All of this to say, I don’t change it up this afternoon, but I do ask for a shave. I’ve been halfway growing scruff for the better part of the last few years, but I wouldn’t call it a beard. It would be an insult to real bearded men everywhere. At best, it’s a near goatee, at worst it’s mossy laziness. Burl gives me a smooth finish and surprisingly does something a little different with my unruly hair. My hair’s never been what I would consider stylish so much as … convenient.
“You got a lady friend in your life, Mr. Boseman?”
I start to shake my head and he holds it still, scissors held precariously close to my earlobe. He meets my gaze in the mirror and raises a pair of well-groomed brows. I exhale.
“No, sir.”
“Man friend?” He checks in a notably judgment-free tone.
“None of those, either, though I’m less inclined in that direction.”
“Are you one of them perpetual bachelor types?”
This is more talk than I’ve gotten from Burl in the entire eight years I’ve been going to him. If you pressed a gun to my head this morning and asked me to identify his voice in a lineup, I wouldn’t have made it to this afternoon. Because of this, I really consider my response. “I’m only thirty-six, Burl, so I don’t think that qualifies me as a perpetual anything. But I guess I wouldn’t hate to have someone to talk to at the end of the day.”
He continues to nail me in the chair with that discerning look until I squirm. “Why’d you ask?”
He doesn’t say anything, just nods to himself and moves to block my view, tugging on the ends of my hair and pursing his lips under his massive mustache.
When he finally turns me around, I’m shocked to see the difference a few well-placed snips and a close shave can make. I run my fingers through my short lengths and turn my head side to side.
“Damn, Burl, what kind of magic you got in those scissors? You mean I coulda looked like this all along?”
Burl only grunts, brushing off my neck and removing the collared cape.
Guess we’re done talking.
Still flummoxed over the entire encounter, but incapable of finding fault with the results, I pay Burl, including a generous tip, and head home to shower off the loose hairs scratching through my shirt. It’s after six and I’m feeling the press of time.
Lorelai. Lorelai. Lorelai.
She’s here by now, in Nashville, and it’s almost like I can feel her. Like the air feels different—more charged—when she’s here. As if the entire city is waiting to see what she’s gonna come up with next.
9
CRAIG
HURRICANE
I get home and shower and change into a fresh pair of jeans and a clean V-neck T-shirt before fiddling with my hair the way Burl did, using a tiny bit of pomade that Arlo gave me last year for Christmas. I’m still early, so I decide to hit the liquor store around the corner from our place and pick up some wine. Next to the register is a display of Prosecco and champagne, and for an insane minute, I contemplate buying her a bottle before offering to act out my most poetic fantasies.
But I don’t, because a good haircut a personality change does not make. I learned long ago her type was everything I’m not. Smarmy, classically good-looking lead singers like Drake, not snarky, scruffy, soft guys with bad eyesight and poetry accounts.
When I make it back to the duplex, I see a light on downstairs, confirming she’s made it home, and once I’ve climbed the stairs and closed the door to my loft behind me, I hear the groan of old pipes letting me know she’s in the shower.
I pause too long, my feet frozen in place, listening hard and allowing myself the split-second assault that familiar groan stirs behind my eyelids … steaming hot droplets of water mixing with peekaboo suds and chasing one another across and down the smooth bare surface of her skin, the pulse of the showerhead massaging her toned muscles, tight from travel, as she lets out a tiny moan of relief or maybe even bliss before … before I’m rapidly shaking my head to rid myself of the fantasy and grab a couple of wineglasses as I head out on the balcony to wait.
Maybe noise-canceling headphones would be a good investment. Or one of those white noise machines. Alexa, play something annoying whenever my neighbor turns on the shower and let’s reverse-Pavlov this shit in the bud.
And then it’s seven and I can hear her steps on the metal fire escape as she makes her way up toward me. A moment later, her tantalizing fresh-from-the-shower scent reaches my nose a split second before the rest follows. Her shiny blue-black hair pulled off her forehead in a clip but left long around her shoulders. When she first came to Nashville months ago, Lorelai’s hair was a deep chestnut shade, but since then, she’s back to embracing her natural black-as-night waves. I’m glad. The contrast suits her. Now, her dark brown eyes crinkle with happiness. Her small, athletic frame is stunningly on display in a pair of well-worn jeans and a plain white tee. I put down the glasses and wine just as she’s throwing her arms around my neck in greeting.
Hell.
I shouldn’t be caught off guard because this is classic Lorelai. She’s always been generous with her affection when it comes to her friends. I manage to hold tight, wrapping my arms around her and squeezing. Truthfully, I give good hugs. I learned from Melissa, who, despite our more conservative parents, hugged me long and often. “Squeeze the toxic masculinity right out of you,” she’d say.
For what it’s worth, I do not lose myself in this particular hug, closing my eyes or swaying in place like a masochist. Much, anyway.
Lorelai pulls back and tugs me toward the small wrought-iron table for two, pressing me to sit before doing a double take at my appearance, her full bottom lip finding its way between her teeth and making me sweat in long-ago memories.
“You got a haircut!”
The thing about the scruff—it wasn’t much more than Astroturf on a mini golf course, but it knew its job and it covered the rising pink. Now I remember. I, Craig Huckleberry Boseman, blush more than a debutante with wardrobe malfunction.
Fuckin’ a.
I try to play it off. “Yeah, well apparently Burl does have one other trick up his sleeve.”
The corner of her pretty mouth lifts as she takes the bottle from my hands and gestures with her head to my kitchen before saying in an easy-breezy way, “I like it. You look hot, Huckleberry.”
I choke out a “Thanks” before mentally punching myself to get my shit back together, shifting my focus to the way Lorelai’s jeans hug her curves and her simple white tee rides up ever so slightly, revealing a strip of smooth pale toned waistline. A waistline that was wet only minutes ago.
Which is the direct opposite of helpful …
She pours the glasses, thank fuck, and I hustle to the kitchen, realizing I left Melissa’s biscuits and gravy on the kitchen island. I grab the Tupperware and a couple of forks and join her back on the balcony, holding out the leftovers.
“Melissa’s been hell-bent on figuring out a decent gluten-and dairy-free biscuits and gravy recipe for when you visit … This one doesn’t suck, though I swear it tastes better cold for some reason?”
We settle in on the iron chairs and sip from our glasses as she pries open the cold leftovers and digs her fork in. She takes a bite, her eyes immediately rolling to the sky and a heady groan coming from the back of her throat. The sound shoots tingles through my veins straight for my groin and I quickly prop my ankle over my knee to hide any evidence. Blushing and getting sprung like a seventh grader at his first coed pool party. Two for two, Boseman.