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In his 47 years, Jack Abbot has grieved many things, some big and some small. He grieved the loss of his abled body, of the lower half of his right leg, the ability to wake up in the middle of the night to piss without having to consciously remember where his crutches were or whether he’d accidentally moved the chair he keeps pulled out so he can grab on to it on his way to the en-suite. Immaturely, he grieved the way he used to be able to drink almost as many beers as he wanted without thinking about the way his stomach would feel the morning after.
He grieved the loss of his life partner, the woman he swore to stand by through sickness and health, when she finally passed from the breast cancer that had metastasized almost without warning nine years ago. He grieved Andy the way he grieved the loss of his right leg—heaving sobs in private, terse thank you’s to well meaning comments about his “service” in public, and gritted teeth for the first few years whenever he had to witness the beauty that is knowing someone since you were nine years old and getting to keep speaking to them past the age of 38.
When Andy died, one of the first physical reminders of her was her smell. Andy smelled like a summer day, rich, warm, comforting, all at the same time. She smelled like her favorite perfume Jack would buy new bottles of for Christmas and her birthday, June 16th. And, she smelled like her favorite hair care products. Jack can’t remember how many times he buried his face in her hair after a long day, after thirteen hours on his feet, prosthetic pinching and pulling at his skin, inhaling all the smells of the kitchen she ran, underneath it all the curl cream they shared.
They’d lean on each other in the kitchen, silent save for the sounds of their breathing, and she would stroke his cheek. It was enough that she was physically there, that he could feel the rush of her blood underneath her pulse points, that he could count the beats per minute of her heart—a steady 66 to 68 her entire adult life.
When she died he blindly bought a $800 box of her hair care products, never mind expiration dates or the fact that he almost threw up with how hard he cried the first time he washed his hair after she died. He felt his heart searching for her in the suds and steam, like he was ten again, knee scraped, willing to show only her that he was hurt.
Now here he is nine years later, and able to take it when Ellis turns to him after he comes in with freshly washed hair, and smiles when she says, “Are you using Devacurl? You smell like it.”
“Yeah, Andy loved it.”
It’s a testament to how far he’s come, how he’s grown around the loss, that Ellis is able to laugh and say, “You know that shit makes people’s hair fall out right?” Instead of saying she's sorry for his loss.
That’s a first. “What on earth are you talking about?”
He recounts the story to Samira later the next day when she’s freshly showered after her own shift, her hair wound inside an old big t-shirt of his on top of her head, face scrunched up in concentration as he hears reviews for hair products play at a low volume.
“Oh yeah, there was a lawsuit and everything a couple years ago, Jack. Ellis was right to point it out, I’d like you to keep your curls.” She says, her eyes flicking to where he’s standing, towel wrapped low around his waist, toweling off his own hair.
They shower together sometimes. It’s nice, he thinks, being able to let Samira in to the space that used to cause so much grief.
The first few times it was heated, they had just admitted their feelings for each other after a beer or two at happy hour, desperate to keep touching each other. He hadn’t had enough room in his brain to feel guilty about the fact that he could only think about Samira in the shower, only think about the way she looked with her hair sopping wet and her chest heaving from physical exertion. It was supposed to be a rinse off, it really was.
The next time she stayed over, it was less rushed. His chest had clenched when he watched her rub the shampoo into her hair, work the deep conditioner through with her fingers, and if he thinks back to it now, maybe he saw her wrinkle her nose at the label.
He finally joins her in bed, sprawling a bit, with his head in her lap and she combs her fingers through his wet hair.
“You could consider switching creams,” She tries, gently, still looking down at her phone, before setting it off to the side to make eye contact. “I wouldn’t want you to have your hair fall out.”
If someone had tried to suggest switching products nine years ago, he probably would’ve gotten violent. Now, he considers the plaintive expression on Samira’s face, thinks about the way she scrapes her nails across his scalp after a long day, the way her skincare products have slowly migrated into his bathroom, the way she once dragged them to a HomeGoods on a rainy day off so they could get new towels. (“I’m not paying that much for towels, Jack, close out of the Ralph Lauren website, please.”)
“Right,” He says lightly, closing his eyes so he can savor the shiver that snakes down his spine when she traces a fingertip down his nose, “Wouldn’t want to lose my hair.”
They don’t do it immediately. Samira sets her phone to charge for the night, and Jack pulls the duvet over their bodies. She kicks him petulantly when he licks her behind her ear to taste her skin absent her lotions, but he catches her ankle in the hand that’s not wrapped under her and she ends up sighing into his mouth as they kiss.
It happens the next day, after he fucks her slowly into the mattress when they wake up at a normal hour, after he kneels on the shower floor and eats his come out of her, after she makes them omlettes while Jack makes coffee just the way she likes it.
She sets the GPS to the nearest Sephora that’s set right next to an Ulta, and starts relaying everything she learned about the cutting edge of curl technology. There’s sulfates and hair cuticles and debates about damp versus wet out of the shower, and Jack lets himself think about how much Andy would’ve loved all this.
Do you hear that, Andy? No more Walmart only products. You’d have loved this shit then gotten mad at me for spending half a paycheck on it for you.
The stores are quiet on a Tuesday at opening hours, and they only get a few lingering stares from the girls manning the various stations around the Sephora. Samira kisses his cheek before she tells him she’s going to look at some skincare quickly, and he swears he hears at least one disappointed sigh as he lingers by the conditioners and curl creams.
In the end she lets him pay for what would be a terrifyingly high bill if only he wouldn’t pay for it a hundred times over to see Samira smile warmly at him again. She insists on another coffee before they get home, hand resting lightly on his thigh as she smiles smugly at him when he pulls into her favorite coffee shop a few minutes out from his place.
He’s barely in the door, Sephora bag in one hand, keys in the other, when Samira is pressing herself into him. Her lips are sticky from where he’d watched her apply lip balm, and she tastes like hazelnut syrup and oat milk. It’s all he can do to keep the bag from smacking on the ground and breaking the bottles inside as she sneaks her hands up his shirt and twists a nipple insistently.
“I can’t believe you just spent over six hundred dollars on bullshit for me from Sephora,” All Jack can do is groan in response.
He gathers his neurons together to protest, if momentarily, as she makes quick work of his belt and starts yanking insistently at his belt as she drops to her knees, “Fuck, some of those are for me, Jesus, Samira.”
Pulling off of him with an obscene pop, Samira smiles softly, before saying, “If you let me wash your hair.”