“A thing?”
“Yes, between you two. Also, your hair. Lordy!” She jumps behind me and works her hands through my hair. “What in the hell? Gorgeous red, lovely curls, and yet this chaos?”
I cringe. “Oh crap. I just talked to Dave. I’d thought I’d gotten it figured out a bit.”
This one-handed shit is for the birds. I’m seriously getting tired of looking bananas.
“You did not,” Anj says factually. “Remind me not to break a bone ’cause you’re a mess.”
She wrestles with my hair. I feel her fingers scrub my scalp as she plays with and shapes my curls, and then a clip of some sort pulls against me. Eventually, she sits back down after doing some more scrunching.
“Okay, now you look like you. How you’re supposed to.”
I laugh. “Which is what?”
“Hot redhead. Curly, long hair pulled up in a ponytail. Someone pulling off high-fashion without looking like an asshole while in our little fishing village.”
It’s clear that I need to make some sort of attempt to manage myself because these makeover interventions are becoming too common. I cannot walk around horrifying people with my hair insanity. Before I can even check myself out, Anjanette is trying to nail me down with gossip confirmation.
“Now, spill. More than Dave has.”
“This town is smaller than I thought, huh?”
“It is,” she says with a mischievous smile.
I don’t know how to reply, but thankfully, the table next to us celebrates loudly when their food is delivered, and she looks away for a minute, enough time for me to compose myself.
“Thanks for fixing my hair,” I say quietly.
Dave’s cook brings out with a platter, and I stuff my face full of oysters, dousing them in tartar sauce.
“God, these are so good. It’s so hard to find fried oysters.” Maybe she’ll see that I want to stop talking.
But she does not. Or based on her knowing smile, she doesn’t care.
“He hasn’t had athingin ages.” She exuberantly waves a hand between us. “But I like this for him.”
“I also,” I say, pausing, “haven’t had a thing in ages.” I wipe my face with a pile of napkins. “And that’s not a realthing.”
“I disagree.” Anjanette smiles. “I think maybe you’re his Katrina,” she says factually. “You’re the girl he met in Puerto Rico, yes?”
I freeze. My non-answer is an answer. A confirmation.
Anj grabs a fried oyster and continues with a smile. “Dave is your Katrina, and you’re his Patrick.”
Before I can say anything, she waves an oyster at me. “And, no, your non-guy-Dave didn’t say much of anything to me. It just took a few anecdotes about your friend for me to make the connection.”
She reaches a hand out over the table. “I’m so damn sorry about your friend. Dave told us he’d sort of met him over calls when you guys were in Puerto Rico.”
“Patrick.” Apparently, it’s impossible to say his name without tearing up.
“And it’s why you maybe came here. A little escape?”
“Yeah. A little escape,” I agree.
I refuse to cry. My eyes well up with tears, but I’m not going to cave.
“While none of us love why you’re here, we are very happy to have you. Happy for you and happy for Dave.”
