Page 4 of Hold Me Today

“Whodoesthat?” I point Tito to the far side of my newly purchased hair salon, which is empty save for the sofa we’re sitting on and the cute receptionist’s desk I picked up at an antiques sale a few weekends back. “It wasn’t enough that he took the ten-K? The jerk went throughmydesk and tookmylucky penny. I’ve had that thing since your mom gave it to me on prom night.”

Aleka Stamos, the hairdresser who gave me my first pair of shears, promised that if I kept the lucky penny on me, one day I’d have the chance to see it in my very own register at my very own hair salon.Envision your dreams,she said,manifest them into reality. The penny’s copper was worn down, smoothed thrice over, and had survived over a decade of being almosthanded over to cashiers time and again. Well-earned battle scars, only to be swiped from my register before I even openedAgape’s front doors.

“I’m telling you,” I mutter darkly, “that crossed a line.” Another pull from Tito the Great. “Bastard.”

“You’re starting to sound repetitive.”

My brows lower. “I’m drunk.”

“You’ve had one shot and approximately three gulps of vodka, half of which is drenching your shirt.”

I glance down, and sure enough, not only am I pulling a Yeti in terms of hair growth, I look like I’ve taken a dunk in a pool of D-grade vodka.

What a good look, Miss New CEO.

I can’t even find it in myself to crack a smile at my poor attempt at sarcasm.

Since my teenage years, I’ve worked toward only one dream: running my own hair salon. I’ve never wanted anything else, never deviated from the path I set into motion after the first time I watched Tyra Banks onAmerica’s Next Top Model. Call me crazy, but the show—dramatic as each season was—gave me hope.

I was never the smart girl in school. ACwas as good as anAin my book—considering all the work and sweat and tears that theCcost me. My inability to keep up with my peers in class was then matched by my very Greek andverytraditional father, who thought sports were a waste of time, as were other extracurriculars like drama and singing. I was, effectively, particularly good at doing nothing. Unless you included my expert skills at babysitting. As the eldest of the three Pappas siblings, I was tasked with taking care of Katya and Dimitri every day after school.

Foryears.

And that included helping with their homework, which, no surprise there, was more hellish than burning off my eyebrows for just the fun of it.

Back then, I craved the confidence I saw in those women on the show. I craved their vitality and their uncontained excitement and the way they stood proudly as though to publicly declare,This is who I am, and you can either love it or kiss my butt.

I wanted their swagger.

And it may have taken some time, but I learned to cultivate that same swagger for myself until—

“I need a plan.”

Effie eyes me warily. “How about we wait till tomorrow when you aren’t on the verge of a meltdown?” She casts a quick glance about the empty salon. Before I bought the space, and the small apartment above it, the building had housed a floral shop. A few potted plants still linger here and there, their soil dry and leaves bronzing, even though I’ve done my best to keep them alive.

Turns out that a hairdresser and a horticulturalist are not synonymous occupations, despite the fact that shears are used for both.

My best friend takes another sip of Tito. “How long are you going to make us sit down here in the dark? It’s creepy.”

Ambient light filters in through the bare windows, basking the concrete floors in shadowy figures. Instead of a building meant to kickstart my hopes and dreams, the eerie vibe tonight gives the space more of a haunted-house-attraction appeal. “You own a ghost tour company,” I say, cupping the vodka bottle to my damp chest like a babe about to suck on a nipple, “creepy may as well be your middle name.”

Rolling her eyes, Effie points a finger at me. “You need a lawyer.”

“I need money for a lawyer.” Feeling the all-too-familiar punch to my gut, I strangle the neck of the vodka bottle and try to stem the well of tears burning at the backs of my eyes. I don’t cry—haven’t for years—and I have no plans to start now. But, jeez, learning that Jake Rhodan disappeared with money intended to cover a third of the renovation costs is crippling. Like a kick to a blistering wound when I’m already down and bleeding. “I’ve already reported him to the cops but nailing his ass to a wall isn’t possible until they find him.” My vision swims like I’ve put on a pair of drunk goggles. Oh, right—Iamdrunk. The room is positivelyswaying.And when did Effie get a twin? I close one eye. Stare a little harder with my other.Plant a flat palm on the cushion beside me and curse Tito while trying not to slur my words. “What money is left has to go to finding a new reno company or I’mtotallyscrewed.”

Confession: Effie and I both know that I’m already screwed.

Though I once worked for Effie’s mom, I’ve spent the last few years at Twisted, a high-end spa and salon situated in Boston’s ritzy Beacon Hill neighborhood. I cut the hair of congresswomen and celebrities, all while scraping together every pennyuntil I could open my own salon.

Agape,my salon,is the pinnacle of my career.

Unfortunately, I must be on the universe’s naughty list because I’ve been slapped back down more times than I can count in these last few months.

First, my former boss pulled out the contract I signed years earlier without paying much attention to the finer details. It stated, in no uncertain terms, that while I could open a salon within close proximity to Twisted, I was legally bound to one stipulation: I couldn’t bring my clients with me.

Yay to starting from scratch.

And then, of course, I committed the ultimate error in trusting a recommendation for the renovation itself. Seeing as how the reference came from a friend of a friend, from back in high school, I see now that I should have treaded more carefully.

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