“They don’t call it HOTlanta for nothing,” I finish his thought, feeling confident that I know the answer.
“And all along I thought it was the extreme late-summer temperatures and obscene humidity,” he adds, which makes us both laugh. “Maybe I’ll need to stay and find out for myself.”
We stop laughing, and an awkward silence fills the room. Is he trying to tell me he wants to stay? Is that even possible? I’m struggling to form the right question when a terrible noise breaks through the quiet.
My doorbell. Buzzing furiously and repeatedly.
“That would be Luisa,” I sigh. She was meeting an IRS criminal investigator for breakfast nearby and offered to pick me up after, suggesting in her ever-practical way that it would give us extra time to go over our plan on the drive back to Norcross.
She knew I had a date with Hugh last night, but I never got around to telling her I finally managed to bring him home. I happened to be otherwise occupied.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, clearly noting my panicked expression. He heads into the bedroom to pull on his jeans. “I’ve kept you too long. I’ll distract her with hot coffee and probing questions about investigative journalism. You go get ready for your big day.”
Hugh returns from the bedroom, struggling to pull on his shirt as I open the door.
Luisa takes one long look at the two of us, laughs, and exclaims, “Well, well, well. Who knew Professor Pridmore offered private lessons?”
Since I came up with the Southern Gothic theme for the staff costumes, I can’t exactly complain when Luisa’s sister, Carola, leans in, tugs the edge of my eyelid, and begins applying the sort of black liquid eyeliner that hasn’t touched my face since I was thirteen and experiencing a short-lived emo phase.
Lord, how my mother hated that all-black era of my life. If we had lived in a slightly different climate, I probably would have stayed blissfully emo through all of high school. But, dang, that first summer in black jeans, black leather combat boots, and trench coats was brutal. By the Fourth of July I was back in my summer uniform of ratty cutoffs and ribbed tanks.
“You screamseductive kindergarten teacher,” she deadpans, clearly pleased with herself. “It’s the whole ‘heart-shaped face and rosy cheeks’ look. Don’t open your eyes, the kohl needs to dry.”
I nod in submission, which is basically what I’ve been doing for the last hour, as Luisa’s mom and sister trimmed,combed, teased, sprayed, and arranged my hair into a choppy style that’s unlike anything I’ve ever worn. For starters, it’s way bigger.
Luisa told them some version of the truth: We got invited to a Y’allywood Ball at a Midtown country club, costumes required. They were enraptured by the idea of giving us a glam makeover for the event.
“Spread your lips,” Carola commands, then applies a thick lip liner, pressing it against the top of my mouth to form a wide heart. “Now pucker.”
“Wait,” Luisa’s mom, Dolores, exclaims—as if Carola is leading me to the edge of a cliff and it’s her responsibility to rescue me from the abyss. My eyes fly open and I see her rushing toward me with a tube of lipstick. “She’s too blanquita for Chanel Independante. You need to use MAC Ruby Woo.”
“Mami’s right,” Luisa says from the salon chair where she’s been sitting for the entire time, observing their progress with razor-sharp focus. “That deep red will wash Holly’s complexion right out.” Her phone rings, and she walks into the other room, grinning like an idiot. Somebody’s gotten under that girl’s skin, and I know exactly who it is.
“Make her look sickly,” Dolores oh-so-helpfully adds, still focused on my choice of lip color.
“Too pale, on top of how flaquita she is,” Abuela Fela observes, unhelpfully. She’s been trying to feed me empanadas since I walked through the door, but I’m too nervous to eat. They smell amazing though.
Carola accepts the lipstick from her mom and begins to apply it liberally to my lips, not the subtle tap-tap of soft color that I usually do, when I do lipstick at all.
“My work is done,” Carola exclaims with a flourish, then spins me toward the full-length mirror.
I stare at my reflection, barely recognizing the matte-skinned, bold-eyed, fierce-lipped badass of a woman staring back.Is this really me?
My phone dings, pulling me out of my daze. It’s a text from Hugh with a listing for a rental property near Emory.
What do you think of this place? Has real oven and room for actual sofa.
My heart begins to sputter in my chest, and I let out a tiny squeal.
Oh wow does this mean you’re staying?
I type the response quickly, proud to have avoided the word “really.”
Wanted to tell you this morning. Emory’s offered a three-year visiting gig. Thinking about it.
And then, before I can chicken out, I reply, straight from the heart:
I want you to stay.
