Chapter 2: Salon Secrets
The smell of perm solution hit David like a chemical wall as he pushed into the salon. It was astringent, medicinal, undercut by the cloying sweetness of cherry-scented hairspray. The neon ‘OPEN’ sign was dark. Striped chairs sat empty under hood dryers, and a thousand reflections of him splintered in the foggy mirrors lining the walls.
“Back here, honey,” Heather’s voice floated from behind a beaded curtain. “The sink’s acting a fool.”
He walked past the counter, its surface a chaotic landscape of glossy magazines, shears, and tubes of color. He pushed through the beads. They rattled behind him like a cascade of tiny bones.
The back room was narrow, lit by a single bare bulb. Boxes of foils and developer were stacked haphazardly. In the center, where he expected a utility sink, stood a portable massage table, its vinyl surface gleaming under a fresh sheet.
Heather leaned against a shelf, arms crossed. She’d clearly come from the gym. She wore tight black leggings and a tank top, her dyed blonde hair pulled into a severe ponytail. Her makeup was impeccable, sharp lines drawn over the fine cracks of her fifty-eight years. She didn’t look at the sink. She looked at him.
“Sink looks fine,” David said, his voice flat. The guilt from the greenhouse was still a cold stone in his stomach. This felt like walking from one crime scene into another.
“Does it?” She smiled, a slow, practiced thing. Her red nails tapped a staccato rhythm on her own arm. She moved past him, her shoulder brushing his chest, and he heard the decisive click of the deadbolt on the salon’s back door. The sound was final.
“Heard you had a busy morning,” she said, turning. Her tone was light, conversational, as if discussing the weather.
David’s pulse thudded once, hard, in his throat. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Meghan called. She was… chipper.” Heather picked up a bottle of acetone, unscrewed the cap, sniffed it. The harsh smell joined the cocktail in the air. “Going on about her tomatoes. And her compost. And how productive her morning was. You know how she gets.”
He did. Meghan, bragging. A not-so-subtle declaration of ownership.
“I’m just here for the sink, Heather.”
“And I appreciate that.” She set the bottle down and closed the distance between them. She placed a hand on his chest, her fingers splaying over the worn cotton of his shirt. “But see, it got me thinking. Listening to her. All that… vitality. Makes a woman feel a bit left out.”
He could feel the heat of her palm through the fabric. This was her game. It wasn’t about desire, not really. It was about parity. A transaction to balance the books of attention. If her daughter got a secret, she wanted one too.
“This is messed up,” he muttered, but he didn’t move her hand.
“Probably.” She traced the line of his collarbone. “But you’re here, aren’t you? And the shop’s empty for ninety minutes. And my neck is killing me from that new yoga class.” She looked up at him, her eyes wide, artificially bright. “You’ve got strong hands, David. A tradesman’s hands. I thought maybe you could work out the knot.”
The pretext was threadbare, pathetic. They both knew it. He felt a familiar, weary resignation settle over him. It was easier to say yes. It was always easier to say yes. Saying no required a strength he hadn’t possessed in years, maybe ever.
He let out a slow breath. “Where?”
She gestured to the table. “Make yourself useful.”
He shrugged off his plaid overshirt, draped it over a box marked ‘LEVEL 10 PLATINUM.’ He sat on the edge of the vinyl, which creaked under his weight. The room felt too small, the ceiling too low. Heather moved behind him. He felt her knees bracket his hips on the table, felt her weight settle on his thighs. Her hands came down on his shoulders.
Her touch was not gentle. It was seeking, proprietary. Her thumbs dug into the hard muscle along his spine. She worked in silence for a minute, the only sound their breathing and the distant hum of a refrigerator.
“She thinks she won something today,” Heather whispered, her mouth close to his ear. Her breath smelled of mint gum and coffee. “My little girl. Always keeping score.”
David closed his eyes. In the dark behind his lids, he saw the flickering greenhouse light, the curve of Meghan’s spine. He heard Kathryn’s distant, trusting voice. I miss you.
“Don’t,” he said.
“Don’t what?” Her fingers tightened, almost painful. “Don’t talk about it? But it’s all so interesting. The three of us. A real family affair.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. “You know what the difference is between me and her?”
He didn’t answer.
“I don’t want to own you, David. I just want a piece of you she doesn’t know about. That’s my win.” Her hands stopped kneading. They slid around his sides, flat against his stomach, pulling him back against her. “Now lay down.”
It wasn’t a request. He let himself be guided onto his back, staring up at the water-stained ceiling tiles. Heather swung a leg over him, straddling his waist, a silhouette against the bare bulb. She peered down at him, studying his face like a difficult text.
“You feel guilty about the phone call,” she stated. “With your Kathryn.”
He flinched. The name in her mouth was a violation.
“Meghan told me that part, too. Said it was the funniest thing she’d ever seen.” Heather leaned forward, her palms on his chest. Her expression softened into something that might have been pity, if it wasn’t so tinged with curiosity. “Oh, honey. You’re a terrible liar. It’s one of the things I like about you. The guilt is just… written all over you. It’s practically a smell.”
She lowered herself until her face was inches from his. The heavy mascara, the perfect lip-liner, it all seemed like a desperate, beautiful armor. “Let me do you a favor,” she whispered. “Forget her for a minute. Forget both of them. Just be here. In this room. With me. It doesn’t have to mean a thing.”
It was the same hollow promise he made to himself every time. It never worked. But he nodded, a small, tight movement.
Heather’s smile returned, triumphant in its own way. She pressed her mouth to his. It tasted of waxy lipstick and resignation. As she moved against him, her nails scratching lightly through the hair on his chest, David kept his eyes open. He stared past her ear, at a crack in the ceiling tile that spider-webbed out like a river on a map, going nowhere, branching into a hundred dead ends. The sharp, clean smells of the salon wrapped around them, a world away from the damp earth and jasmine, but the silence in his head was exactly the same.