Saturday rolls around, marking eleven days since my night with Gunner. A night he’s yet to let me discuss. Every time I try to bring it up, he kisses me silent.
Ninety-two days since that first cup of coffee with him.
Ninety-three days, or two thousand two hundred and eight hours, since the man barged into my life and started changing it. Through each hour that passes, he’s done everything he can to become a part of my life. Phone calls, text messages, coffee dates, surprise lunch and dinner visits—that still send me into a slight panic—and a beautiful and unforgettable night.
I’m afraid he’s done it.
I can think of nothing but him, almost to the point where I forget why I’m truly here.
One hundred thirty-two thousand, four hundred eight minutes—yes, minutes because the man truly deserves such dedication—in which his voice sends delicious chills down my spine and butterflies fluttering in my stomach. Where I feel like a giddy, giggling girl from those eighties romantic, coming of age movies.
Seven million nine hundred forty-eight thousand eight hundred seconds since my days don’t go as planned. Yet I’m able to work through the anxiety, remaining calm and somewhat collected.
So much time, where I’m… happy.
After this morning’s cup of coffee in combination with Gunner’s phone call on top of his good morning text message, I’m feeling euphoric and optimistic. Gunner was right; it’s a great way to start the day.
Now, I’m preparing my station for my first client of the day—Rylee. Last night, I received a frantic call from Rylee on my personal line, a number she managed to pry out of Gunner’s cell phone, begging me to squeeze her in for an emergency touch up on her color. Apparently, family pictures are today, and she was supposed to touch up her hair earlier in the week but forgot to make an appointment as she was dealing with school and practice. Now, she’s scrambling and desperate.
My workstation is almost ready for action when the front doorbell dings, signaling a customer.
“Morning, Heidi,” Rylee greets enthusiastically as she walks toward me and waves to the other three stylists in the salon.
“Morning.” I smile. “Is that coffee?” I nod to the to-go cup in her hand.
“This?” She chuckles, raising the cup. “No, it’s a chai latte. This is my must-have in the mornings.”
“Lightweight. Coffee is the way to go. Those who don’t need coffee to survive aren’t human.” My teasing is punctuated with a wink.
“Yeah, yeah. You and Uncle Gunner are definitely made for each other. That man likes his coffee black and drinks it like water.” She shudders. “If I drank as much coffee as y’all, I’d never leave the restroom.”
Her comment makes me laugh because she’s right. There are times I feel like all I do is urinate.
“Thank you so much for seeing me last minute. You are a lifesaver,” she gushes.
Shaking my head, I chuckle at her theatrics.
“No, I’m serious. You just saved my life,” she says with a dramatic flair. “This is a major emergency. These are family pictures and my momma… well, that woman is obsessed with pictures. To top it all, these are professionally taken family pictures with the six-month-old twins. If she finds out I completely put her order out of my mind, she’s never going to let me live this down.” She sighs.
Giving the appropriate laugh, I wonder how my life would have turned out if I had a mother like Rylee’s. Her mother sounds wonderful, a bit obsessed with pictures, but a wonderful mother nonetheless. However, from what Rylee has mentioned about her past, particularly her father’s passing—and taking my own past into consideration—I understand her mother’s need for pictures.
If only I had pictures of my own child in my arms… No, I can’t think about that right now. Focus, Heidi.
“Here, sit down and get comfortable.” Patting the chair, I give her time to sit. “Now, tell me what you want me to do to your hair.” Strands of her hair fall through my fingers as I inspect them. “You definitely made the right choice coming in before your pictures. This”—pointing to her head, I grimace and tsk—“is bad for my business.”
It has been some time since her last touch up; the black and blue color needed to be refreshed. With her level of physical activity, playing competitive soccer, it’s hard to ask her not to wash her hair often.
“I know, I know. Sorry.” She grimaces. “If I don’t wash my hair, I feel gross. I know it’s bad, but the sweat… ew.”
Because I allow Rylee to book on her own schedule, she, in turn, is my walking, talking business card. Her walking around with a nice haircut and beautiful hair color is good for R.A.D. since she sends her teammates and those who compliment her hair over to me.
“Well, that’s what I’m here for. To create a masterpiece with your hair.” I pat her shoulder. “Alright. Let’s get started.” Shaking out the maroon waterproof cape, with R.A.D. Hair & Makeup in emerald green across the front, I open it and hook it closed over Rylee’s body.
R.A.D. specializes in cuts, color, and makeup. Since arriving in College Station three years ago, I’ve strived to hire the best in each of the fields and build a solid clientele. My prices are fair if you take into consideration the amount of work and dedication we put into your hair because hair styling is an art.
I have specials every other month to allow college students the opportunity to book appointments because I understand education is expensive. Though the salon’s location leaves a little to be desired, I have my reasons for choosing this exact place. It is walking distance to my home. Overall, business is great, with appointments being booked months in advance and an on-going waitlist in case someone cancels last minute.
As I work on Rylee’s hair, she drinks her latte and tells me about her week. She talks about her classes, her professors, and her first love—soccer. I nod and speak at the appropriate times, all the while, filing away every detail of her life.
