Page 145 of When Love Takes Root

And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t ask the beginning to prove it would never end.

I just let myself be held.

By Thursday afternoon, the back row of Celestial Crowns had stopped looking like a crisis and started looking like a business getting its breath back.

The walls were open in a few places, the scent of fresh drywall dust clung to the baseboards, and my crew had drop cloths folded into careful stacks near the shampoo bowls, but the dangerous part was over. The damaged run had been pulled. The overloaded mess feeding those dryers like somebody had trusted electricity to respect wishful thinking was gone. New, dedicated circuits sat in orderly rows at the panel, each breaker labeled, each run tested under load, each outlet seated with precision a client would never notice but a good electrician could feel in his hands.

I knew my hands could finish the work. My mind kept returning to the woman at the front of the shop, the woman whose trust had somehow felt more vulnerable than her skin.

That combination had me moving carefully in more ways than one.

I tightened the last screw on a receptacle cover and sat back on my heels. The plate was straight, the wires were secure behind it, the outlet held under load, and there was no reason for me to stare at it the way I was. Still, I stayed there for another second, letting my hands rest against my thighs while I fought the smile trying to betray me.

Juice noticed because minding his business had never been one of his gifts.

He glanced over from the dryer bank with the tester in his hand and a grin already doing too much on his face. “You been looking at that same outlet like it asked you what we are.”

“I’m inspecting my work.”

“You smiling at your work.”

I looked at him.

Juice pointed the tester toward the front. “Unless that outlet got locs down its back and a mouth that make your whole vocabulary slow down, you lying.”

“Finish testing.”

Juice checked the outlet, waited for the light, then nodded. “I am testing. Power good. Ground good. You, however, are in critical condition.”

“Justice.”

“What? I’m not judging. I’m observing. It’s a trade skill.”

“It’s being nosy.”

His grin eased, but it didn’t disappear. Juice never got serious all at once. He let the joke loosen the room first, then slid the truth in while a man was pretending not to listen. “It’s being family. I ain’t worried about you doing her dirty, Siah. That ain’t even the conversation.”

I wiped my hands on the towel at my hip and waited.

He looked toward the front, where Celeste was talking to Starr with her notebook tucked against her chest and relief sitting around her eyes. “I’m looking at my cousin, who usually treats feelings like exposed wire, standing in this woman’s salon, smiling at outlet covers, and pretending it’s professionalism.”

I fought a smile. Juice caught it anyway.

“There he go. Trying to keep that face together.”

“Say what you need to say.”

His voice lowered enough to stay between us. “I’m saying it’s good to see you like this. That Domonique mess had you moving like trusting somebody was bad math. You kept showing up for everybody else, but you stopped letting anything reach you too deep.”

That hit quieter than I expected.

Juice shrugged like he hadn’t just put his finger on something I usually kept buried beneath work, family, and routine. “Now, here come Ms. Celeste with them pretty eyes, five kids, a whole salon, and grief sitting close enough for anybody with sense to respect it. And you ain’t running. You ain’t playing cool either. You’re just standing here, looking steady and scared at the same time.”

I looked toward her before I could stop myself.

Celeste laughed at something Starr said, and the sound moved through the shop without asking permission. It touched the back row. Touched me. Made me want to finish every wire in this building twice just so she never had to worry about what was hiding behind her walls again.

Juice’s shoulder bumped mine. “See? Critical condition.”