I picked up knitting over seven years ago. And while the reason I started carries the weight of a loss—multiple losses, in fact—I still can’t completely shake, my hands continue to reach for the yarn. Maybe it’s my way of calming my racing mind;maybe it’s the only connection I have to the version of me from that time.
A version that used to be full of promise and hope.
A version of me who used to dream.
Squeezing his shoulder, I give him a tender smile. “You deserve all the nice things, Hector. Including a fresh cut that’ll show off those beautiful eyes of yours.”
His weathered freckled cheeks tint pink. “It’ll help me look more put-together, that’s for sure. And if I get the job, who knows? I might be able to take Abby on a date. Though, it’s like pulling teeth to get her to even look at me.”
My eyes soften. “She’s a tough nut to crack. I get the feeling she’s a little . . . standoffish.”
“That she is. But I think I’m wearing her down. She even whispered a hello to me in the lunch line today.”
I run my fingers through his towel-dried salt and pepper hair, thinking about the frail woman who I’ve seen around here recently.
She’s likely no more than fifty, but her pale green eyes, almost translucent skin, and thinning dark hair makes her look much older. And it’s clear that with her hollowed cheeks and several missing teeth, life hasn’t been kind to her.
I started volunteering at this homeless shelter nearly five years ago, giving out haircuts to all who needed it. About a year in, they converted one of the storage closets into a makeshift salon for me. While the shelter installed a shampoo sink, I donated a salon chair, mirror, and continue to keep it stocked with products. The space is shoebox-sized and bare-boned, a far cry from the opulent luxury salon I co-own, but it has everything I need to get the job done.
I start on Hector’s sides, snipping away what seems like two months of growth. He’s in his sixties and has been oneof the regulars here for the past two years. Like many others, sometimes he stays at the shelter, sometimes he doesn’t.
He doesn’t volunteer his reasons as to what brings him in from time to time, and I’m not one to push for answers. Everyone deserves to tell their story on their own time, and if they don’t, well that’s a fair choice, too.
God knows, there aren’t many who know my entire story.
The thought makes me smile because, even as it occurs, I realize staying tight-lipped about anything has become increasingly difficult considering my group of girlfriends.
They’re like nosey FBI agents with carte blanche access to every interrogation tactic known to man like wine, memes, and emotional manipulation.
I’m already regretting letting it slip that I had dinner with Patton last year. Ever since then, our group chat has lit up. Apparently, we’re all meeting tonight for the sole purpose of making me “spill the tea”.
They all already know the reasons I left him seven years ago.
Sarina, Piper, and my dad held me through the loss and heartbreak. Even now, I just need to think about that very last night—with my back against the bathroom door, trying to gulp in air as tears streamed down my face—for the grief to come bubbling to the surface.
It was the type of heartache I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.
And I dealt with it on my own.
And while I only met the rest—Rani, Bella, Mala, and Kavi—at Piper’s wedding a couple of years ago, we formed a bond not unlike mine with my sister and best friend. So, during a girls’ night out last year, over a few tubs of ice cream and boxes of tissues, I told them everything.
And in those tears we shed together, I realized that my circle had expanded, and so had my heart. Because I can confidentlysay that while these women might not have known me through every chapter, they love me as if they have.
But none of them, not even Sarina or Piper, know what happened last year. That I barely managed not to slip under the same tide again—a tide I’d almost drowned in the last time.
Fifteen minutes later, I unclasp the cape around Hector’s neck and brush the loose hair from behind his ears. Hector’s blue eyes shine a little brighter, and his jaw seems more defined than when he sat down. It’s a small change, but the joy that comes from helping someone feel a little more like themselves again hits me every time.
“You know,” I say, smoothing some gel into a few strands of his hair. “I think this warehouse job is going to be great for you. It’ll be steady hours and pay. I have a good feeling about it.”
Hector rises from the chair, checking himself out in the mirror with a satisfied grin. “I hope so. It’ll be—” His words are cut off when both our eyes land on the woman standing at the entrance. “Oh, hey, Abby! I was just talking about you with Ms. Arora, here.”
“Nisha,” I remind him.
“Oh?” Abby asks hesitantly, her voice raspy like that of a long-time smoker. She pulls her sleeves almost to the middle of her palms, shifting from one foot to another. “Okay . . .” She looks down past Hector, as if resigned to whatever he may have said about her, convinced it was bad.
Hector takes a step toward her, but falters when she stiffens, though his smile holds. “I was just telling her that maybe my new haircut will help me land a job so I can finally ask you out on a date.”
Abby’s eyes give nothing away, almost as if Hector hasn’t spoken. Instead, they slide down, focusing on her fidgeting hands. My chest tightens at the way Hector’s shoulders deflate,but he turns to me with a polite smile and a murmured thanks before sliding past Abby, telling her that he’ll see her later.
