Page 6 of Never Always
The peace of being one with water trumps the fact that this is exercise. On a kick turn, I notice the woman in the next lane stopped swimming, she’s hanging by the wall. By the time I complete another hundred, she’s not in the water at all. I don’t even know which lap she exited on. My lungs are burning, and another half hour has passed when I realize I probably should have communicated with her. We have swimming late at night in common. She lives here, I live here. Sighing as I haul myself out of the water, I shake my head. Always a little too late. That should be my life’s motto.
When I was a little girl, I could never make up my mind. About anything. My mom would end up making the decision for me because no one has the time to wait twenty minutes to begin fixing dinner, or buying school clothes, or deciding on sports sign-ups. It was too much, weighing whether I’d get the decision wrong or right, so I’d miss out completely on free will. I think perhaps this quirk spilled over into my adult life. The indecision morphed into something more devious. Anxiety. My brain shuns anything that might get it hurt. That doesn’t apply to work or schooling. It’s only applicable regarding other humans.
The locker room is empty, as expected, but I can’t help being disappointed she’s not in here. I make my way to the locker I put my stuff in and grab my belongings, still breathing heavily.Next time I see her, I’m going to make friends,I think.The next time I see her, I’m going to say hi,I amend.
I scroll for articles again as I make my way up to my condo, speed reading abstracts for anything unfamiliar and interesting. I’m drawn in, totally consumed by an article about waterborne microbial pathogens when I realize I’m standing in front of my door.
It’s ajar.
Locking my door is just like breathing. It is for every single woman in the city. But I was distracted by Corrick Granger and his absolutely horrifying existence. I can’t be certain I shut and locked it. Tentatively, I push on the solid wood and creep in. Everything is as it should be. The large window in my dining area catches my eye, and I see work and my office. The light is still on, but a quick peek at my clock shows that it’s a bit after nine. This is the cleaning crew. Again?
I lock my front door when I’m sure the boogey man hasn’t paid me a visit. It’s my sister. She keeps bringing up the disappearances. It’s the news. It’s Grange and his volatile temperament. That’s the cause of the chill creeping up my spine.
It has to be.
Chapter Four
Tennyson
“YOU LOOK LIKEa Hollywood movie star, Tenn,” Clover says, spinning me to face the circular lit mirror. Her salon is hip, beautiful, and insanely busy. I’ve studied every nuance for the past three hours while she’s worked her magic. Something called a Brazilian Blowout was performed. Everything on my face has been waxed and sculpted.
I choke on a breath. While I studied her salon, I didn’t focus on what she was doing to me. Not closely, anyway. “I don’t recognize myself. My hair,” I reply, touching the red, silk—foreign feeling between my fingers. “It’s soft. It’s straight. It… is well behaved. I’ve never seen it this smooth.”
Clover laughs, a lyrical sound. “It’s the best, right? I love this stuff and it will last a while, too. It’s easier for you to get up and go, too. You don’t have to do anything special to it. It will dry straight. Do you like it?” Her big eyes meet mine in the mirror, hopeful.
“As much as I love it, I think Sue-Ellen is going to love it even more.” I laugh, swishing the weight around my shoulders. Leaning in, I examine my brows. “And these,” I admit, wiggling them. “It’s the best my eyebrows have ever looked. I look like a brand new person.”
Clover claps giddily.
Another stylist stops as she walks past. “You have the prettiest color hair,” she says. “Really, how did you get so lucky?”
I look away. My hair has been called a lot of things, but pretty is never something I’d call it. Lucky? Uh, no. The deep, burnt burgundy color some women have is what I’ve always envied. Never enough to actually dye my hair, though. “Thank you,” I say. “It’s all Clover though. She’s the one who made it look this nice.” Grange calling meFirecomes to mind and an uneasy feeling washes over me, erasing my smile. My skin prickles cold and it takes me off guard.
Clover furrows her brow. “Now, now, I take pride in bringing out true beauty. This beautiful mane is all yours.” She runs her fingers through it again. “You seriously look like a model. Your freckles are perfect.”
Perfect. Another word that doesn’t belong to me. The smattering of light freckles that cross the bridge of my nose and dot my cheekbones are impossible to cover with makeup on the rare occasions I’ve tried. My dad used to say a face without freckles is like a night without stars. I would bring up the fact that Sue-Ellen didn’t have freckles. Followed by the insult that my sister is a dark night without an ounce of light. We’d squabble and I’d get in trouble for starting a fight, but my freckles remained. They are always there, a few more for every summer spent outside on the water. My passion punishes me with visible marks.
The other stylist agrees with Clover and asks if she can do my makeup. I have the party at Clover’s that I couldn’t bow out of tonight, so I shrug—acquiescing quickly. Glancing at my watch, I’m satisfied with how much time I’ve spent here. It’s what normal women like to do. My cell phone chimes with a text from Grange. The past couple of days, he’s done his best to be nice. His nice isn’t the normal definition of kind, mind you. I can tell that he wants to continue working at the lab, so I stay as detached as I can. Being around him makes me feel weird. Something I can’t describe. It bothers the part of me who controls everything.
Can I come in tomorrow to get hours? Anything specific I can do?His text reads.
If he was asking anyone else except me, the answer would be no. I work on Saturdays though, so I’ll be there to let him in and monitor the goings-on.
Yes. Later though. Ten.I tap back, trying to send it before Clover sees who I’m texting.
She doesn’t miss it. “How is it going with Grange at the lab?” Her perfectly shaped brows furrow. “Is he giving you a hard time?”
I told myself I wouldn’t bring him up. Wouldn’t give him space in my head, but I can’t be rude to my friend. My only friend here. Grange thumbs up on my text, and that’s the end of that.
I clear my throat as I walk to the makeup station by the large bay window and take a seat. The other stylist starts working on my face as Clover sweeps up the trimmings of red hair on the floor. “How well does your husband know him?” I ask, testing the waters.
“Mercer is really good friends with him. I have to say after the incident with his ex-fiancée and the aftermath, Grange has drifted a bit. I haven’t seen him for a while. He doesn’t come round as much as he used to. I think he’s embarrassed.”
“He’s like blacklisted from the Teams right now?” I ask, curious to learn anything new and exciting about the man who confuses and insults me day after day.
Clover tilts her head. “I wouldn’t go that far. He has to keep up on his anger management classes and the community service. I think it’s taking up a lot of his time. The affair changed practically every aspect of his life. Sierra moved out of the place they shared.” Clover pauses, hand on the top of the broom as she sinks deeper into thought. “How does he seem? I invited him tonight, but he said he wasn’t going because he was busy. When he said no, I invited Sierra and her new man.”
I nod. “He doesn’t seem like he wants to do anything except finish his hours. It’s what he just texted me about. He wants to come in tomorrow. He must miss his old life.” For the first time, empathy creeps in. What if I couldn’t do what I loved? If I had to bide time doing menial things until I could get back to what I’m passionate about? Well, it’s a moot point, because he shouldn’t have committed a crime.
