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“Oh, wow! So, you and Evan have known each other since high school?”
“We’ve known each other since middle school, actually. We met when I was in the sixth grade, and he was in eighth—Evan’s two years older than me. But, the nickname originates from high school…”
“That’s so cute,” Carol says as she continues stacking lipsticks.
“Yeah. So, in high school, I went through this Dolly Parton phase. I’ve always liked her music and movies, but I was super into her aesthetic. Which is so weird, because I’m a brunette, but I just always loved that big, blonde hair of hers and her strong, feminine makeup.”
“Did you ever bleach your hair and try to get it all blown out like Dolly’s?” she asks.
“No, no. My mother would’ve freaked out—she’d never allow that sort of thing. But I did do her whole makeup look. In fact, I still wear red lipstick all the time because of her.”
“Aww, so you were into makeup even back then?”
“Yep, and looking back, I think I did a pretty good job of it.” I smile. “I’m pretty sure she’s the reason I became a makeup artist…” my voice trails off as I get lost down memory lane. “So, anyway. I used to wear a T-shirt with Dolly Parton’s face on it. And because of that, Evan got into the habit of calling me Dolly. Then, as the years went by, it sorta became an inside joke between us. Of course, I eventually stopped wearing her T-shirt and makeup—I grew out of it, I suppose. Minus the red lipstick, of course. But Evan’s the only person who calls me Dolly.” I smile just thinking about it.
“That’s so amazing… I wish I could find someone like Evan. Do you have a nickname for him, then?” she asks me.
I ponder her question.
“Hmm. No. I guess I don’t. He’s always been … Evan. Just Evan.”
“Just Evan?” Carol asks me.
“I guess so,” I reply.
We continue cleaning up the lipstick display in silence for the next few minutes.
Evan’s face swims in and out of my mind as I think about our years together back in high school when he was nothing but a scrawny teenage boy.
Surely, that must’ve earned him a nickname or two.
But I can’t remember now.
Curiosity gets the best of me, so I take my phone out of my pocket once more and text him again, stepping away from Carol so she can’t read over my shoulder this time.
Me: Hey, do I have a nickname for you? I mean … have I ever called you anything other than Evan?
I hit send and stare at the screen, waiting for an answer, even though I know how busy he is today at the hospital.
“Miss Williams! Are you texting on the job?” my boss’ voice pierces my ears.
Dang it.
My boss, Mr. Mervyn Doyle, is a man with an awful comb-over and large, round glasses that magnify his eyes to the point they look like bug eyes—which, honestly, freaks me out. He also has a little mustache that he meticulously sculpts every day with some combination of gel and black dye.
He hurries toward me along the white tiles of the beauty shop, berating me as he goes. “How many times have I told you that you’re not allowed to text or call or … whatever it is that you, young people do on those dreaded machines at work? How many times, Miss Williams?” he screeches.
“Too many times, Mr. Doyle.”
“Don’t give me sass, Miss Williams.”
“I’m not … giving you sass, Mr. Doyle.”
My comment irks him even more.
His little black mustache is working overtime on top of his lip as he starts scolding me again. “Miss … Williams! Is that any way to talk to the man who pays your wages?”
“No … I apologize…” I relent, knowing this conversation is headed nowhere.
