25
BRYN
Today is the reminder of the worst day of my life. But today is the first anniversary in five years I didn’t spend alone, that I haven’t selfishly shut out everyone.
Mitchell found his way in. He knew what I needed was someone to hold me, to be that unwavering support my mother once was, and today he became that person, physically and emotionally. Mitchell showed me a trust that broke down my walls. I gave myself to him for the same reasons he gave himself to me: Out of relief at finding someone whom we can share our worst moments with. Out of thanks. Out of a deep desire to express ourselves finally, after weeks of playing house.
A rush of endorphins zaps through my body at the thought of Mitchell and me, just two hours ago. At how the bed creaked and the headboard thumped against the wall. How I yelled his name at the moment of climax. And how we held each other tight after it was all over, sated and utterly content.
It will become the catalyst and inspiration for what’s to happen next.
I brush my hair down in sections, arm extending to reach the tips of the long and thick tresses I used to hate as a kid. My hair’s the type that’s a pain to put in a ponytail, too smooth to be kept up by rubber bands. Hence my everyday bun, to make doubly sure I don’t shed while working in the kitchen.
We always got our hair done together—Mom, Victoria, and me. When I was a kid, my mom took us to Noe Valley to Mrs. Wade’s every couple of months for simple haircuts. As we got older, we moved on to salons for highlights, ombré treatments, layers, and texturizing.
“Self-care,” my mother always said. “It’s the most important thing of all.”
Self-care is exactly why I’m here now. The retreat was her concept, the culinary part, mine. But after my mother died, getting my hair done felt like I was cheating on her. These days I wait until I can’t stand my hair and cut it myself, thanks to the magic of mirrors, YouTube videos, and generally a shot of liquor to dull the emotional pain.
I saw it fitting to mark today’s change. I would practice what the retreat represents: self-care.
“Um, I don’t know, B. This seems really drastic. We do have hairdressers here in Golden. Seventy-year-old Mrs. Nichols will do a better job than me.”
My heart squeezes at this new nickname for me. “Shh. Let’s do this before I lose my nerve.”
I’m sitting on the toilet, tank and boy shorts back on. My knees bump against Mitchell’s. He’s pulled up a chair, shirtless and in jeans. I tie small rubber bands around sections of my hair to chin length. Flipping a section to the front of my head, I tie a rubber band at the level of my eyelashes. Little beads of sweat form at my hairline from the effort of wrangling my mane. When I finally peek through my hair, I find Mitchell staring at the scissors in his hand, knees jumping.
“See? That. That alone is a sign we shouldn’t be doing this.”
“You said you’d be there for me.”
“I meant it, but I didn’t think that would mean me providing unlicensed cosmetology services.”
I lay my hands on his shoulders. “I promise, I’ll go to Mrs. Nichols for a touch-up. But today is the day. For a change. Okay?”
Hesitantly, he brings the scissors to one of the sections, slips it in between the blades. I hold my breath in anticipation of feeling lighter and free. But when I open one eye, Mitchell has lowered the scissors. “I fucking can’t.”
Mitchell and I have only known each other a little over a month, but I do exactly the thing I know will coerce him. I push my hair aside and caress both sides of his face. I plant a soft kiss on his lips. With that alone, color rises to his cheeks. “I trust you,” I say.
He waves me forward, resigned. “Fine, come on over here.”
I inch closer to the front of the toilet seat, tilt my head down so the minipigtails are accessible. “Cut just above the rubber band, closest to me.”
“Okay.” His eyes focus on his scissors, now at eye level, hair between the blades. “Here goes nothing.”
With one snip, a clump falls. And another and another. The bathroom floor becomes a crime scene of locks of hair, of all my years of holding on.
After it’s finished, Mitchell stares at me in wonder.
“How does it look?”
He fingers the tips of my new bangs, down to the right side of my face, where the hair falls just below my jaw. My head already feels cloud light, and I grin. A smile forms, and his eyes follow suit. “I love it.”
Relief spills out of me, and I giggle.
“Wait here? Don’t look in the mirror, okay?”
“Why?”
“It’ll spoil the reveal.” He stands, not bothering to brush the hair off his jeans. Strands fall to the floor, trailing after him on the hardwood. He slips on a shirt.
