Neither of us said anything for the next five minutes. I finished up his haircut, checking my work and combing it this way and that to make sure everything was in order.
"Do you mind if I blowdry it?" I asked, finally.
"I don't normally do that," he said.
"I'm not gonna make it poofy or anything," I said, sensing his reluctance.
He smiled and gave me a nod that meant he was up for it, so I ran a little product through his hair and turned on my dryer, blowing his hair away from his face. I only dried it for a minute, but I was glad I did because it let me see how his haircut would behave when dry, and I was pleased with how nice it looked.
I unbuttoned the cape that had been draped around his neck, and used a soft brush to clear any stray hairs from his neck. I had forgotten about him wearing a fleece vest, and I had to smile at how much better the haircut looked now that the cape was off. He was strikingly handsome—rugged and manly.
I turned him in his chair so that I could stare straight at his face rather than using his reflection. At first, I didn't look at his eyes—instead I scanned his haircut, making sure everything was laying just right. I reached up and smoothed a piece that was a little askew, and smiled once I got it in place.
"It looks really good," I said smiling at him and meeting his gaze. "See what you think. Do you like it?"
"I'm sure it's fine," he said.
I gave him a playful scowl. "You didn't even look at it. You should. I want you to make sure you like it because if I need to change anything, then I'll—"
"I love it," he said. "It's amazing."
"Did you look at it?"
"Not really."
"Well, it is amazing," I said, laughing. "It's handsome on you."
He gave me a little grin as he ran his hand through his hair. "Thank you. It feels good."
Ever since he had shared that story with me, I could see and feel his countenance change. He seemed more introspective, and I honestly didn't know why. I wondered if he was sad at the thought of what the girl had done, and that gave me an uneasy feeling. But then it crossed my mind that maybe he was just unaccustomed to sharing such things and he might be wondering if he had made me feel differently about him. I felt the sudden urge to reassure him that I didn't judge him because of it.
He was still sitting in my salon chair, and I placed my hands on the armrests so that I could lean closer and get a better look at him. I wanted him to see the honesty and sincerity in my eyes. Our faces were only about a foot apart by the time I leaned in, and I just stood there and stared at him for a few seconds.
"Isaac, thank you for sharing that story with me earlier," I said. "I could tell it was something you don't tell a lot of people, and I—"
"No one," he said, interrupting me. "I haven't told anyone. Not even my parents. I think her parents knew about it, but I didn't tell a soul. Not a single person."
So many things crossed my mind as I looked into his eyes. I knew he had friends in Chicago. Who wouldn't want to be this guy's friend? He was gorgeous and successful—he was young and he had everything going for him. How in the world could he have gone through that time without telling anyone?
"I'm sorry," he said, seeing that I was lost in thought. "I didn't tell you that to make you feel weird, it's just the truth. It's been buried for so long that I honestly still can't believe it came out of my mouth. Even as I was saying the words to you, it seemed like a story that had happened to someone else."
"It didn't make me feel weird," I said. "Neither thing makes me feel weird—not that you told me or that I'm the only person you told." I took my hands off the armrests and straightened my posture as I stood in front of him. I didn't take my eyes from his. "Okay, maybe the first one does make me feel a little weird, but not in the way you're thinking. Not like I'm judging you."
"How, then?" he asked.
I felt breathless and anxious as I realized that the answer to his question was that it made me jealous. I was flat-out jealous that he had been with someone else in the first place and especially that had it had resulted in feelings that he still held onto.
"How does it make you feel weird?" he repeated.
"I don’t know," I said. "But I think it's a positive thing that you shared it with somebody." I smiled. "Who knows, maybe just telling me will change things, fix things for you. It helps to get things off your chest. Maybe you'll go back to Chicago and find somebody and have a normal relationship. And you won't even have to tell her about all that."
"Would it be better if I don't share it with someone I'm trying to have a normal relationship with?" he asked. He spoke deliberately, and I knew there was more to his question. I knew he was asking if he had made a mistake by sharing it with me. I knew just from the way he looked at me that he liked me, and it gave me a tingling sensation in my stomach, but the truth was I wished I didn't know he had been with someone—even if it was years ago.
By now, being in my late twenties, I had to assume that any eligible man my age would have had past relationships, but it didn't change the uneasy feelings I got from actually hearing him talk about it.
"Would it?" he repeated.
"Would it what?" I asked.
"Are you sad that I told you, Shelby? Does it make you see me differently?"
I started to smile and deny it, but I couldn't. We had been so honest thus far that I figured why start faking it now.
"Maybe I am a little sad," I said. "But probably not in the way you're thinking. I'm not disappointed in you for what happened. That was totally out of your control. And I'm happy you told me. It does make me feel good that you thought you could be honest with me."
