Chapter Eight
“So, did you set up your painting lesson yet? Any new brushstrokes?” Reed asks as Lysander and Jodie huddle around me. It’s Wednesday night, and we’re closing the place up after a pretty intense karaoke night.
“Oh, stop. We’re just friends.”
“So boring. Come on. The man is gorgeous. If he was gay, I might have taken a crack at him,” Reed says. Lysander groans. “Before you, of course.”
“I’m not looking for love. Really.”
“What woman comes to the beach, gives up her old boring life, and swears off men? Stop being so conservative. Loosen up, girl,” Lysander says, nudging me.
“Yes. Get your party on.”
“I’ve been partying. We go out on weekends sometimes.”
“Yeah, and you have a few martinis if we’re lucky. Plus, you turn down every guy we send your way,” Reed complains. This discussion is starting to get an intervention vibe.
“You did come here to have fun, didn’t you?” Lysander asks.
“I did, within reason. I don’t know what kind of girl you think I was, but trust me, even before the whole matrimony and mortgage thing, I was never quite a wild one. I didn’t come here to go crazy, guys. I just came here for a fresh start, for a life that was a little less… scripted.”
“You’re still being boring,” Reed adds.
“Agreed,” Lysander seconds.
Jodie, who has been uncharacteristically quiet, studies me. “I think I know the problem,” she says, putting a finger up as if she’s just had a truly genius thought. It terrifies me.
“What?” I ask.
“It’s the hair.”
I raise an eyebrow, self-consciously putting a hand to the ends of my brown, shoulder-length hair.
“Excuse me?” I ask. “What’s wrong with my hair?”
“It’s boring. Come on, Avery. A brown lob. It screams middle-aged married woman who is off the market.”
“It doesn’t. My hairdresser said it looked chic. And it’s not boring brown. It’s a warm chocolate brown. She said it complemented my complexion.”
“Now that you mention it, Jo, you’re right. You’re totally right. It’s the hair. It doesn’t scream ‘come hither.’ It screams librarian or middle-aged soccer mom… and not in a sexy way.”
“Are soccer moms ever sexy?” Lysander asks, and Reed shrugs.
“Guys, ouch. Just kill my ego.”
“Your hair is doing that for you,” Jodie adds. “I should’ve thought about this before. A woman looking for a new life needs a new haircut. It’s as simple as that.”
“I don’t know. My hair’s worked up until this point. I don’t know if I want to change it.”
“Come on, darling, listen to Jodie. Lysander and I know this fabulous guy, seriously. He’s a miracle worker. He’ll have you prancing out of his shop looking like Renee Zellweger or Kate Beckinsale. Seriously.”
“Isn’t it time for a change?” Lysander reasons. Again, I’m feeling the intervention-like vibes creep in.
Still, running a hand through my hair, I admit it’s a little exciting. Maybe they’re right. Maybe it’s time for a change.
With a sigh of resignation, I cave to the hair intervention. “What the hell. Get me an appointment.”
The three of them jump up and down like they’ve just won the lottery.
“You guys, I appreciate your help. But can I ask something? What did you used to do before you had me as your little pet project?”
Jodie examines the ends of her hair now. “Um, well, let’s see. We gossiped more about Alex, the weekend cook, and tried to guess his sexual orientation.”
“We went through a brief tennis phase,” Lysander adds.
“We tried fixing Jo up with every man in a six-mile radius,” Reed says.
I look at them all, shaking my head. “You three are unbelievable. Seriously. But I love you.”
“Let me ask you this. What did you do without us?” Reed asks now, smiling.
“I think I just sat around wondering what it would be like to have a group of friends like you.”
“That’s pathetic,” Jodie says, grinning to soften the blow. “Thank God we came into your life, or you’d be one of those creepy cat ladies sitting around knitting sweaters and watching game shows. We got to you just in time.”
“Give us a few months. You won’t even recognize your old self,” Lysander says. “Except the good parts, of course.”
“I’m starting to worry there aren’t good parts.”
“Honey, you’re gorgeous and sweet. You’re supersmart. You just need a little nudge to be the best version of yourself. You’ve spent too much time being his other half. Now you’ve got to learn how to be just Avery, how to stand on your own feet.” Reed isn’t smiling or laughing. It’s an unusually serious moment from him.
