Topher sighs. “I know what it’s like to disappoint those who love you—heck, I’m a gay man in a small town, and my parents won’t even speak to me. She forgave you, yet you’re punishing yourself. You made a mistake. You owned it. You deserve to be happy.”
“You do too, Topher.”
When I glance over, he’s squinting at me. “Your hair is drying.” A pair of sunglasses appears on his face. “Yeah, it’s so bright I gotta wear shades.”
Chapter 11
DEVON
The scent of herbs mixed with . . . is that skunk? It hits me in the face when I walk into the penthouse around seven. I toss my keys on the foyer table and step into the den. An older lady sits in my favorite recliner with her face averted, her feet propped up as she snores. A bright-pink walking cane rests next to her. I almost pivot and walk out to make sure I hit the right floor, but my key fit, and Giselle’s laptop is on the coffee table, her books scattered, her bag on the couch. This is my place.
The lady snorts, pushes at her brown hair, and mumbles under her breath, then appears to drift back to sleep as the door quietly opens behind me. I hear Pookie’s nails clicking on the hardwood. Without looking back at who I hope like hell is Giselle, I murmur, “Why does the apartment smell like a frat house?” I don’t even bring up the stranger. It has to be Myrtle.
I hear her behind me, kicking off her shoes. A long sigh comes from her. “I picked her up this afternoon from the hospital, and her migraine hit before we even got out of the parking lot. She smokes to alleviate the symptoms. Her dealer is an elderly man from Brentwood, a retired executive from a bank. Nicest man ever. He usually delivers.”
“Did he deliver here?” I wait for the outrage to hit, but . . .
“He came to the hospital. No one ever suspects old people, and Myrtle makes her own rules. She acts like a teenager,” she mutters.
My shoulders relax, and a smile twitches at my lips. It hasn’t passed my notice that Giselle is drawn to interesting characters, from a pot-smoking old lady to emus.
Another snore comes from my recliner.
“I’m surprised you didn’t recognize her,” she murmurs, still behind me. My skin is electric, waiting for her to walk past me. Part of me wants to turn around and face her, while the other wants to pretend like last night never happened.
“Because I was too upset about the girl I thought was still in the damn building,” I say tersely. Still not over that.
“I’m sorry about the pot,” she says. “I was writing, and she snuck to the windows, cracked one open, and lit up. I’ll grab some air fresheners.”
I hear her snatch her keys back up, her shoes sliding back on. “Giselle, wait, don’t leave—” Not when I just got here.
I pivot to her, my words stalling in my throat. “What . . . your hair—it’s blue!”
Her back straightens, her eyes glinting with steel. “Electric Neon, to be precise. Not all of it, though. Aunt Clara missed a few spots in the back. She said it took a lot of dye, and we might need to put another application on.”
I shake my head, trying to mesh the image of her this morning with the girl in front of me. I loved her hair, long and thick and down to her midback, silver and gold strands intermingled. “Why did you do it?” My words come out wrong; I see that right away by the quick flash of hurt on her face before she shrugs.
“You color yours all the time!”
“But yours . . .” I take a breath. I might be obsessed with her hair. My hands threading through the strands last night, my fingers cupping her scalp. “How long does the color last?”
“Forty washes.” She exhales. “Thirty-five now. I stuck my head in the sink and scrubbed for an hour. My fingers are wrinkled up, and my hands need moisturizer. Maybe it will be gone by Sunday.” Her shoulders slump. “It’s still glowing.”
Yes, yes it is.
“The doorman didn’t know who I was when I took Pookie out. I had to show him my driver’s license.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “It gets worse. When I went to the library to help some of my students, I sat down, and they asked if they could help me. Didn’t even know I was there to save them from a black hole catastrophe.”
I grin. “Come here, baby.”
She crosses her arms. “You don’t call me pretty girl anymore. You haven’t since the night at the Razor.”
“’Cause that’s for women I don’t know well.”
“And baby?” She rolls her eyes.
“Fits you.”
“It feels as if I should be offended.”