The Stylist and the Salon Owner

My name is Cherie Denton, I'm twenty-four years old, and two years ago I married a woman. Last year I divorced her. And now I live alone in a rented bungalow in a cul-de-sac in Millford, where every house looks like its neighbor swallowed a copy of itself.

So yeah. That's me.

People ask what happened with Mina, and honestly the answer is boring. We got married young because it felt grown-up, and then we grew up in different directions. She wanted city nights and I wanted a quiet street where I could hear crickets. No screaming, no cheating, just two women who realized they'd been roommates with rings for about six months. We signed papers on a Tuesday and she drove off with the cat and I cried for a weekend and then I made myself a really good omelet.

But here's the part I don't tell people at the salon. And I'm only telling you because you're a page and pages can't raise eyebrows.

I've never been with a man. Not once. Not even a fumbling high school or college thing, because I figured out I liked girls at twenty-one and went straight in that direction like someone who had found her exit on the highway. Married Mina at twenty-two. Done. Case closed.

Except lately the case keeps reopening. Little things. A guy's forearms. The way a man's voice sits lower in a room. I watch some actor in a movie and catch myself thinking, huh, I wonder what that would actually be like. And then I feel weird about it, like I'm cheating on a marriage that's already over.

Can you be curious about half the population? Is that a thing? Because I think it might be my thing, and I've been carrying it around like a secret snack in my purse.

Anyway. That's the baggage I brought to Millford. That and a box of professional shears and a drying chair I got half off.

* * *

The salon is called Gilbert's, which sounds fancy until you meet Dorian Gilbert, who is the least fancy fancy-salon-owner alive. He's thirty-six, divorced like basically everyone in this town, and he hired me off a two-minute interview that was mostly him asking if I could do a blowout that survives humidity. I could. I got the job. I've been working for him for eight months now and he's... okay, he's fun. That's the word. Fun.

He's also gorgeous in a way that I noticed immediately and then filed away, because hello, I don't do that, that's not my aisle of the store.

Except apparently the aisle has been calling my name, because on a slow Thursday in March, with the rain hammering the windows and exactly zero clients, he parked himself on the waiting bench and started in on me.

"Cherie. Serious question. Are you secretly married? Because a woman your age with zero gossip is suspicious."

"I'm divorced, boss."

"Divorced!" He said it like I'd announced I was a former astronaut. "At twenty-four? Who let you get married that young? I didn't even commit to a haircut at twenty-four."

"You committed to this salon, apparently."

"That's different, this salon loves me back." He spun a comb across the counter like it was a trick he'd practiced. "So who was he? Tell me everything. I'm starving and the clients aren't coming."

And here's where I should have said "she" in a normal voice and moved on, which is what I'd done a hundred times before. But the rain was coming down and he was looking at me with that grin and honestly I was tired of carrying the secret snack around.

"It was a she, actually," I said. "Her name was Mina. We married at twenty-two, split at twenty-three."

His eyebrows went up, but not in a bad way. More like a guy recalculating. "Well! That explains the zero gossip. You've been hoarding all your drama."

"I don't have drama. I have a drying chair."

"You have an actual ex-wife. Cherie, that's the most interesting thing in this building and I own a chromatic color bar." He was quiet for a second, twirling the comb, and I could see a question loading behind his face. I know that look. I give that look to clients before I ask if they've been box-dyeing at home. "Can I ask something personal? You can tell me to shut up."

"Probably shouldn't, but go ahead."

"Is there anybody now? Anybody at all?"

And I don't know why, maybe the rain, maybe the boredom, maybe because he asked it kindly instead of leering, but I said the true thing out loud for the first time in my life.

"No. And, uh. Here's the weird part, I guess. I've never been with a man. Ever. Not once, not even a date. I went girls-only straight out of the gate and married one, and now I'm sitting here wondering what all the fuss is about, and that's probably more than you needed to know before lunch."

The comb stopped spinning.

"You're kidding," he said.

"Nope."

"Twenty-four years old and zero men?"

"Zero. I'm a man virgin, Dorian. Put that in my file."

He laughed, but not at me, I could tell the difference, and then he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and got this look I can only describe as interested. Not gross-interested. Curious-interested. Like I'd said I'd never tried coffee and he owned a café.

"Well, now I have a hundred questions and I'm only allowed to ask three," he said. "First one. Is it curiosity like a museum, or curiosity like you'd actually want to find out?"

"Oh my god."

"That's not one of my three questions!"

"It's my answer to all of them," I threw a towel at him and he caught it, grinning, and something about the whole exchange made my stomach do a little flip that I pretended very hard was indigestion.

"For the record," he said, standing up to stretch, "any man would be lucky, and also, if you ever wanted a completely judgment-free tour guide, I know a guy." He pointed both thumbs at himself.

"You're my boss."

"I'm the worst possible candidate, you're right, I agree, terrible idea," he said, still pointing at himself. "I'll file it under jokes. But Cherie? For real. It's not a weird thing to wonder about. Everybody wonders about something."

And then Mrs. Alvarez came in for her blue rinse and the moment was over, thank god, because I was blushing like a thermos in a sauna.

* * *

Except he didn't really file it under jokes, that's the thing. Over the next few weeks he'd drop little lines. Nothing pushy! Just... a raised eyebrow when a handsome guy came in for a trim. A "your tour guide is available" muttered when some shirtless underwear ad came up on the breakroom TV. Once he brought in two coffees and said, "One for the man virgin," and I threw a towel at him again. It became our thing. Towels have suffered.

