Acts of Violet(13)
There it is. I should’ve known we weren’t done with Violet talk.
Every month it’s the same thing, getting verbally prodded under the guise of sympathy. It’s like conversational Groundhog Day with this woman, being asked over and over how I’ve been getting along since my sister vanished (fine) and what I think happened to her (no idea).
“That surely can’t be the correct time?” Mrs. Toback looks at the wall clock, perplexed, then bends over to root around in her handbag. Go right ahead, sudden movements are my favorite when I’m wielding sharp scissors next to someone’s head. “I must’ve left my phone in the car.” She sits back up and I zip my shears away from her ear a second before it’s impaled.
I check the digital clock above the washing stations. 2:22 PM. Mrs. Toback’s appointment was at 2:30, so unless time has moved so painfully slowly it’s gone backward (which I wouldn’t entirely discount), that can’t be right. Let’s check the iPhone.
“It’s 3:05,” I say. “Guess I need to get a new battery.” One of Violet’s many superstitions was making a wish whenever the clock showed repeating numbers (11:11, 2:22, 3:33, and so on). It was silly even to my childish brain, but eventually she persuaded me to make a wish whenever the time read 2:22. I shoot a disdainful look at the stopped wall clock. That doesn’t count.
The minutes drag on as I trim Mrs. Toback’s hair, which is so thick, it takes the better part of an hour to cut. An hour filled with mediocre chitchat and dodging intrusive questions, inspiring gruesome fantasies about using the pointed ends of my shears (or better yet, my styling razor) to put one or both of us out of our misery. Not that I’d ever go Sweeney Todd on her, but good grief is that woman taxing. Luckily, she prefers her hair to air dry, so that’s an extra half hour I don’t need to maintain my politeness.
After Mrs. Toback pays her bill (tipping me exactly 10 percent, not a penny more or less), she stops outside the salon to accost a thirty-something blond guy I’ve never seen before. I busy myself with organizing a box of receipts and invoices. Moments later, the bell above the front door trills, and that same blond guy approaches the counter.
“Sasha, right?” He flashes a nervous grimace-slash-smile.
“That’s me. How can I help you?”
“I’m Cameron.” He extends a hand. When I look down at it without moving or responding, he adds, “Cameron Frank. From the Strange Exits podcast. We’ve been emailing each other.”
“Right … and you promised you wouldn’t stalk me at my salon … yet here you are.” I take a step back and bump into a shelf of olive oil hair treatments. One of the amber glass vials topples to the floor and shatters, permeating the air with rosemary and lavender, two calming scents that are not doing their job.
There’s nothing threatening in Cameron’s outward demeanor. Broad-shouldered and tall, he stands hunched over and tucks his hands into his pockets, as if trying to come across as less imposing. His expression is meek. Nevertheless, he turned up after I specifically told him to stay away. Unnerving much?
Cameron cranes his neck like he’s misheard something. “I don’t understand. You asked me to come by.”
The doorbell trills behind him.
“Shit, I meant to get here sooner.” Gabriel rushes in, combing harried fingers through his mess of dark hair, which is in a perpetual state of bedhead. He casts an uneasy look between Cameron and me. “A call with a distributor ran late.”
“I thought we were doing inventory later…” The three of us stand there, staring at each other, unmoving.
“Is anyone else thinking of that scene from Reservoir Dogs?” Cameron’s snicker is halfhearted.
“No, but my scissors are sharp enough to take off an ear,” I snap at him and turn to my husband. “Did you have something to do with this?”
Instead of answering me, Gabriel introduces himself to Cameron. “Let me have a quick chat with my wife in the back, clear up a few things.” He heads toward the supply closet, motioning for me to follow, but I don’t budge.
“I think I can figure it out without a quick chat,” I say, crossing my arms, digging my nails into my biceps. Mustn’t look too long at Gabriel in case laser beams shoot out of my eyes and maim him. “You found Cameron’s email and replied from the salon account, inviting him here. Even though I already made it clear I had no interest in being interviewed for the podcast.” Gritting my teeth, I manage a tight smile at Cameron and tell him, “I’m sorry you came out here for nothing. False pretenses and all that.”
“Oh, I was meeting a friend for dinner nearby, anyway,” Cameron assures me, like I give even a single fuck about his schedule.
“How about we all take a minute—” Gabriel interrupts himself to sniff the air and squint at me. “Did you spill something back there?”
“I sure did.” Sidestepping the oily puddle, I come out from behind the counter and march toward the front door. “Feel free to clean that up—feel free to clean all of this up.” My hand sweeps an exaggerated circle in Cameron’s direction. “I’ll be at Better Beans.”
The front door doesn’t slam, and the trill of bells echoing in my wake undercuts my angry exit. I stomp to the coffee shop two doors down, admonishing myself for doing only half of my usual run this morning. Those extra endorphins would be nice right about now.