“That’s all I’m going to tell you until I’m sure you’ll write the story.”
Jameson ran his hand over his skull-trimmed hair, regarding me with pained curiosity. “I can’t promise to write a story I don’t know. No one will.”
I tapped my foot on the carpet. It was so thin it was like tapping concrete. The entire floor was cheap. The carpet was thin and blue, the walls were painted a poor eggshell, and the windows were unclean. Jameson stood out, his face sincere. I wanted to tell him my story, but I’d been burned so many times I basically had my own bed at the burn ward.
“Don’t you recognize me?” I asked him.
Jameson shook his head. “Should I?”
“Where have you been this past year?” I snapped.
“Gaza,” Jameson replied bluntly. “Covering the civil unrest and election.”
“Oh…” I wasn’t used to being unknown. “Well, maybe you should search Nami DeGrace and then get back to me.”
“Look, I don’t play games, Miss DeGrace, is it?” Jameson tapped a finger, his turn to be annoyed. “Either tell me what you’ve got or leave.” I’m sure I seemed like a fool, a bumbling mess to Jameson. He had no idea that my actions weren’t foolish, but learned caution. I’d discovered months ago that no one wanted to tell my story. Instead they would spin their own. My real story was contagion.
“I don’t play games either, Jameson. This isn’t just any story to me. It’s my life. So I’m not going to give it away to just anyone.” I paused and reached for a pen and paper from his desk. “This is my number. Text me if you decide you want to take this on.”
Feeling somewhat empowered after talking to Jameson, I decided to get my hair cut. I hadn’t had a cut in months, not since the rape. Morris had used scissors to cut off my clothes, so I’d been understandably wary of scissors, but now I was going to face my fear.
I pulled open the tall glass door decorated with vinyl appliqués and made my way to the check-in desk. I had an appointment for 2 pm and was a solid fifteen minutes early. There were three people ahead of me to check in. As I waited, I took in the salon.
Workers were easily noticeable because they had to dress in black from head to toe. I figured it was meant to look chic, but in reality they looked like they were going to a funeral. My eyes traveled the length of the spa before landing back at the check-in desk. I did a double-take when I saw Effie.
Effie, who I’d known since third grade. Effie, who’d done my makeup for our high school prom. Effie who had let me borrow her dresses and even her underwear. Effie whose parents were like surrogates.
Effie, who had completely stopped answering my calls when the media reported my rape, was working at the check-in desk.
I felt frozen to my spot. There were two women working the check-in, Effie and another, older-looking woman. I had seen Effie, so Effie must have seen me. What would we say to each other? It had been months. Maybe it was all a misunderstanding. Maybe her phone had gotten disconnected. Maybe she had fallen down a well and had to live off of rats.
I kept trying to get her to look at me. I stared, willing her to look my way. It was as if some magical force was keeping her eyes from mine. There wasn’t a magical force, of course, it was just Effie. Effie refusing to look at me.
As the minutes ticked on, it appeared to me like Effie was putting on a play. Her smile was exaggerated. Her laugh was just a little too loud, and the way she touched her coworkers wasn’t out of affection, but to make a point. The point she was making was that she didn’t need me. That she was happy without me.
The woman beside her called me up. I walked forward like a zombie, still watching Effie.
“What’s your name?” the woman asked.
“It’s Nami. I have a two o’clock appointment.” I watched Effie, expecting her to look up at my name. She stared at a stack of papers, either entranced or willingly oblivious. I frowned, turning back to the woman. “What was that?”
“I said you can go have a seat and we’ll call you when we’re ready,” the woman said, smiling.
“Thanks…” I trailed off, walking toward the waiting area. Effie still didn’t look at me. Back when the media was tearing me apart, I had wished for invisibility. Now, as I made my way back without so much as a glance from my (former) best friend, I realized I had wished for the wrong thing.
Leaving the salon gave me new perspective. Seeing Effie made me realize the torch I’d been carrying for our friendship needed to burn out. I didn’t know if I would ever get over the way she’d abandoned me, or if I would ever stop wishing she would call me and say she was sorry and wanted to be friends again. We were sisters, and you didn’t sim
ply stop thinking about your sister. Seeing Effie did make me realize, though, that I had a person in my life who kept trying to be a part of it. Who even said he loved me.
Law.
I kept knocking him away. Out of fear. I realized if I kept pushing maybe a day would come when he wouldn’t push back. So I summoned my newfound clarity, and a little bit of courage I got from my new haircut, and drove to his hotel. I rode the elevator up, trying to keep the new courage on the forefront.
It was the middle of the afternoon and the hallway was empty. Nerves wracked my body like electric shocks. Maybe he wasn’t there. What did Law do, anyway? Besides follow me, that is. He said he worked for GEM and did shady stuff with politics. Before that he had worked for the FBI. There was a good chance he wasn’t home. It was the middle of the day, after all, and guys like Law didn’t sit at home doing nothing. That thought nearly had me spinning around on my heels, but I powered through. I reached his room and knocked on his door, willing my body to stay put. Law said he loved me, and there was a chance that I loved him back.
Sounds were amplified through my anxiety. The sound of footsteps. The sound of the door unlocking. I heard them all through a megaphone. Still, I stayed. It had taken seeing my “best friend” to realize how good Law had been to me. It was time to confront my fears.
When the door opened, I was going to sit down and talk to him. I was going to have a real talk. I was prepared to apologize for kicking him out. I was prepared to tell him I wanted to work on whatever was happening between us, because it was the best thing that had happened to me in a long time.