Page 44 of Everything We Thought Was True
“Thank you. Yes, let’s do it. Next case, you’re on the team. I’ll call first dibs on you, okay?”
“Sounds good,” he said, saluting casually then continuing down the hallway.
Suddenly, I felt guilty for slamming my laptop shut and worrying about someone at work seeing my father and Oliver’s beautiful wedding invitation. I didn’t need to hide this from them. They were lawyers specializing in employment law, and I couldn’t think of any who’d ever given me the impression they were homophobic.
I realized with a jolt that I’d been lying about my behavior, just like my dad had lied about his for years. Even my mom had lied by staying in the marriage and not disclosing the truth after she knew about my dad. We were a family of liars and hypocrites. When would it end?
People talked about straddling two worlds, but I’d never achieved that perfect balance. It was like living my life inside a masquerade ball—carefully holding up a mask to shield my identity. It took so much work.
What would it be like to drop the mask?
I was always eavesdropping on a quarrel between internal opposing voices. One voice was the attorney. It remained skeptical, only revealing facts when absolutely necessary. It didn’t play its hand until the odds of winning were high. The other was a voice I hardly ever heard, of someone who wanted to throw strategy out the window. Who yearned to be free. To no longer hide. “Wait!” it cried. “Don’t run away. Don’t be afraid.”
As I walked to my car, I thought about heading home to unwind for a few hours before meeting Kevin for dinner. But then I glimpsed my hands holding the steering wheel and knew exactly what to do. In the last two months between prepping for the trial and Dad’s big day, I'd lost my battle with my former nasty habit and had bitten my fingernails to the quick. The state of my hands was embarrassing. I needed a set of acrylic tips stat. This would be the perfect opportunity to get them done. The salon I typically went to near my house was tiny and booked up far in advance. It would be a mob scene on a Friday afternoon, with everyone gearing up for weekend plans.
I checked Yelp and found a salon a few miles away that got excellent reviews, so I headed there. When I walked in, I was happy it was clean and didn’t smell of nail polish toxins like some salons did. I looked around and saw some women getting pedicures down the line of chairs, most on their smart phones or reading a magazine and one who looked like she’d fallen asleep. No one was getting a manicure at the moment, and I hoped that meant I didn’t have towait.
A technician with big red hair, glasses, and a pink smock approached me. “Can I help you, sweetie?”
“Yes, I’d like a set of acrylics, please.”
“Sure, seventy-five dollars for a full set, ’kay?”
“That’s fine, thanks,” I said, making a mental note to add this to the other costs of planning this wedding. My nails had been gorgeous a few months back. Nothing like massive amounts of stress to bring back a nasty childhood habit I thought I’d left in the rearview mirror, along with other parts of my past.
“Pick out a color in that basket and then take a seat at the first station, hon. I’ll be right over,” the technician said.
I smiled, went over to the basket, and picked out a gorgeous burgundy called You Had Me at Merlot. I loved the movieJerry Maguire, and I also loved wine.Score.
I sat down and started chitchatting with the technician, whose name tag read Diane. She looked like a Diane. She seemed funny and warm, and I liked her instantly.
The doorbell jingled. Diane looked up and didn’t look pleased. She pursed her lips and tightened her jaw. “Can I help you?”
Someone behind me said, “Yes, I’d like to get a manicure, please.” The voice sounded like a woman’s, but I was pretty sure it was a man with a feminine voice.
Diane hesitated and looked back down as if she needed to give my nails immediate attention.Why is she stalling and not giving this person her full attention?I was uncomfortable knowing she was ignoring him. I looked at her intently and nodded to convey that she should turn back to the person at the door.
After what seemed like an interminable amount of time, she finally spoke. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m fully booked this afternoon. I don’t have time for a walk-in.” She said all of this without looking up.
I shifted in my seat. Something told me she was lying—call it the lawyer in me or intuition, but I was getting the definite impression that Diane didn’t want to do this person’s nails.
I finally turned around to look at the person by the door, doing so slowly and nonchalantly, with a smile on my face. I saw a man in a beautiful, bright poncho, high-heeled boots, and a perfectly made-up face. Only his nails weren’t picture perfect, with chipped purple polish past its prime. He desperately needed a manicure. That I could see.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” he said, sounding disappointed but also annoyed. He didn’t budge from where he stood. He lifted one finger to his mouth and bit the edge of his cuticle. “I really could use a manicure. I can wait—that’s no problem.”
“No, that won’t work. I don’t have any openings today, I’m afraid.” This time, Diane looked up and stared right at him, unwavering, and it startled me to see that she looked downright mean. Her entire face had transformed into something malevolent. Not at all friendly.
“I see,” the man by the door said. I could hear frustration and resignation in his voice.
He sighed heavily and clicked his tongue like a teacher would at a student who’d stepped out of line. Then he looked at me inquisitively, cocking his head, resembling a dog being asked a question. I sat there, dumbfounded, glued to my seat, unable to move a muscle or utter a word. I wanted to scream at Diane, “Are you kidding me?” But I didn’t. I wanted to say, “I’m sorry” to him. Despite that, I said nothing. I gave him a small sympathetic smile, like you would to the last kid left on the playground who didn’t get selected to play on anyone’s team.
Then I slowly turned back around and faced Diane. I heard the bell jingle again, and the door closed with a thud. The salon seemed so quiet even though the background musicstill played.
Diane tsk-tsked. “I’m not doing his nails—no, sir.” She wasn’t really addressing me in particular, but there was no one else in earshot.
I couldn’t help myself. “Why?” I asked, already regretting where this was heading but letting myself get sucked in.
“You know. Because he’s one of them.”
