurgling sound in his throat. Then, “Uh, boss?”

I kick my chin in the direction of the door. “Not gonna report you to the cops, Sheldon. Pick the lock, and let’s get to work.”

Vince steps up next to me. Like he’s a mother checking for a fever, he plants the back of his hand against my forehead. When I move to bat it away, he jumps out of reach. “No temperature. Ifyou’retelling someone to pick a lock, it could be the end of the world as we know it.”

“Is it wrong that I’m hoping for the zombie apocalypse?” Bill asks as he steps to the side to let Mark past him. “Like, there’s something aboutThe Walking Deadthat’s always called to me.”

I glance over at him. “You got a fetish about becoming someone else’s snack?”

His cheeks turn crimson. “Hey, if it was a zombie woman eating me—”

Vince claps him hard on the back. “There’s help out there for people like you, Billy. 1-800-Got-Fetish. Press four on the menu and wait for the zombie specialists to come on. Rick’s here to tell you to figure your life out before you end up like him, old as fuck and crying on every single episode.”

Laughter reverberates in my chest, just as Mark pipes up, “Rick’s a pansy. Everyone knows it. Also, we’re in.”

“We’re in” soundswaytoo close to an actual B&E, so I shuffle the guys inside and break down today’s objective. Tearing down the walls leading to the two backrooms is a hassle and a half, but the rooms are weirdly angled and useless as they are now. I’m envisioning an open floor plan, something expansive and elegant that captures a visitor’s attention immediately upon entering the salon. A middle-sized backroom with sinks for the shampoo bowls will lead, through a set of antique parlor doors I’ve got in my warehouse, to a room that can be used for anything else Mina wants to incorporate into the salon’s lineup. None of it, though, matches the plans I have for the main room’s ceiling. A friend of a friend owes me a favor for the job I did on his house, and I didn’t hesitate to call it in.

Annoyed as I am about her missing this morning’s meet-up, I can’t turn off the creator in me. I want to be the one to give Mina the salon she’s always dreamed of.

I also want to know why in the world she hasn’t come down to meet us.

“You guys got this, right?” I ask Vince once we’ve lugged in our tools from the company van parked outside on the curb. “I’m gonna head upstairs a sec and see if everything’s all right with the queen bee.”

The guys wave me off. Not even Vince sends me a second glance, and I wonder if it’s because he would never think that Mina and I . . .

That Mina and Iwhat?

Jaw clenching, I shove away the thought and head for the stairs that lead up to her apartment. I didn’t have the chance to scope out the second floor when I was here earlier in the week, and now I can’t help but note every creak and whine under my heavy work boots. The dark, wooden walls are splintered, too, with slivers of concrete peeking through. When I get to the top of the stairwell, there’s no disguising the floorboards that sink an inch when I step over them.

Gamóto.

It’s not just the salon downstairs that needs an entire overhaul, but clearly the brownstone itself hasn’t had its heyday in decades.

If ever.

Did Mina choose this place because it was all she could afford? Or did she see the beauty in the ruination and want to be the one to bring it back to life? My gut tells me it’s the latter. Even when we were younger, she had a way of making a person feelseen, even appreciated. It makes sense that she’d bring that same attitude to a dilapidated building.

Standing in front of her door, I knock sharply. Once. Twice.

There’s the distinct sound of shuffling inside, but then all I hear are the guys ribbing each other downstairs.

I knock again.

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