I nod at the truth in his words. He gets it. He gets me.
And although sometimes I wonder if this is the life I’m meant to find, lately, it seems more and more like I’m right where I belong.
***
I think I might puke up my Captain Crunch any second. Seriously. I’ve never been this nervous, not even on my wedding day.
“One,” Alexander counts out loud with as much drama as a person could possibly muster. He’s leaning down in front of me, one hand on either side of me as he holds the chair. I take a deep breath. This is it.
“Two,” Jodie says, standing right beside him, clapping dramatically.
“I hope I don’t regret this,” I say, interrupting the countdown.
Jodie convinced me to live a little and let her and Alexander pick my hairstyle… without me seeing it. I’ve been in Alexander’s salon, Beach Babes, for hours. My hair has been pretreated, colored, highlighted, washed, dried, cut, fluffed, and styled. My neck hurts from leaning back in the sink so many times, and I’m starving. Beauty is pain and all that—but I’m ready to see the results.
But I’m not. I’m terrified to see what these two concocted. From Jodie’s over-the-top personality to the fact Alexander is sporting a magenta mohawk, I have no idea what to expect.
“Three,” Alexander says, whirling me around.
There is a long moment of silence as I stare in the mirror, my eyes adjusting to the “new” me. I’m not really sure what to think. I’m speechless, not out of shock, just out of “what the hell happened?”
My hair’s a little shorter and now super layered. It looks like Alexander razored pieces into it to give me the edgy vibe. The chocolate brown is now a bright, bright blonde. I’ve never been a blonde, so I’m not sure what to think.
The most shocking thing, though, is the hot-pink streak on my left side. I look like a rocker without the charisma.
“Do you love it? Isn’t it great?” Jodie says.
I’m not thinking about love right now, though. I’m thinking about how my mom would react if she could see this. I’m thinking about how unprofessional I look, how no reputable CPA firm would ever hire me. I’m thinking of all these practical reasons why I should make Alexander color my hair the flat brown it used to be, and run out of here.
Instead, I shove the practical Avery thoughts aside. I look at myself, really look at myself.
I grin. “I actually love it. It’s fun.”
I mean it, running a hand through the pink streak and fluffing the layers. A smile spreads on my face, and I can’t help but feel radiant. It’s a new side of me. It’s the side of Avery I always wanted to be but couldn’t—because of Chris, because of my job, because of who I decided to be in order for society to approve.
But this pink/blonde-haired Avery looks like fun. I flip my hair in a sassy way, feeling a confidence I have never had.
Alexander claps wildly, apparently happy all his hard work paid off. I sashay to the counter, leave him a huge tip on my card, and turn to Jodie.
“Do you need to get back to your writing?” I ask, knowing she’s under a publishing deadline.
“I mean, technically yeah. But I could be persuaded to shirk off my responsibilities for a while longer. What do you have in mind?”
“Shopping. These clothes just aren’t quite right anymore,” I say, looking down to appraise my trouser jeans and button-up pink cardigan. “I need some help finding some twentysomething clothes that say fun instead of practical.”
Jodie actually lets out a squeal. “Yes! I was hoping you’d say that. Shopping spree. I could use a new pair of heels, now that you mention it. Let’s go. I know some great places.”
We spend the next few hours trying on all kinds of styles, laughing, and swiping our plastic way too much. Still, it feels so good to let go.
It feels so good to come into my own, I think in bed that night, flipping my hair one last time before drifting off to sleep beside Henry, and kiss the librarian, soccer mom Avery goodbye.
***
“Are you sure this isn’t too revealing?” I ask, eyeing the neon pink halter and tan shorts Jodie put me in this morning.
“Honey, you’re twenty-eight and you’ve got a body like a celebrity. There is no such thing as too revealing.”
“But I don’t want him to think I’m trying to impress him. This is just—”
“A painting lesson,” Jodie says, mocking me. “I know. You’ve told me ten times. Who are you trying to convince here—me or you?”
“I’m serious. I don’t want him getting the wrong idea.”
“I think he’s going to get all sorts of right ideas,” she says, winking as always. I shake my head. “Now get out of here and go to your painting lesson. You’re on the schedule at two, remember? I have to get my manuscript finished. My agent didn’t buy my excuse that new shoes were an absolute necessity yesterday.”
I gather up the canvases and supplies, heading out the door toward my spot.
