Page 51 of Hacking His Code
I shed my pajamas and enter the shower for the first time, wishing I were taking another bath. It extends back further than I would have imagined, into a cove lush with foliage.
It’s a sight to behold, like I’m entering a jungle. A week ago, I had no idea that showers like this existed.
My own shower fixtures are rusted, with only three tiny streams of water that trickle down. I have no idea how I’m ever going to return back to my slum of an apartment, but it’s going to be soon, so it’s best I not get too comfortable here.
A panel on the wall contains several buttons and dials, and I figure that must be how to turn it on. I push a button, and a heavy mist fills the air. I push another, and jets come to life. I toggle the temperature dials, getting it to the perfect level of heat before entering the misty stream, stretching my body as every inch of it is doused at once. The smell of the shower plants invigorates me, and I wonder if they were strategically picked out like how some use essential oils.
I exhale out my anxiety, determined not to let life overwhelm me, but I’m about six years too late. I’ve been struggling to survive for far too long, and for the first time since my juvenile mishap, I realize that I have to let go and work towards actually living instead of bracing for whatever inevitability is coming my way.
I can’t continue on the way I was, and from this day forward, I’m going to focus on becoming the best version of myself. Starting with learning how to relax.
It is an indisputable fact that I would have significantly less stress if I woke up to the Hunter Davies’ shower treatment each morning. The only thing I reckon that could make it better is having Hunter in here himself. His body pressed against mine. His hands on my hip. His lips pressed on my neck. Like I’ve seen in so many movies.
But then I guess that wouldn’t exactly take away the stress. It would introduce a completely different form of it.
“Hurry your ass up!” Neon shouts.
My shoulders slump at the thought of leaving the tranquil cove, but the last thing I want is to keep Ernestine Whitmore waiting, so I allow myself one more glorious minute of divine water pressure before exiting the shower with my hair in a towel.
Neon motions for me to take a seat and grabs one of several combs set out on the vanity.
She rips off the towel and sighs, taking a few strands between her fingers to investigate. “Your hair really does a good job of weaponizing moisture.”
“A war I’ve been fighting my entire life. My mother used to hack off my hair when I was little. It was so embarrassing.”
Her hands move quickly, pulling and pushing my head as she works her magic. “The sad thing is you have great hair; it just takes a lot of work.”
“So, where’s the rest of your squad?” I ask.
“We had a bridal party scheduled for today, so Vanessa and Joey are working that. Hunter pays too well to ever deny him.”
“What’s it like working for Ernestine?”
“She’s not at all what you’d expect her to be like. I’ve signed an NDA, so I can’t really say too much, but she’s fun. One of my favorite clients.”
“I’m so nervous about having brunch with her.”
Neon snickers. “Don’t be. I have clients that are outright aggressive, making you feel inferior. Like you’re not even worthy of breathing the same air as them. Ernie is not like that.”
“Ernie?”
“That’s what we call her.”
In no time at all, Neon has my hair done perfectly, not a strand out of place.
“Thank God you came. I feel like Ariel from The Little Mermaid with all the crap you guys left behind.”
“I’ll write up what each product is for, so you can make sense of everything. You have a great base to work with. Your skin is enviable, and your hair, though difficult, is full and capable of many different styles.”
I look at my phone, hoping for a text from Hunter, not that he owes me one. I’m just an employee, after all. He probably hooked up with someone and fell asleep at their apartment.
Oh well.
Maybe it would be better to just call this whole thing off. I’m already positive that Lucy is dead, and chances are, I’ll never find her. At this point, I’m basically just putting together a psychological profile, which is not my area of expertise, and puzzling together interpersonal relations.
It’s just not worth embarrassing myself.
It’s not like it’s going to matter. You’re never going to see her again, unless maybe it’s serving her breakfast at some café you end up waiting tables at, and even then, it’s not like she’ll remember someone like you.
