And the worst part? I keep hoping I’ll see him again.
Every day, I catch myself glancing through the salon’s front window, pretending I’m just checking the weather or admiring the street. But deep down, I’m waiting, looking forhim. Maybe walking down the sidewalk. Maybe ducking out of Josy’s coffee shop with that lazy grin of his and a cup in hand. But I haven’t been that lucky.
Not yet.
And I hate how disappointed I feel every time the door across the street opens and it’s not him. It’s like something inside me tugs tighter each time, reminding me that this isn’t supposed to feel this way. That this whole thing between us is fake. A favor. A performance.
But tell that to my heart because it clearly didn’t get the memo.
Business has been wonderful. The support I’ve received from the town has been more than I ever imagined. Every day, people walk through the doors curious, eager to learn, and ready to buy whatever I recommend. I’ve had so much fun talking to all these women, sharing tips, listening to their stories, and helping them feel confident in their own skin. It’s been filling me with something I haven’t felt in a long time: hope.
Even more surprising is that people have been coming in from all over North Carolina just to meet me and check out my products. It’s surreal, honestly. Some days, I feel like a local celebrity when in reality, I’m just doing what I love, mixing formulas, helping people feel good about themselves, and building something I can be proud of.
Then there's my social media. Ever since I posted the short video with Esteban, things have blown up. My following has grown by the thousands overnight. Comments have flooded in asking who he is, if he’s single, and begging for more content with the “hot skincare guy.” People loved seeing a man take interest in skin care, especially someone who looks likethatwhile I talked about serums and exfoliants. I've been tagged in duets, reactions, and edits with cheesy romantic music in the background.
Everyone wants more of him.
So. Do. I.
Not just for the algorithm boost, but because being around Esteban feels effortless, exciting. He brings this playful energy that’s magnetic on camera… and off. I’ve been thinking about asking him to film another video with me, maybe even a series. But I haven’t brought it up yet. I want to see how our friendship goes first, then maybe I’ll work up the courage to ask him.
I spot Mrs. Mirtha and Mrs. Henrietta sitting patiently in the waiting area, both perched on the edge of their chairs like they’ve got front-row seats to a show. They’re the unofficial town gossip queens, sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued, but always sweet with me. I’ve known them since I was a kid, and seeing them here now, grinning like they’re up to something, brings a smile to my face.
Looks like it’s time to catch up on all thevery importantlocal news. I’ve been gone too long, and clearly, I’m out of the loop.
When I finish up with my client, I turn to the waiting area and wave at the two familiar figures sitting side by side in their perfectly coordinated outfits: matching floral dresses, white cardigans, and their signature pearl necklaces and earrings. They’re the cutest old ladies, and their smiles warm something in my chest.
“Hi Mrs. Mirtha, Mrs. Henrietta,” I say as I approach them. “How have you been?”
“Oh, we’ve been better,” Henrietta says, waving a delicate hand as she stands. “We’re just so glad you’re back, my sweet girl. We haven’t seen you in forever.”
“True,” Mirtha chimes in, getting to her feet with a slight huff. “You left for college and stayed gone so long. Your momma was beside herself. I kept telling her you’d come back eventually, butsomeone”—she shoots a lookat Henrietta—“kept saying you’d get married to some city boy and forget all about us.”
Henrietta gasps. “I never said that!”
“You absolutely did. Don’t argue in front of the girl, we’re trying to make a good impression,” Mirtha says, swatting gently at Henrietta’s arm.
Laughing, I lead them to the chairs in front of one of the large mirrors. “Well, I’m back for good now. No plans of leaving Honey Springs ever again.”
They both beam like I just told them I’m running for mayor.
“You hear that?” Henrietta says, nudging Mirtha. “Back forgood. I told you that city life wasn’t going to keep her.”
Mirtha rolls her eyes. “You also told me kombucha was made from mushrooms.”
“Ittasteslike mushrooms!”
Their playful bickering makes me grin as I start getting my supplies ready. I’ve missed this—the familiar faces, the warm banter, the small-town charm.
“How can I help you today?” I ask, cutting in before the bickering can spiral into a full-blown debate.
“We want some products for our old-lady spots,” Mirtha says, patting her cheeks dramatically. “I have so many I’m going crazy.”
“Yeah, she looks like a Dalmatian,” Henrietta chimes in without missing a beat. “I always told her to wear sunscreen when we were younger, but she insisted on tanning like one of those girls in a beach movie. Now look at her.”
“Oh, don’t start with me,” Mirtha huffs. “You’ve got spots too. You’re no porcelain doll yourself.”
I lift my hands, smiling. “Ladies, ladies. Let me assure you—dark spots, or hyperpigmentation, are completelynormal, especially with mature skin. As we age, our skin produces more melanin in certain areas, especially after years of sun exposure. But don’t worry, I’ve got just the thing.”