An hour passes when the front door chimes. Since it’s a normal occurrence, I don’t pay it much mind.
“Ah-huh!” The exclamation startles me, and my head snaps up. In the mirror, I see a dark-haired woman pointing at Rylee. Beside her are a grinning pregnant woman and a little green-eyed girl who is looking at Rylee with glee. “Rylee Anastasia Duval…”
“Momma!” Rylee jumps in surprise and turns in the chair with a sheepish smile.
I’m forced to stop and quietly observe.
“I caught you, and don’t you even try to deny it,” the dark-haired woman, who can only be Faith, warns her.
“Okay, you caught me,” Rylee admits. “But how did you find me?”
“You’re really asking us how?” The other woman speaks up.
“Josilyn, duh.” The little girl rolls her eyes.
“That—”
“Don’t you blame her, baby girl. I bribed her with dinner tonight, her choice.” Faith bends down and kisses Rylee’s cheek.
“Josilyn and her love affair with food. You’d think we don’t eat during the week,” Rylee grumbles.
“Hey! When you’re a college kid and are offered a blank check to dinner… wherever you want, you take advantage of that.” The other woman smiles and walks, more like waddles, around, inspecting my salon.
“This is nice, Momma.” The little girl—whom I conclude is Skylar—smiles up at her mother after she returns from her own inspection. “Can I get my hair like Rylee’s?” she pipes.
“Not till you’re eighteen, peanut,” her mother answers without missing a beat.
“Why?” Skylar narrows her eyes in warning.
“Because I said so.” The reply is sighed out.
“Why?” Skyler repeats.
“Because I’m your mother.” Faith smiles at me, yet has her attention divided between both girls.
“Argh,” Skylar moans in discontent. “It’s not fair Rylee gets to have pretty, colorful hair while I’m stuck with my plain ol’ dark hair.”
“Well, I am older and wiser than you.” Rylee pokes at her sister.
“You’re right. You are older, like way older.” Skylar raises a challenging eyebrow and folds her arms across her little chest.
“You little—” Rylee growls and throws her hair tie at her sister.
“¡Basta!” Faith comes between them. “You!” She looks at Skylar. “Not till you’re eighteen, and your father says it’s okay. And you…” She turns to Rylee. “She’s your baby sister. Please, fight the urge to strangle her. I know it’s hard, but do try.”
“Yeah, fight the urge.” Skylar sticks her tongue out in triumph. “Because I’m your cute and adorable baby sister.” She laughs and gives Rylee a superior look. “I’m a princess. Daddy says so.”
“In your dreams.” Rylee laughs. “Come here, squirt.”
Skylar cautiously moves to her. When she sees Rylee isn’t going to snap at her, she gives Rylee a hug. “Don’t call me squirt. Call me princess. That’s what I tell the twins so when they actually do start talking, they’ll call me princess or your highness. They will be my little minions.” She grins mischievously.
Faith looks at her and shakes her head. I, in turn, laugh. This little girl is a firecracker. Carefree and confident, she’s loved.
Rylee meets my eyes and smiles. “Heidi, I would like to make the proper introductions. This squirt here, with delusions of grandeur, is my little sister, Skylar. This is my momma”—she points at Faith—“Faith Catalina Duval Knight. And this”—she points at the other woman who has returned from her inspection—“is my Auntie Julia. She and Momma are two peas in a pod. Always together, the bestest of friends, and just a tad bit… different.”
“What?” Julia exclaims, glaring at Rylee.
“You know what I mean.” Rylee gives her a look. “Zane and Uncle Andre have their hands full with the two of you.”
“Watch it, chickie. Or else—”Julia’s threat is cut off short as she grimaces and lays a hand on her stomach.
“Auntie Julia!” Rylee jumps up, frightened. “Is it time?”
My eyes widen in shock. Dear Lord, is she going into labor here?
Quickly, I think of where the hospitals are located and which one is nearest. Then panic hits. Will I have to drive her, in this ridiculous Saturday traffic, to a place I’ve never been to? Will we make it in time? What if she has the baby here? How do I act around them?
“No, no. It’s okay.” Julia waves at Rylee and takes a deep breath. “The baby decided to practice her bicycle kick in my womb.”
“Please, sit down,” I offer, bringing a chair to her.
“You mean he, don’t ya?” Faith laughs.
“Bite your tongue, woman! I don’t care what Andre says, the baby is a she. Only a girl would put me through such an ordeal,” Julia grumbles. “Andre’s delusional, saying his sperm doesn’t create girls.”
Their sweet interaction makes me chuckle and puts my nerves at ease.
I settle Rylee back in her chair and prepare to continue with the process. An upbeat song sounds over the speakers, and our attention is diverted from Julia. Cassie, a stickler for upbeat and “fun” music, has forbidden me from touching R.A.D.’s playlist, insisting my preference in music is “too calming.” That it’ll put the clients to sleep. Therefore, every day is an adventure in the music department.
Skylar starts moving to the music. Julia sings, sways to the beat, and cheers Skylar on. “Go, Skylar. Go, Skylar.”
