“I’m not trying to cause a scene.”
“Too late.”
Misty shifted on the vinyl chair, craning her neck to see him. “Is he supposed to be part of this appointment? Because I didn’t sign off on an audience.”
“I’m not— I just need to talk to you.” His eyes stayed on me. “Please. Five minutes.”
He said ‘please’ like it cost him something. That might’ve worked on me a week ago.
“You want to talk?” I peeled off one glove, snapped it into the trash, then stripped the other and tossed it in after. “Fine. We’ll talk.”
Relief moved across his face before he caught it. He took a step forward, like he’d already won.
“When I’m done here,” I added, and watched that hope in his eyes die out. “And you can wait in reception.”
His mouth opened.
“Don’t,” I said.
“I’m not sitting out there like some—”
Misty lifted her head off the headrest and looked at him full on. “Oh, my God. Just go sit down.”
He blinked at her.
“You got what you wanted. She said she’ll talk. So please meet her halfway, and wait.” Misty flicked her fingers toward the front. “Put us all out of our misery.”
It looked like hearing it from a stranger made all the difference. Aiden’s shoulders pulled back, pride rearranging itself into something he could live with. He glanced at me, but I held his gaze and said nothing.
After a beat, he gave a stiff nod, letting the curtain fall back into place. The aged fabric whispered against the metal rod, and the booth closed around us again.
The noise from reception dulled.
I didn’t realize I’d been watching the line where the curtain met the wall until Misty cleared her throat.
“Thanks,” I said, already reaching for a new pair of gloves.
She grinned. “Sisters need to stick together.”
I slid the latex over my hands and flexed my fingers into it. “Don’t ever say that again.”
Her grin widened. “Noted.”
I lowered myself back onto the stool and adjusted her arm, guiding her wrist into position so the skin stretched clean beneath my thumb. The stencil’s faint purple lines waited under the shine of ointment. Before, we’d been laughing about her ex and the floral symbolism she’d sworn she didn’t care about. I’d been in rhythm. Comfortable. The machine felt like an extension of my hand.
Now the shop felt smaller.
I could track where he was without seeing him. The reception bench creaked if someone shifted their weight. The coffee machine hissed every time it kicked on. The bell over the door chimed again, and I imagined him glancing up at every new arrival, wondering who saw him there. Wondering what they thought.
I turned the machine back on and set the needle to skin.
My line wavered by a fraction before I corrected it.
What was he going to say?
That he wanted me? That he’d been thinking about me, and we could figure it out?
How was I going to tell him that none of it mattered?
