Confess

“I’m leaving,” Donna says, peeking around the corner. “Do you mind locking up?”

Donna is the newest employee, and she’s been here for about two weeks now. She’s already got more clients than I do and does a way better job. Not that I’m bad at what I do, I’m just not that great. It’s hard to be great at something you hate.

“No problem.”

She tells me good-bye, and I finish washing the dye bowls in the sink. Several minutes after she leaves, the bell chimes, signaling someone has entered the salon. I step around the partition in order to let whoever it is know that we’re finished for the day, but my words are caught in my throat when I see him.

He’s standing by the front door, looking around the salon. When his gaze falls on me, the song playing through the overhead speaker comes to a timely end and a heavy silence fills the room.

If I could feel for Trey even a fraction of what Owen makes me feel just standing across the room from me, I could probably make that relationship work without issue.

But I don’t feel this with anyone else. Just Owen.

He begins to walk toward me with quiet confidence. I’m not moving at all. I’m not even sure my heart is moving. I know my lungs aren’t moving, because I haven’t taken a breath since I stepped around this corner and saw him standing there.

He pauses when he’s about five feet away from me. His stare hasn’t deviated once, and I can no longer control the obvious rise and fall of my chest. His presence alone is causing me actual, physical turmoil.

“Hi,” he says. His expression is cautious. He’s not giving away a single ounce of emotion. I don’t know if he’s angry about my confessions, but he’s here, so he obviously knew they were from me. When I fail to return his greeting, he glances over his shoulder briefly. He runs a hand through his hair and then turns back to face me.

“You have time for a haircut?” he asks.

My eyes move to his hair, and it’s significantly longer than after the last cut I gave him.

“You trust me to cut your hair again?” I’m shocked at the playfulness in my voice. No matter the circumstances, things just seem so easy with him.

“That depends. Are you sober?”

I smile, relieved that he’s able to return the banter in the midst of our cold war. I nod and point to the back of the salon, where the sinks are. He walks toward me, and I walk around him, making my way to the front door to lock it. The last thing I need is someone walking in who shouldn’t see him here.

When I return to the back, he’s already seated in the same chair I washed his hair in last time. And just like last time, his eyes never deviate from my face. I test the water before running it over his hair. After wetting it, I dispense shampoo onto my palm and work my hands through his hair until it lathers. For a few seconds, his eyes fall shut, and I take this opportunity to stare at him.

He reopens them as soon as I begin rinsing his hair, so I quickly glance away.

I wish he would say something. If he’s here, there’s a reason he’s here. And it’s not to stare at me.

When I’m finished washing his hair, we silently walk toward the front. He takes a seat in my salon chair, and I dry his hair with a towel. I’m not sure if I breathe the entire time I’m cutting his hair, but I do what I can to focus on the hair and not him. The salon has never been this quiet.

It’s also never been this loud.

I can’t stop the thoughts from racing through my head. Thoughts of what it was like being kissed by him. Thoughts of how he made me feel when his arms were around me. Thoughts of how our conversations felt so natural and real that I never wanted them to end.

When I’m finished with the last cut of the scissors, I comb his hair out and then clean him up. I remove the protective smock and shake it out. I fold it and place it into the drawer.

He stands up and pulls out his wallet. He lays a fifty-dollar bill on the counter and slides his wallet back into his pocket.

“Thank you,” he says with a smile. He turns to leave, and I immediately shake my head, not wanting him to go. We haven’t even discussed the confessions. He didn’t even tell me what made him stop by.

“Wait,” I call out to him. Just as he reaches the door, he turns around, slowly. I try to figure out what to say to him, but nothing I really want to say will come out. Instead, I look down at the fifty-dollar bill and grab it, holding it up. “This is way too much money, Owen.”

He stares quietly for what seems like an eternity before he opens the door and walks out without a word.

I fall into my salon chair, completely confused by my reaction. What did I want him to do? Did I want him to make a move? Did I want him to invite me back to his place?

I wouldn’t have been okay with either of those things, and the fact that I’m upset that neither of them happened makes me feel like a horrible person.

I look down at the fifty-dollar bill in my hand. I notice for the first time that there’s writing on the back of it. I flip it over and read the message sprawled across the back in black Sharpie.

I need at least one night with you. Please.

I clench my fist and hold it up to my chest. The erratic beat of my heart and the rapid expansion of my lungs to make room for more air are the only two things I can focus on right now.

I toss the money on the counter and I bury my head in my arms.

Oh my God.

Oh my God.

I’ve never wanted to do the wrong thing so much in my entire life.

When I pause in front of his studio, I’m contemplating making a decision that I won’t be proud of tomorrow. If I walk inside, I know what will happen between us. And while I know with Trey being out of town, the likelihood of his ever finding out about this is slim, it still doesn’t make it okay.

The thought of his finding out about it also doesn’t make me want to do it any less.

Before I can even make the choice for myself, the door opens and Owen’s hand reaches out for mine. He pulls me inside the dark studio and closes the door behind me, clicking the lock into place. I wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness and my conscience to adjust to the fact that I’m here. Inside his studio.

“You shouldn’t stand outside like that,” he says. “Someone might see you.”

I’m not sure whom he’s referring to, but there isn’t a chance of Trey seeing me tonight, considering he’s in San Antonio. “He’s out of town.”

Owen is standing less than two feet away, watching me with his head tilted to the side. I can see a faint smile cross his lips. “So I was told.”