I paused for a moment, contemplating his question.
“Yes,” I admitted. It always did. I felt put together and unstoppable when my nails were done.
“Okay, then. I’m on it.”
He rubbed his big hands together and pulled out a chair at the table.
“Walk me through the process.”
“I cut and filed them already. So now we start with base coat.” I slid a bottle to him.
“Then two coats of polish and then top coat.”
He squinted, reading the different bottles. Then, with a nod, he picked up the pink polish.
His eyes met mine, and I nodded, sitting across from him.
I placed my hand in his, and rather than grip it, he waited for me to relax into his touch. Our knees brushed under the table as he positioned my hand the way he wanted it.
A long breath escaped me. Just having him here eased my nerves.
As I watched him study the bottles, it occurred to me that he hadn’t forced me to talk or offered any platitudes. It was as if he knew that the last thing I needed to hear was “it will all be fine.”
Instead, he focused on his work, providing me with a warm, steady anchor as fears stormed inside my body.
The bottle of base coat looked tiny in his farm-worn hands.
“Here.” He ran his fingertips over my palm before turning it over and placing it flat on top of a paper towel.
“How do we take it off if I mess up?”
I nodded at the bottle of remover. “I already tried twice tonight,” I admitted.
Gently cradling my pinkie, he brushed the clear base coat on gently and slowly.
He leaned forward, his face almost against my arm.
“Sorry. Just want to make sure I get it right,” he said.
“You’re concentrating like you’re defusing a bomb,” I joked.
He looked up at me, his dark eyes intense. “You know I don’t half-ass things, Matchstick.”
I bit my lip and nodded, unable to look away as he continued working.
His touch was featherlight and the juxtaposition of the tiny brush in his large callused fingers made me giggle.
But he was so earnest as he, gently, stroke by stroke, applied the polish.
“Ugh. I got some on your skin.”
“It’s okay.” I handed him the wooden stick thing Ellie used. “You use this to scrape it off.”
He eyed it like it was a weapon.
“Here.” I showed him, running the slanted wood over the side of my nail, “See? It comes off.”
He nodded, focusing on the next finger. When he’d finished my left hand, he peered upat me. “Now what?”
