4
One year later
The chorus to Sam Smith’s new single plays in my salon, faintly in the background, providing the soundtrack for my customers. With my high-heeled boots planted wide on the smooth tiled floor, I stand in front of Gigi, concentrating on snipping the last little uneven strands of her pretty blond bangs.
One last clip.
And there.
“You look gorgeous,” I declare.
“Do I?” Her voice rises in excitement. She has a fifth date tomorrow night with a guy she thinks might be the one. He’s a chef, a baseball fan, and he loves to send her good morning and good night text messages. She’s told me everything about their budding romance during her half hour in the hot seat, since that’s what people usually do with their stylists.
Just call me a priest, a therapist, a temporary best friend, as well as the wizard with scissors.
“You’re going to knock that man to his knees.” I spin her chair around so she can face the silver-lined mirror. Gigi smiles widely when she sees her reflection, fluffing her hair, running a hand over her smooth locks.
“You’re a miracle worker.”
I wave off the compliment. “Please. Look at the raw materials you gave me to work with. You’re naturally beautiful.”
“And now you’ve made me feel even prettier.”
It’s my turn to smile since I honestly love helping people feel beautiful about themselves. “I want a full report,” I tell her as she leaves, then I spend the next few minutes chatting with the other stylists who work for me to see what they need at my salon in the heart of Sausalito, a little tourist town right across the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco.
I opened the shop two years ago, and I’ve expanded it in the last year. Heroes and Hairoines has taken a lot of my time, but it’s been worth it since business is booming. But I haven’t had time for much else in the past year, except the rare date here and there. A regular client set me up with her brother. Holly suggested I have coffee with a guy she works with. Both were nice men, but there were no sparks.
I have no complaints about how much time my business has demanded of me, and I don’t mind working nearly every day past closing time.
As I walk past the sinks to the back of the shop, I check my phone to see when my next appointment is. Five minutes from now. Just enough time to make a cup of tea. My phone dings, the alert for a news story. I swipe my thumb and stop in my tracks. My jaw comes unhinged when I see the headline on ESPN: “Grant To Retire.” Anticipation rises sky-high in me as I click it open and read.
Three-time Super Bowl champion and Renegades starting quarterback Jeff Grant announced his retirement today.
“It’s been an amazing run and I am lucky to have played for my hometown team and for such amazing fans. I know the team will be in good hands with the new starting quarterback, Cooper Armstrong.”
I squeal out loud. Excitement and effervescence run through me. I’ve just drunk a glass of champagne, devoured a mouth-watering truffle, watched a friend win the lottery.
One of my stylists turns to me, asking, “Everything okay?”
I must look like I’ve been dipped in a paint can of glee. “Everything is amazing,” I tell her.
My heart skips and I want to jump for joy. I can only imagine how incredibly happy Cooper is, and I can’t wait to congratulate him myself—this is what he’s worked for his whole life. This is what he’s wanted more than anything.
I start to tap out a text to him, when the receptionist sets her hand on my arm. “Violet, your next appointment.”
“Thanks, Sage.”
I tuck my phone away, and honestly, I’m glad I didn’t have time to fire off a text. This calls for more than a text. I need to give him a phone call later.
I settle in at my booth and work on auburn highlights for Marissa, who tells me she’s desperately trying to figure out why her husband is suffering from headaches. “They tend to get worse if he’s in the kitchen, but they’re fine when he’s elsewhere in the house. Isn’t that crazy?”
Today I’m playing the shrink.
“Not entirely. Is there anything in the kitchen that could be making him sick?” I ask as I wrap a section of her hair in tinfoil.
“My cooking,” she mutters.
I laugh. “Maybe there’s something going on with the stove. Perhaps something needs to be fixed with it.”
And now I’m an electrician and a diagnostician.
She arches a brow. “You think that might be it?”
I smile at her in the mirror. “I think you look amazing with red highlights, and I have no idea why he’s not feeling so great. But maybe check it out? Sometimes the answers to problems are under our noses and easier than we think.”
An hour later, her hair is redder and she’s tracked down a stove specialist, promising to update me in four weeks when she’s back for her regular appointment.
I twist my index and middle fingers together. “My fingers are crossed,” I say as I walk her to the door and hold it open.
I swear I’m seeing a mirage.
Cooper is at the door. His arms are raised in the air. His smile is as wide as the sea, and he strides to me, picks me up, and lifts me in the air.