“I’m serious.” He pinches a nickel that’s sitting on the TV stand. “Heads, we start doing things my way. Tails, we stay the same.”
“You want to plan our lives based on a coin toss? That sounds about right.” I wish he’d flip a coin to decide the fate of our relationship while he’s at it. Heads, we break up. Tails, we flip the coin again. We could quit each other right now and blame it all on the coin.
He flips the nickel. It lands on the back of his hand. Nicholas stares at the glimmer of silver.
“Well?”
“I guess you’ll find out.”
“Fabulous, be sure to keep me in the loop.” I sprawl out on our three-seater, arrowing a lazy smile up at him. “Good night.”
“Good night? If you want me to go to bed, then you’re going to have to move. I’m taking the couch tonight.”
“No, you can have your bed full of Skittles. I’m staying right here.”
He storms back to the bedroom and closes the door with a barely audible snick that’s somehow even worse than if he’d shut it violently. I hear the lock turn, and then it’s just me alone in the silence.
We’ve never yelled at each other before. We’re usually so wary of rocking the boat that we’re maybe only eighty percent honest with each other. We’ve both dialed it up to one hundred for once, and logically I know I shouldn’t feel better now but I kind of do. As the minutes tick by and I listen to his dresser drawers close, our mattress springs compressing as he rolls over them as furiously as he can manage, I have an intriguing revelation.
We’ve been together for almost two years, and this is our first real fight.
It takes eight strategically placed pins to make it look like I do not have bangs. The disguise requires twenty-six minutes to perfect, and I skulk into the Junk Yard on Monday breathing a sigh of relief that you can’t tell I’ve butchered my hair.
Brandy notices immediately. “You gave yourself bangs.”
“Things going that bad at home, huh?” Zach adds.
“I used to have bangs.” I touch my forehead self-consciously. My forehead is the first thing I criticize when I look in the mirror. Is it normal-sized? Oilier than most? Foreheads are all I see now. Over the weekend I’ve come across nothing but pictures of beautiful women online and none of them have bangs. I only see pictures of beautiful women with bangs when I do not have bangs.
I Googled how to grow them out faster and ordered an emergency shipment of Mane ’n Tail shampoo and conditioner. I’m taking prenatal vitamins because a forum recommended it for rapid hair growth.
“I like my bangs,” I announce. “This is the new me.”
“Look out, world,” says Brandy, my co-pilot on this adventure into delusion.
Melissa looks at me and bites her lip to suppress a smile. Zach nudges her shoulder and they share twin snickers. For the thousandth time, I wish that Melissa and I were still friends. I love working here, but I loved it even better before introducing Melissa to the man who broke her heart. She’ll never stop punishing me for it.
In spite of her, I still feel lucky that I landed this job. I’d plastered the county with applications but didn’t hear back from anyone except for Mr. and Mrs. Howard. Nicholas kept saying I didn’t need to work, but after being laid off from my old job at the hardware store (which closed down), I got bored piddling around the house all day and needed purpose. A conduit through which I could channel all my free-floating energy before it started shooting randomly off the walls and ricocheted back to blast me.
Mr. and Mrs. Howard were both here for my first day, to oversee my training. It led me to believe they’d be here every day, and when they barely ever showed up again it left me confused as to who I was supposed to be reporting to. So I asked Zach, who seemed friendly, and he had me convinced he was my boss for three months straight. That asshole had me scrubbing toilets for his own sordid entertainment.
Without the owners here to keep us in line, the atmosphere is lax and easygoing. Even though Melissa can be frosty sometimes, our odd group has fun together, goofing off and doing nothing. And I mean nothing, because business is flatlining. Whenever a customer comes in, we end up eagle-eyeing them so intensely that they get weirded out and leave. One week, we were freakishly busy and high-fived each other when the shift ended with a fat cash register, thinking the ship was getting turned around. But nope, everywhere I look there are icebergs. There are holes in the ship. We’re sinking.
I know the Howards can’t hold out much longer. They’re going to put themselves in debt just to make sure the five of us get a paycheck. We all feel bad about it, but we also want to keep our jobs for as long as possible, so none of us are willing to quit even if it means extending life expectancy for four other jobs. It’s been brought up a few times, usually by Brandy, and we all fidget and avoid eye contact.
Today, it’s me, Zach, Melissa, and Brandy on the schedule. Leon works by himself tomorrow, since he’s the only one who prefers working alone. He isn’t much of a talker, and embarrasses easily. I think maybe we overwhelm him, horsing around with taxidermied roadkill and quizzing each other to find out Which Sexual Position Are You on BuzzFeed.
About thirty minutes after I walk in, I’m proving my value to this company by fashioning paper clip necklaces for everyone (I make a lot of jewelry out of odds and ends here to pass the time) and listening to Melissa and Brandy negotiate the music schedule. Brandy usually chooses the music on Mondays, but Melissa’s not going to be here for her turn on Friday so she’s trying to get Brandy to switch. To her credit, Brandy isn’t budging. I like to think I’ve been just the right kind of bad influence on her.
The bell to the front door dings and we all orbit to gape at whoever’s come in. It’s an eccentric billionaire who’s going to save us. He’ll buy out everything on our shelves and demand that the Howards replenish them. He’ll pay us double what we’re asking.
Actually, it’s a gangly, pimpled boy no older than twenty, and he’s pushing a cart of flowers. There are at least ten bouquets in plain glass vases, filmy red cling wrap protecting them from the rain.
“Naomi Westfield?” he asks, consulting a clipboard.
Brandy picks up my hand and holds it aloft. I can’t speak. I have a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach and don’t know why.
“These are for you.”
When I don’t move, he hesitates fractionally and then starts depositing bouquets on the counter. Melissa’s face disappears behind a forest of green plumage and white petals.
The deliveryman leaves and still none of us have moved. I spot a white card sticking out and examine it. It’s supposed to contain a message like I LOVE YOU or SORRY I’M SO AWFUL AND WRONG.
It’s blank. But I know who these are from, and I’ve gotten his message, all right. He might as well have put it on a neon sign. HERE ARE THE FUCKING FLOWERS YOU NEEDED SO MUCH. ENJOY.
“What’s the occasion?” Zach asks.
My mouth is dry. “Just because.”
“This is … ah.” Melissa grasps for words.
“Excessive,” finishes Zach. “For a ‘just because.’”
“How lovely! What kind are they?” Brandy asks me this like they must be my favorite. I don’t have a favorite type of flower. I definitely have a least favorite, though.