“Sweet goodness!” Faith starts laughing. She steps back to give her youngest daughter room, pulls out her cell phone, and holds it up to either film or take pictures. “Where did you learn these moves?”
“Uncle Andre,” Skylar manages to answer between moves.
Skylar crosses her feet and bounces with her hands in the air, moving to the beat. Planting her feet shoulder length apart, she sways one way and then the other. She brushes her hands over her hair, flipping it with each hand as she moves down slowly, then jumps up.
She bends one leg and stretches the other, then leans back and throws her hands in the air. As the song continues, she turns to the side and bumps her shoulders up and down, in sync with the song, leaning forward and back, lifting one leg and then the other. At one move, she crosses her legs and shuffles her little feet quickly, giving a little hop every so often, adding flair by shimmying her shoulders.
I envy her shimmies because she shimmies better than I would ever hope to shimmy in my life. The look on her face is just plain adorable. The attitude, the confidence, the fun she is having shines brightly on her face.
All I can do is stand back and admire her talent.
When the song ends, we all clap.
Skylar takes a bow. “Thank you, thank you.” She smiles and waves like the queen of the world.
“Why is Andre teaching you to dance?” Faith asks.
“Because, according to Uncle Andre, Daddy has no rhythm, and I have to learn how to dance from someone,” she repeats, as if reciting from memory. “Plus, I’m his favorite niece.” Skylar shoots Rylee a superior side-glance.
“You little—” Rylee growls. “Just wait till my hair is done. Then you and I will have a dance-off to end all dance-offs.”
“Bring it, sista.” Skylar throws down her hands, and Rylee acts like she’s going to jump out of the chair. Skylar squeaks, jumping back, then sticks her tongue out.
“Okay, okay.” Faith gets between the two sisters, again, holding her arms out, and turns to look at Skylar. “Andre has created a monster. You have a little too much swag and confidence, little girl. And, he loves each of you equally, so stop teasing your sister.”
“Not only has he gotten my precious little girl to eat those horrendous waffle things with that chocolate spread, but now he corrupts her with dancing.” The voice belongs to the incredibly handsome and massive man walking toward us.
His voice, with a slight twang, causes my heart to drop and forces me to take deep breaths to remain steady. His gait is calm and confident, announcing to the world here is a man who knows his purpose, and he is fully focused on Faith. So much so, he doesn’t see me.
He is beautiful, almost model like, except for his slightly crooked nose, his only physical imperfection. His eyebrows are perfectly arched, his cheekbones pronounced, and his lower lip slightly fuller than his upper lip. His bronzed skin showcases his unique violet eyes. His dark hair is short on the sides and longer on top, reminding me of a soldier’s haircut.
“You’re just jealous ’cause I have rhythm, and you don’t.” Another gentleman steps up beside him.
Just like violet eyes, this one is equally handsome. His curly black hair is short and pressed down in waves. His eyebrows are full—any woman’s envy—and kept clean, plucked not waxed. His flat nose is rounded at the nostrils. Beautiful, full lips—another physical characteristic to envy—bring attention to his clean shaved, strong square jawline. His round cheeks don’t deter from his handsomeness, and his mocha skin highlights his caramel eyes.
Both men are tall, like Gunner, over six feet, and with broad shoulders and chests tapering down to a hard, slim waist. While violet eyes has no visible tattoos, caramel eyes has them on his arms. They are solid and muscular with a sense of danger emanating from them—men you don’t want to cross.
“Zane. Uncle Andre.” Rylee smiles up at them. “What are y’all doing here? Where are the twins?” She looks behind them.
“Well… we were about to eat an amazing breakfast of homemade waffles, scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, biscuits with gravy”—my mouth starts to water—“and freshly squeezed orange juice courtesy of Chef Zane, but somebody just had to run over here.” Andre gives Julia an annoyed side-glance.
“Oh, don’t you start. You could have stayed with Zane and watched the twins. Y’all are curious as well. Admit it,” Julia huffs at her husband.
“The twins are with Josilyn,” Zane answers Rylee’s unanswered question. “That girl will do anything for a food carte blanche.”
“Of course.” Rylee chuckles. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Heidi.” She turns to me, smiling sheepishly. “Heidi, please meet Zane, my stepdad”—she nods to violet eyes—“and my Uncle Andre”—she nods to caramel eyes—“Zane, Uncle Andre, this is Heidi, my friend and an amazing hairdresser. Also known as the woman Uncle Gunner is seeing.” She looks back at me and winks.
My face warms as I look at each member of her family, their eyes inspecting me.
“Hello.” Andre smiles.
“Well… hello, Heidi.” Zane’s words are slow and pronounced as his eyes narrow on me, before nodding his head politely in acknowledgment.
“It’s a pleasure to meet all of you.” With a forced smile, I dig my nails into the palms of my hands, forcing my racing heart to slow down.
I have a feeling this meeting was not all about Rylee. More like meeting the woman in Gunner’s life.
Angel: You have some explaining to do! Why didn’t you warn me?!!!
Gunner: What happened?
Angel: Your friends.
Gunner: Oh, shit.
Angel: You can say that again…