I’d called J & J’s last night, feeling bold enough to set up a painting lesson. I felt like I owed him after the pickle scenario.
Okay, let’s be real. It’s not about fried pickles. It’s about me wanting to see him again, despite my best effort to deny it.
Jesse was up for the whole painting gig and promised to meet me here.
Sure enough, as I round the corner past the beach grasses to the spot we’ve picked, he’s standing there in a muscle shirt and board shorts, Ray Ban sunglasses completing the vibe.
“Hey,” I say as he rushes to help me carry all the painting equipment.
He just stares and smiles, taking some things out of my arms. “Your hair. It’s awesome. Wow,” he says, flashing those killer teeth.
“Oh, thanks. Just wanted a change.” I automatically run a hand through it. I need to stop it. I hate girls who are always flipping their hair.
“It looks amazing. Wow.” He keeps staring as if he literally can’t take his eyes off me. I feel awkward, not really used to this sort of attention. Back home, when I tried to do something different with my hair—which usually meant going one shade darker than usual—Chris never even noticed. In fairness, this is a bit more drastic, but still. It’s good to be noticed.
“So, are you ready to paint?” I ask.
“Yeah, let’s do it.”
I start standing up the easels and placing the canvases on them. I order Jesse to get the palettes ready to go.
“Beach scene?” I ask, and he nods. He’s still looking at me, and my stomach flutters under his gaze.
“Okay, I’ve already prepped the canvas, so here we go,” I say as I find the correct brushes we need first and show Jesse how to hold it properly. He copies my moves. I feel pressure now to do a good job.
I lead him through a few basic brush strokes. A compliant student, he listens to my every word, mimicking me when he can.
After a half hour, I appraise our progress.
Jesse’s looks nothing like mine, despite his best efforts. It’s muddy and murky. It looks more like a horror scene than a cheery beach scene.
I scratch my head, forgetting there is paint on my hands.
“Oh, man, you got blue in your hair.”
“Shit,” I say, holding my hands out, not sure what to do.
He laughs. “You’re really taking this edgy thing pretty far, huh? How about some green on this side,” he says, pretending to hold his brush near my hair.
I scream, slapping the brush away. He laughs as I dash away from him through the sand, inspired by the moment. He chases me across the beach, laughing like a five-year-old. Despite my initial annoyance, I give way to laughter too.
When he finally stops and puts his brush back in the brush holder, he sighs.
“I don’t think I have the knack for painting,” he says, studying his canvas. I approach him, cocking my head at his painting, trying to find anything positive to hang on to.
“I mean, it’s… different.”
“It sucks.”
I look at him to judge whether or not I can be honest. I decide he can take it. “Yeah, it’s pretty bad. Sorry.”
He shrugs. “I think it’s just the teacher. She’s a little strange, you know? And, between you and me, I think she just brought me here to show me up.”
I gasp in mock horror. “This was your idea,” I say, pointing at him.
“Please. After those pickles, you practically begged me to come here. You’re just hoping I buy you some more.”
“I have an in with the restaurant. Pretty sure I could snag some without you.”
“Yeah, but they’re not the same if you don’t eat them with a tattooed, hilarious guy like me.”
“Full of ourselves much?” I tease. I shake my head, looking off toward the surf. It’s early enough that the beachgoers aren’t quite filling the sand yet. A few rogue chairs line the water’s edge, and a few kids play in the water.
Feeling spontaneous, I decide to abandon our painting station. “Come on,” I say, tugging on Jesse’s hand. After I do, I feel a little self-conscious. Don’t give him the wrong idea, I think to myself, yanking my hand out of his. I don’t want him to think I’m making a move.
I dash down the beach, and he follows. The July sun is already warming the sand—in a few hours, it’ll be scorching hot. The wind whips my paint-streaked hair every which way, and I’m sure it doesn’t quite look like one of the women on Baywatch. I feel like a five-year-old as I gleefully skip toward the waves.
When we reach the water, I plunk my feet in and scream. “Damn, it’s cold.”
“You haven’t been down to the water yet?” Jesse asks, standing beside me.
“Nope. Been too busy setting up my life.”
“You’re a terrible beach girl, you know? What, you’ve been here like a month and you haven’t been down here? What kind of person spontaneously picks up and moves here… but doesn’t go to the beach?”