And me? I caught myself looking at him differently. He'd lean over a client's shoulder and I'd notice his shoulders. He'd laugh at his own terrible jokes and I'd notice his throat. Small stuff. Deniable stuff. But the file was getting thicker and it wasn't under jokes anymore.

Then came the HOA thing, which is where this story really kicks the door open.

I'd gotten the notice in my mailbox, pastel paper, very official. The annual Millford Meadows dinner. Couples encouraged. Singles strongly encouraged, in that way HOA people write "strongly encouraged," which means demanded. The president, a woman named Gayle who owns four garden gnomes and one personality, had underlined the part about "partners welcome and expected."

Expected! Who expects a partner? Gayle expects a partner, apparently.

I complained about it at work the next morning, waving the pastel paper like a ticket to my own execution. "It's a couples' dinner, Dorian. I'm going to sit there alone next to the Hendersons who have matching sweaters, and Gayle will pat my hand."

Dorian was folding towels, which he does when he's thinking, and he looked up with an expression I already knew was going to ruin my peaceful little life.

"Take me," he said.

"Take you where?"

"The dinner. As your boyfriend. I own a suit. I'm charming. Gayle loves me, I fixed her gnome situation last spring."

"You'd do that?"

"Play pretend for one evening with the most interesting employee I've ever had? Cherie. I'd be offended if you asked anyone else."

And I laughed, because it was funny, it was a joke, it was two coworkers being silly on a Tuesday.

Neither of us knew it wasn't a joke yet.

Well, the universe decided to skip the part where I got to think about it calmly, because two days later Gayle herself ambushed me at the mailboxes. I was holding three pieces of junk mail and a bill, minding my own business, when she appeared between me and my bungalow like a very perfumed guardian angel with a clipboard.

"Cherie. Lovely. You got the dinner notice, I assume?" she said, in the tone of a woman who already knew the answer because she stapled the notices herself.

"I did. Looking forward to it," I lied, with the enthusiasm of a hostage.

"Solo?" she asked, glancing at my empty mailbox slot like it had personally failed her.

"Yep. Just me and my invitation."

"Oh, honey." There it was. The pat. She actually reached out and patted my hand, right there in front of the Hendersons' hydrangeas. "We do have a couples' table, but we can squeeze a single in near the kitchen door. It gets a bit drafty, but you won't notice once the food comes."

I said something polite, I honestly don't remember what, because at that exact moment Dorian came strolling up from the direction of his house with his mail and his whole easy smile, and Gayle's face changed. Her face changed! She went from patting my sad single hand to beaming like I'd introduced her to a celebrity.

"Dorian Gilbert. Are you coming to the dinner?"

"Wouldn't miss it," he said, and then, and I swear I watched him do it on purpose, he slid an arm around my shoulders. "Course, I'll be there with my girlfriend. Cherie and I have been seeing each other a few months now. Keeping it quiet, workplace and all."

Gayle made a sound like a bicycle pump. "You two. Well. That changes everything, we'll move you to the good table." And she bustled off to go underline something, probably.

The second she was gone I turned to him. "Girlfriend? A few months? You invented an entire relationship in under ten seconds."

"I panicked," he said, grinning, which was a lie because that man does not panic. "Also, you're welcome. Good table. No kitchen draft."

"What happens at the dinner when she asks how we met?"

"I hired you. True. When did you know you liked me? Say 'when you saw my suit.' We'll workshop it. Come over tomorrow night, we'll practice."

"Practice being my boyfriend."

"Practice being my girlfriend. It's different and I'm better at it." And he walked off with his mail like he hadn't just scheduled a fake relationship rehearsal like it was a dentist appointment.

* * *

So the next night I went to his house, two doors down, the immaculate one where everything in the fridge faces forward. He answered the door in the suit. The suit! Full suit, tie, the works, for a rehearsal in his own living room.

"You wore the suit," I said, walking past him into a living room that smelled like lemon polish.

"Method acting. Also I wanted to see your face. Worth it. Your face right now is great."

"Shut up. Where do we start?"

He poured us each a glass of wine, and I note here that he asked, plainly, if I wanted one, and I said yes, and we each had one glass, that was the extent of the drinking, nobody was anything but clear-headed all evening. We sat on his couch with a legal pad, because he'd actually made notes. Notes! There was a heading that said COVER STORY and bullet points under it.

"Okay. How we met," he said, tapping the pad. "Gilbert's. I hired you after a two-minute interview."

"Which is true."

"Which is true, which is why it works. First date?"

"Uh. Say the taco place on Route 9?"

"Boring. Say the taco place on Route 9 but add that I spilled a margarita on myself and you laughed so hard the waiter came over. Funny beats romantic. People believe funny."

"You've done this before."

"Never. But I've been divorced once, I know how audits work. Now. The physical stuff." He set the pad down and turned to face me, and something in his face shifted from joking to careful. "This is the part where we should talk. Gayle will expect hand-holding. Maybe he puts an arm around you at the table. A kiss on the cheek is the maximum anyone will look for. But none of that happens unless you're actually okay with it. I'm not going to grab you at a dinner to sell a lie. So. Arm around your shoulders, yes or no?"

And I did not expect this, which was my own voice coming out steady. "Yes. That's fine."

"Hand on your knee under the table?"

"Yes."

"Kiss on the cheek, or the corner of your mouth if the table's watching?"

"Cheek. Corner of the mouth is, um." I could feel my ears going hot. "Save it. In case we need escalation."

"Escalation," he repeated, and his voice did something to the word. "Noted."