"I wish you would tell me exactly what you're thinking right now," he said, knowing I was holding something back.
I gave him a slight shrug and I smiled, trying to make it seem like less of an issue than it was. "I'm probably just jealous of her," I said dismissively. My heart pounded when those words came out of my mouth. I felt antsy and I turned to walk away with the intention of sweeping and straightening up my station.
Isaac reached out and grabbed me by the arm, surprising me and causing me to glance at him with a curious expression. He pulled on me gently, forcing his chair to swivel in my direction. He sat up, positioning himself a little closer to me and staring at me with an earnest expression.
"Please tell me you just said you're jealous," he said. I grimaced at him, and he shook his head and gave me a little self-deprecating smile. "I mean, I'm sorry, I shouldn’t have said it like that. I'm sad that you're jealous but I'm really happy about it at the same time. Is that okay? Is it okay for me to say that?"
I gave him a little shrug. "You can say whatever you want."
"Really?" he asked. "Whatever I want? Are you sure?"
"Sure," I said. He had let go of my arm, but I was still standing there, facing him. "Say what's on your mind," I said, holding my palms up. "It seems to be the theme of the day."
"I'm gonna marry you, Shelby."
"What?" I asked, smiling at him like I couldn't have possibly heard him right.
He put his palms in the air the same way I had done. "You said for me to say what I was thinking, and that's what I was thinking. I don't know when, and, honestly, I don't even really know how, seeing as how we live in different states and everything, but that's just how I feel. I look at you and talk to you, and I just feel like I'm going to marry you."
He seemed somewhat casual when he said it, so it took a second for everything to sink in. His words pierced my chest like I had been stabbed straight through with a sword. My chest tightened and I felt a searing sensation. His deep, masculine voice was like music to my ears and the words that came out of his mouth caused my body to tingle and convulse with sensations. I did my best to control it, but I was definitely shaking and shivering.
"Obviously, I can't say for sure that it's going to happen, Shelby." He smiled. "We have to give ourselves time, and I have to work on obtaining your consent and everything. But you asked me what I was thinking, and I'm telling you the truth. I feel like you're familiar to me. I just feel like one day you'll be mine."
Patrick, who was still standing at the door, let out a loud bark. Under normal circumstances, a bark like this would not have startled me, but given my current fragile state, it scared me to the point that I jumped back and gasped, holding a hand to my chest.
The distraction of Patrick's bark was enough to get Isaac out of his chair. He stood, smiling at me as he reached into his back pocket. "What do I owe you for the haircut?" he asked.
The question seemed ludicrous after his previous statement, and I just grinned and shook my head as I took my broom and began sweeping. I went around his feet, sweeping his hair into a pile for gathering it into a dustpan.
"I'm sorry if you think I'm crazy," he said. "I normally don't go around having conversations like the ones I just had with you. I love my haircut, though. I appreciate you being willing to work me into your schedule."
As overwhelmed and speechless as I was, I didn't want him to regret all the things he just said to me. I wanted to tell him that I had all sorts of unruly, indefinable emotions when I looked at him and that I felt like I wanted to marry him, too. In spite of barely knowing him, I felt like I could see my future when I looked into his eyes, just like he was saying.
"I don't think you're crazy," I said.
"I know you were only expecting to give me a haircut," he said. "And I really appreciate it. You did a good job. I like it a lot." As he spoke, he pulled some cash out of his money clip. I was distracted with putting away my broom so I didn't even realize he was handing me a fifty-dollar bill until I looked down at it.
"I don't want that," I said.
"Is it not enough?"
"It's too much."
He pushed it toward me, and I pushed it back at him. My hand made contact with his when I pushed the money away, and I felt a zap of electricity at the spot where we touched. His hand was warm and big, and there was a light dusting of hair on the backside of it—I could feel it under my fingertips. I should have pulled my hand away as soon as I went out for the push, but I held it there, letting our touch linger. It was as if I was incapable of breaking away—like there were magnets in my fingers and his hand was made of metal. We were barely touching and yet I could hardly breathe. I began to shake again when I became aware of our point of contact, and once I realized that, I pulled my hand away.
Isaac gave me a thoughtful grin and a little imperceptible shake of his head. I knew he felt the same electricity and attraction that I felt. He stepped toward my station and tossed the fifty-dollar bill into the top drawer, which was hanging open.
"I really don't need that," I said.
"I know you don’t, but I want you to have it. Buy Patrick Swayze something with it."
"You're gonna give him a big head calling him that," I said, smiling.
He shrugged. "He's already got a big head," he said, talking about the actual size of Patrick's head, which was gigantic.
This made me laugh.
"Thanks again," he said. "I really do like my haircut."