I almost feel the same way about my gynecologist. Except her name is Dr. Crotchly—the poor dear. She’s, tragically, nearing retirement, andsheisn’t my favorite person on the planet.
Owen is.
And for very obvious reasons, our relationship is vastly different than my yearly check up with good ol’ Doc Crotchly.
Waving my scissors around in the air for a minute to really sell how very occupied I am, I make eye contact with him in the mirror. I can make Mrs. Cotten’s trim last all day. I’ll prune her like a Chia Pet and wait around minute by minute for it to all grow back. I’ve got nothing but time. “You have a game tonight, buddy. Can’t be late for warmups.”
“Honey,” Mrs. Cotten stage whispers, “if I were you, I’d put my hands through that boy’s hair faster than pantyhose rippin’ at a wedding. It looks tantalizingly soft.”
Owen snickers, but I won’t be swayed.
“Watch yourself, Mrs. Cotten. Owen’s gonna grow a bigger head than he already has for all that hair. He can wait on my mama. She’s just finishing up a color consult.” I go back to snipping Mrs. Cotten’s lavender-gray locks as her husband gets his biweekly trim at the barbershop next door.
“The young man obviously needs a cut, sweetie. That hair is just far too long to be decent. I can barely see those dreamy, baby blue eyes of his,” she says, studying Owen in the mirror, her offer awfully charitable. Meaning, she’d just love to discuss the implication of my hands in Owen’s hair all the way back home with Mr. Cotten. Probably over soft pretzels and a couple’s dip in their state-of-the-art jacuzzi tub, if Mr. Cotten’s varied but detailed description of their active love life are to be believed. And I, for one, will not be questioning it. Mrs. Cotten continues her musing, low-key crushing on my best friend. “He is handsome with all that hair, though, don’t ya think? Do all your ball players have so much of it?”
Owen’s—yes, handsome—reflection in my mirror smirks, entirely too self-satisfied, winking when he catches me staring. I narrow my eyes and take another snip from Mrs. Cotten’s bangs, just so he knows I’m a consummate professional.
No distractions here, big guy. I don’t care how luscious those locks are.
“I keep telling you to come to one of my games, Mrs. Cotten. I’ll introduce you to all of the guys, and you can inspect every hair on our heads. Brooke certainly has,” he adds for good measure.
“You’re being dramatic.” I roll my eyes and pull out the blow dryer when I see my mom making her way back to where Owen waits. “I have not given them all trims. Only Breezy, Drew, and Titan.”
Actually, I gave the guys discounts since they’re Owen’s teammates, and they’ve become repeat customers. But what Owen doesn’t know for certain won’t hurt him.
“And Jack… Danger… my dad…” he starts.
Mom spritzes Owen’s hair with water, and I turn on the blow dryer at full capacity, drowning out his voice. “Sorry, O,” I apologize like a dirty little weasel. “Can’t hear you.”
Only when I see my mom truly in the throes of Owen’s trim do I turn off the dryer and release Mrs. Cotten from my clutches. “Okay, Mrs. Cotten. Make sure you set up your appointment for three months from now, and tell Mr. Cotten I said hello.”
As I sweep up my area and tinker around my booth, I can't help but smile to myself when Owen gushes with Mom over his newborn niece, Lola, then charms her silly when he waxes poetic about the way she’s styling her hair these days.
“The McBride women just love to drive me crazy, I suppose.” He’s such a ridiculous flirt. Mom eats it up. “Always teasing me with attention and beauty and irresistible haircuts. Thank you, Ms. McBride.”
“Oh, honey, I wish you’d call me Beth,” she replies, absolutely delighted with Owen’s attention, then holds up the giant, emerald cut solitaire on her ring finger. “Plus, I won’t be a McBride for much longer. Jerry proposed!”
Owen’s gaze instantly finds mine in the mirror, brows furrowed with worry. I shrug and shoot him a halfhearted smile. This isn’t the first time Mom has been engaged, and I don’t want to sound like a cynic, but it probably won’t be the last.
“Well, then”—he gives her his warmest smile—“congratulations, Ms. Beth. I’m happy for you. Jerry is a lucky guy.”
It only takes Mom brushing him off, removing the cape, and a quick peck on her cheek—Owen’s signature goodbye—before he corners me in my booth. “You didn’t tell me.”
“It’s no big deal,” I say low enough that we aren’t overheard and rearrange the products on my vanity, letting my fingers skim across the single, diecast VW van I keep at the salon. It’s cream and mint and the only non-work item on the surface. “Jerry asked like… a few weeks ago… and they’ll be married by the end of the month and…”
“A few weeks ago? Around the same time you ended things with Wolverine?”
I don’t look at him for fear of giving him the satisfaction of me laughing at his nickname for my ex. “His nails were not that long, Owen,” I say instead, doing a poor job of hiding my smile. Owen’s got a talent for finding something weirdly annoying about each of the guys I date and making it their entire personality. And, eventually, it’s how I view them, too.
Aiden’s nails were unnaturally feminine. It was never gonna work out between us.
“I don’t see how the timing of our break up has anything to do with anything.”
Owen pauses my hand with a tender touch around my wrist, drawing me closer and lowering his voice. “Come on, Brooke.”
“You never liked Aiden.”
“Not a bit. But that’s not why you broke up with the guy.”
