I run the comb and my fingers through his hair one last time before picking up the scissors. “They surprised me.”
“What? That I read?”
I snip the ends from a section of hair I held in my left hand. So soft. How did a man’s hair get so soft? “No. Yes. Maybe.” I slap his shoulder. “I’m trying to concentrate here.”
“Stop hitting me.”
“Hush.”
I bite my lower lip as I continue to snip ends. Slips of hair fall to the towel as I work, covering the soft terrycloth in patches of wispy brown strands. My fingers, the scissors, and comb work almost of their own accord. I tug his hair gently to ensure everything is even.
Satisfied, I take a step back to see better, and my gaze falls to the table. His hands rest in front of him, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles are white.
“Isaiah? You okay?”
He relaxes slightly. Or at least he unclenches his fists. “Yeah. Sorry.”
It’s because I was touching him, I’m certain of it. “I’m almost done.”
His only response is a nod.
I go back to cutting his hair, but it’s not the same. I can’t concentrate on how nice it feels to touch him, to be near him, to breathe him in as if he’s my own.
He’s not.
I finish with his hair as quickly as I can. Snipping here and there. Brushing his shoulders ever so slightly. But my touches are quick and business-like.
He relaxes and a deep breath escapes his body.
“Ta da.” I step back, giving him room to stand. “All done.”
He shakes his head. “Feels so much better.”
“Wait till you see it.”
“Why? Will I hate it?”
“No, I’d just rather you get the full effect before you start issuing compliments.”
He turns, and his wicked grin is back. “Or complaints.”
“No complaints, ever, remember?”
He nods toward my right hand. “Pointy, metal things, remember?”
I wave the scissors at him. “Into the bathroom with you and tell me what you think.”
He laughs on his way down the hall and disappears into the bathroom. I bite the corner of my lips and wait for some sort of acknowledgement, good or bad. What if he hates it? Moments later, he reappears.
“It looks great,” he says. “Thank you.”
“Not just saying that because I still have the sharp, pointy things in my hand?”
“No, I think you did a fine job. I look all respectable again.”
“You never stopped looking respectable.” I gather the discarded towel and sweep the hair from the table onto the floor. Unlike me.
Something in my demeanor must give away the inner workings of my brain, because seconds later he touches my shoulder.
“Athena. Let me be your friend again.”
His gentle touch brings tears to my eyes.
“We were never meant to be friends,” I whisper. “We were meant. . . we were meant to be more.”
His grip tightens.
Don’t. Don’t say it.
“I can’t offer you more.”
I knew what he would say, but the cut is still there – sharp and sure – yet, maybe not as deadly as I’d thought. I close my eyes and concentrate. If I try hard enough, I can rebuild part of my fortress.
Not enough, of course, it might never be enough again. Seeing Isaiah, talking to Isaiah, has changed me. I can accept that. But still, a few stones, stacked haphazardly, here and there. Maybe it’ll be enough to get me back to where I can function again. To a place I won’t be so vulnerable.
I push back the urge to throw my arms around him and instead focus on the anger. Anger at myself for letting the conversation with him go as far as it had. Anger at the men who kept me in work for all those years. And then, even though it’s unfair, I funnel all that anger at him.
“You think I’m asking for more?” I say his eyes widen with surprise. “You think I have the privilege of asking a man for anything?”
Whatever he is going to say is interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. He looks at the display and sighs. “I have to take this.”
I nod, and he goes into the bedroom and closes the door. It shouldn’t bother me, but it does. My mind knows he’s a pastor and must have confidential meetings and talks with the people in his church. Talks that would be inappropriate for me to listen in on. But for some reason, it’s almost as if he’s keeping a secret.
Without him in the living room, the apartment is eerily quiet. Even though he was gone all day, it’s such a stark contrast to what it was like mere minutes ago. It makes me nervous. I walk into the kitchen to see what I can find to make for dinner, but as I pass by a window, the headlights from a car sweep across the glass and I jump out of the way.
Has Mike figured out that I’m with Isaiah? If he thinks I’ve skipped town, he won't connect the two. But if he believes I’m still in town, he might. For all I know, that was him in the car that went past me. Or maybe Harris. He’d probably have Harris do the drive-by.
I’m sitting at the kitchen table when Isaiah comes out of the bedroom, and I must look like I feel, because the first thing out of his mouth is, “Are you okay?”
I don’t want to bring up the conversation we were having before his phone rang, so I change the subject. “Has Mike asked you about me?”
He sits down across from me. “He called me at work today and said you were late for a meeting and if I saw you to let him know.”
“How comfortable are you lying? It’s not exactly a talent needed by the clergy.”
“I think ‘lying’ is a strong term. I keep things confidential. It’s totally different.”
“If you were Catholic, I could tell you everything in confessional.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “I hope you know enough about me to know I would keep anything you told me in the strictest confidence.”
“I do,” I said, not wanting him to think I didn’t trust him. “I mean, I’m staying here. I’m basically trusting you with my life.”
“I know that. Trust me.”
That’s been my problem. I’m always trusting the wrong people.
Chapter Eleven
A few days later, Isaiah presses some cash in my hand and tells me to go shopping. I push from my mind that I’m an impostor who doesn’t belong in a mall, buying clothes like a normal person. But Isaiah is insistent, and even I can’t argue with the fact that I need clothes. I’ve been wearing the same outfit over and over, washing it while Isaiah is at work.
So far, I’ve seen no hint of Mike searching for me. I’m hoping he thinks I had money hiding somewhere else and that I left the city days ago. I drive to the mall in the car Isaiah left for me. When I protested over breakfast, he told me he was walking to work. I’m pleased I only look over my shoulder a few times on my way.
I stand in front of a rack of sundresses shaking. It’s not because I see Mike or anyone else. It’s because I have no fucking clue what kind of clothes I like. What I like hasn’t ever factored into what I’ve bought. What Mike likes, yes. What my clients would like, certainly. Me? Who cares?
I hold up a green dress. It’s nice enough, but is it me? Maybe black? Or navy?
“May I help you?” A saleslady has managed to come up right next to me without my knowledge, and I jump at her voice.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. Are you okay?” It’s only taken her one look at my trembling hands, fingers clutched around colorful dresses for her to pick up on the fact that I’m way outside of where I belong.
“I don’t know what color,” I say in what has to be the lamest answer possible.
“Let’s see.” She holds up a gray one. “The color brings out your eyes, don’t you think?”
Gray? I think it makes me look like a rock. Fitting, almost. I feel like a rock sometimes. Weighed down. Passed over. Cold. Dead.
What did cold and dead have to do with bringing out the color of my eyes?
She tilts her head and scrutinizes me more closely. “Hmmm. Maybe not. With your hair, I think a silver or ivory would be better.”