I grin. “A boring one, I guess. I’m still new to this whole spontaneous thing.”
“Well, at least you’re getting better at it. God, when I moved here, the first thing I did was come down to the water. I didn’t even have a place to live yet, but here I was, feet in the water.”
“How old were you when you moved here?” I ask.
“Eighteen.”
“Did you come alone?” I ask, feeling like the freeing breeze and lapping water make a perfect, soothing backdrop for nosy questions.
“Yep. Just me.”
I take in the sight of the sun beaming over the water, not really sure where to go with this conversation next.
Jesse picks it up for me, perhaps the serene setting prompting him to open up a bit. “My dad loved this place. We didn’t have much money growing up. He was a mechanic, and his income wasn’t the highest. Still, he would save and save so he could bring me here for a week every other summer. I looked forward to that week for two full years. I would put every penny, every nickel I could find in our beach jar so we could come back. I guess his parents always brought him here, and he loved the place. I fell in love with it, too. There’s just something powerful about standing here, feeling so small. There’s something magical about the excitement and energy on the boardwalk, yet the peace you find here.”
A wave sends me slightly off-kilter, and I lean into Jesse’s shoulder. He keeps staring into the ocean, and I smile, happy he’s opening up.
“What about your mom?” I venture. “Did she like it here?”
I look up in time to see his jaw clench. I wish I could take the words back, wish I hadn’t usurped this peaceful moment for him. I get the sense that opening up isn’t his strong suit.
“I wouldn’t know. She abandoned us when I was just two. Left my dad for a man she met at work. Picked up and took off. She cleaned out my dad’s savings and checking accounts, left him high and dry with a two-year-old. Never heard from her again.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say, gently touching his arm. He looks down at me, shrugging.
“It’s okay. Dad gave me a good life.”
“So when you came here, did you have favorite places? Did you have a routine?”
Jesse’s grin is back. I’ve asked a good question.
“Dad liked to spend as much time on the sand as possible. We’d get up at six in the morning to come and claim our spot, always as close to the water as possible. We’d spend the day here, playing in the sand, building sand castles, boogie boarding when I got older. There’s a small sub shack a few blocks back from the boardwalk. Around noon, we’d head back and get sandwiches before coming back out for the afternoon.”
“Sounds amazing.”
“It was.” He pauses, and I turn to see a wistful look in his eyes as he rubs the stubble on his chin, looking out into the vast horizon. He turns to look at me, smiling. “We also loved Midsummer Nights, believe it or not. On Tuesday of the week we were here, Dad would take me there. It was when Lysander’s mom Janet was running the place. Dad would always get a Love-in-Idleness and let me have a sip.”
“You rebel,” I say, winking.
“That’s me all right.”
“Is that why you still come every Tuesday?”
“You bet. It’s the same booth Dad and I would sit at.”
I want to know more. I want to know more about Jesse’s life, about how he ended up here, about his dad. But I also don’t want to push too far. I don’t want to scare him away.
“Well, I guess I should head back and check on Henry,” I say, sad to end this moment between us. I glance at the water one last time before stepping back, my toes back in the dry sand instead of the cold, salty water.
“Do you work today?” Jesse asks.
“At two. I get done at nine, though.”
Jesse kicks up some water, hands in his pockets. Finally, he looks at me, those green eyes piercing into mine. “So, Jake’s been a little lonely lately because I’ve been working more hours at the shop. What do you think about going for a walk tonight on the beach, after you’re done with work? You could bring Henry so Jake would have a new friend.”
“Are dogs allowed on the beach?”
Jesse smiles. “I’m a rebel, remember? Of course not. But it’ll be dark. No one will say anything, especially not to a lady walking a mastiff.”
“I’ll warn you, Henry is pretty lazy, so I’m not sure how long the walk will be.”
“Jake’s ten pounds overweight. Pretty sure he’ll be okay with a short walk.”
“Sounds like they might be a perfect pair. I mean as friends, of course.”
“Of course,” Jesse says, grinning. “So how about 10:00 p.m.? Does that work for you?”
“Sounds great. I’ll meet you outside Midsummer Nights?”
“Perfect,” he says, and we head back to clean up the painting lesson gone wrong. As we trash the canvases and clean up my easel, though, I can’t help but think that in some ways, the painting lesson might have gone terribly right.