I offer her a smile. “Are you here for a haircut, Abby?”
Her tired eyes find mine. “If . . . if it’s not too much to ask.”
I run a sanitizing wipe over my chair, waving her toward it before reaching for a broom. “Not at all. Come sit down. I’m Nisha, by the way.”
Abby settles in the chair as I sweep the loose hair into a bin. When I come to stand behind her, she fingers the ends of her hair at her shoulder. “I have quite a few split ends . . .”
I run my fingers through her hair, studying it. It’s definitely damaged, likely from being in the sun, poor nutrition, or stress. It’s probably from all those things. But while it’s wispy, it’s still soft. “You do, but there’s nothing a little trim and shaping can’t fix. How about you come over to the shampoo bowl with me?”
Abby does as I ask, lowering her head into the sink.
A minute later, I’m lathering her hair with shampoo, watching as her shoulders finally relax and some of the wariness in her eyes subsides.
“Are you from around here, Abby?”
I regret my question instantly when I watch that flicker of peace she’d just obtained crash and disappear.
She moves her head from side to side. “No. From the East Coast.”
“Me, too,” I say, hoping to ease whatever tension I’d just stirred. “I grew up in Boston, but life sort of brought me to California.”
Abby’s eyes flick to mine for a moment, but she stays quiet, tugging on the ends of her sleeves.
Seriously, leave the woman be, Nisha. It’s clear she doesn’t want to talk to you. You don’t even like to talk!
Resolute, I rinse her hair, careful not to let the water spill into her ears.
But then, as if my brain no longer controls my mouth, I hear myself ask, “What brought you to San Jose?”
Jesus. Shut up! Why do you care what brought her here?
Her throat bobs, and I’m positive she won’t respond. But then she surprises me. “Just something I’m searching for.”
And this time, I leave it at that.
“Wait. He saidwhat?” The beer bottle in Kavi’s hand freezes on its way to her mouth.
I roll my eyes before massaging a temple with two fingers. “His exact words were ‘Get rid of him’.”
Mala bursts out laughing, leaning back on the massive sectional sofa she’s sharing with Sarina, Bella, and Rani. “Oh, this is gold! And you didn’t correct him to let him know that you’re not even dating Micah?”
Shrugging, I take another sip of my pineapple margarita. “Why should I? Plus, maybe if he thinks I’m dating someone, he’ll stay away.”
Rani snorts. “I get the feeling that Patton staying away isn’t in the cards for you.”
“Man’s got it bad, sis,” Sarina adds, folding her legs under her before pulling a throw blanket up to her waist.
“Yeah, well, he’s a few years too late to have anything bad. And I’m not getting rid of anyone, especially because he said so. Seriously, the fucking nerve.”
“What did I tell you girls about having to attend two weddings this year?” Sitting on an oversized cozy chair next to me in her living room, Piper lifts her index finger off the cocktail glass she’s holding to wave it over everyone but me.
The room looks like a Pinterest board fell in love with a billionaire, adding flair and chaos to his meticulous life. Which is exactly what Piper did when she married Dev.
It’s all hand-scraped wood floors, plush carpets, buttery leather sofas, and throw blankets in every color that cost more than my mortgage. Have I had to suppress my mild urge to straighten and fluff some of her throw pillows? Yes. But I’ve controlled it on account of not appearing insane.
There’s a professionally created cheeseboard on the enormous stone table in the center of the room, with all sorts of artisanal cheeses, dried fruits, and cured meats. But there’s also a massive glass bowl full of Hot Cheetos. Because, as per Piper, it’s “balance”.
“The man is in town to win his ex-wife back,” she continues. “And he isn’t going to stop with just moving into her neighborhood . . . He wants to move back into her panties.”
