Page 78 of Tangled Up

“Why am I getting this free manicure I didn’t know I wanted?”

“Because I can’t do shampoo and sets all my life. I’m expanding my repertoire.” She nods towards the large, flat-screen television. “And Kirsten Dunst is about to discover just how little she knows about life.”

“Just goes to show even the greatest movie stars make stinkers.”

“Wasn’t Rob Lowe inSchoolboy Fathera million years ago?” She finishes my left hand and taps the ultraviolet box. “Why were movie producers so obsessed with teenagers having sex? Sounds messed up to me.”

“Statistics show teenage pregnancy is on the decline. Ironically, they blame screens for causing it.”

“Is that ironic or coincidental?”

Frowning, I chew my lip. “I’m not sure. These are cautionary tales, after all. So maybe it’s not ironic. Maybe it worked?”

“Speaking of worked. Put that hand under the lamp and tell me what you think. Can I hang out my shingle?”

Holding out my hand, I examine the delicate, shiny polish. “I think the old ladies are going to love it. What’s this color?”

“Essie, Ballet Slippers.” She collects her things into her bag. “I’m hoping the young ladies will love it. We’re getting a lot of fresh blood moving into the area.”

“I’ve noticed.” My mind drifts to Libby, but I guess she’s not really an adversary anymore. “Maybe it’s about time we updated your dating profile.”

Her lips twist, and she takes her bag into the kitchen. “I’ll grab the popcorn.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? You’ve given up men?”

“I’m just tired of every guy I like turning out to be gay or something.” She plops on the couch next to me holding a bowl of popcorn.

“You’ve got to stop looking for love at hairstyling conventions.”

“Is it a rule that every male stylist is gay?”

“I don’t know if it’s a rule, but it’s definitely a pattern. Here comes the line!” Holding out my hand, my eyes are fixed to the Lifetime movie on the screen, and we say it loud along with the fictional mother of pregnant Kirsten Dunst. “He’s sixteen. What’s he going to do, take her away on his skateboard?”

“Classic,” Jessica snarks. “He’s just a skater boi.”

My phone dings, and I turn it over hoping it’s Beck.

Can you talk?It’s Ronnie, and I push off the floor, motioning to my friend. “I’ve just got to make a call.”

“Don’t stay on the phone with Beck the whole night!” she calls after me, but I only wave, touching the phone icon above the text.

My insides are knotted, and I don’t know if I want him to say they’ve found her or they’re still looking. If they’ve found her, I’ll need to go back to Pensacola, but I’m not ready to be eight hours away from Beck so soon.

He answers on the first ring. “Ronnie Wilcox.”

“Hey, it’s me. I saw your text.” My throat is knotted. “Any news?”

“Carly, I’m glad you called. How’s it going?” His tone is flat, and my brow furrows.

“It’s going.” I can’t tell what he’s about to say, and it’s making me a little crazy. “You told me to call you. What’s happening with Alize?”

He hesitates, exhaling deeply, and I wrap my arm around my waist. I want to growl at him. How hard can it be to tell me what the hell’s going on?

“I didn’t want to scare you…” Another antagonizing pause. “An hour or so ago, a state trooper reported an abandoned car at a rest stop off I-75 at Ruskin. The plates matched a vehicle Alize is alleged to have borrowed from her friend. That’s still pretty far from Eden. The problem is we don’t know how long ago it was abandoned or what it means.”

“Okay.” I’m not convinced. “But you wanted me to call you?”

Another long exhale. “Kevin’s on his way to keep an eye on you.”

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