I hear him gallop down the stairs and out the door. Standing and purposefully not looking at myself in the mirror, I peek out the bathroom widow and watch Mitchell run up the hill to his house.
What the hell is he doing?
A couple of minutes later, he darts down the hill. The door crashes open as he bounds up the staircase.
He appears at the doorway with a harried look, holding up clippers.
“Oh no . . . I can’t!” Feeling panic, I bring my hands behind my back.
Mitchell’s hair is so . . . beautiful. Silky and golden brown, with blond streaks trying to fight their way through its pattern. The strands fall naturally around his face, with a slight wave in front.
He takes his same place on the chair, and with gentle fingers, pulls my arms in front. “Palm up, B.”
Hesitatingly, I concede, and he lays the clippers on it. He curls my fingers around them and flips the switch up. The thing vibrates in my hand. “Why are you doing this?”
“Following your lead.” He encases my hand in his, guiding the shears up to the top of his head. “Making a change.”
“Copycat.” I’m trying to make a joke of it, but I’m cringing as my arm comes up. While holding my hand in one of his, then gripping a section of his hair with the other, he shaves it off.
His locks fall onto his lap, and my mouth hangs open at the gaping line of skin showing at the top of his head. When my gaze drops down to his face, I meet a smile, without a hint of sadness or remorse. “I guess we gotta go all the way now,” he declares. “If I do it, it’ll be a mess. Make sure it’s straight for me?”
“Um, okay.” I shave his head a row at a time, and my thoughts cloud over with what he’s—what I’m—doing. How this is so much of a big deal, maybe even bigger than sex. But as I finish up the last of the rough spots, a sense of renewal washes over me. Whether he did this for himself or for me, it required a whole hell of a lot of trust. In the process. In me.
After I’m done, I bend down to kiss the top of his head.
He pulls me onto his lap. “You okay?” Concern plays across his face.
I brush away at the tiny hairs on his forehead and on his nose. “Yes, you?”
“More than okay. I just want to make sure there aren’t any regrets, you know?”
I shake my head. “I don’t have any regrets. Not with what’s happened between us. But how do we move on from here?”
He squeezes me tight. “What do you want, Bryn?”
“I don’t want our businesses to be hurt by what we’re doing off camera.”
“I wholeheartedly agree.” He kisses my shoulder, lips warm and inviting. “But I don’t want to lose this new thing we have.”
“I don’t either.”
“Are we . . . together, then?” He’s still tiptoeing around our status, and I’m grateful knowing it’s not only me who wants to do this right.
I’m grateful because he understands the importance of doing this right.
“I suppose we are, but behind closed doors. Is that okay?” I readjust myself on his lap, debating how to say my next words. “You have to understand, Paraiso comes first, and nothing can come before it except for the people I love. I’m . . . not sure if I’m looking for anything serious. I don’t know if I can do serious—or more serious than what we have now—not unless I know something is forever.”
“Wow.” He looks like I’ve stunned him, but his expression changes quickly. “But I respect your honesty. And I’ll take what you’ll give me, Bryn.”
I exhale. “Oh good. I don’t know how to do this . . . This is all just so overwhelming . . .”
Thankfully, he smiles. “Hey, you do know who’s going to be overwhelmed, right? The crew. The audience.”
“They are going to freak.” I throw my head back, thinking of what my sister’s going to say. My family. Relief courses through me, because as much as Paraiso has to be my focus, I didn’t want Mitchell and me to end. “I probably won’t be able to keep my hands off you, but we need to try, okay? We’ve got to be at least a little professional.”
“Whatever you say.” He squeezes me tight.
The doorbell rings, bringing this magical, fun, and real moment to an end. I palm both sides of Mitchell’s cheeks. “Thank you, for changing today.”
He rubs the top of his head. “You changed things for me, too.” He’s doing that thing where he pretends what he does for me is nothing. Thinking back, though, I know when he gives, it’s not about what he can get in return. This man is selfless.
I kiss him hard on the mouth, channeling all of my gratitude and fear. Where we go from here will be like hiking without a map, creating a puzzle without a picture. “Ready?”
“Yep.” He slaps his thighs. “Let’s shock the living shit out of them, shall we?”