Page 46 of Grief & Glitter

The room we were meeting in was just one door down. I walked to that door with purpose, donuts as a breastplate, and elbowed my way through. All conversation stalled. Then, slowly, one person—Lyle—smiled and clapped. Then Bobby Blue Hair clapped. Then Trucker. Soon all ten in attendance were applauding. My face was on fire. Tears threatened. I had no clue what to say without making a total fool of myself. Not that crying was unusual in the group. People wept all the time. Recovery was hard.

“I never knew you liked glazed donuts so much,” I coughed out. Several people chuckled. Lyle rose, came over, took the donuts, and placed them on the table next to some killer cranberry squares that I was sure were homemade. Then he took me by the shoulders in a kind, fatherly way.

“Ryan, we’re all so proud of you.” He cleared his throat. “Stepping into your true self is never easy. It shows real growth and a deep core of healing. It shows that you’re stepping away from the toxic shame of that addicted self that bogs us down to reveal that you’re not broken. That you’re capable of grace, worthiness, and peace of heart. We’re all very happy to see you shifting to self-love while stepping away from self-punishment.” He exhaled—that had to be something he’d said before to others for many different reasons. Then he smiled. “Congrats, my friend. I wish we had a key fob for this huge of a milestone, but all we have is coffee, donuts, and our support.”

“That’s all I really want.” I threw my arms around him, blinking back tears, as the rest of the group gave me a rousing “Well done” that petered out when Trucker loudly cut the cheese.

“Sorry, damn burritos,” he meekly offered. We all laughed. Then we sat down to talk about the past week and how we’d fared.

It was such a good meeting that I not only got a good cuddle with Gideon that night, but I also got several hot kisses and a hot-as-hell hand job. Lying in his arms as he slept beside me, I had to question just how long this streak of good things was going to last.

Hopefully just long enough to get through my admissions interview tomorrow…

The admissions office at the Luxe and Lace Cosmetology College was well decorated and homey.

I was still skittish as a cat at a Doberman Pinscher convention.

Despite a very lovely office with staff that had made me feel welcome right off the bat, I was belching steadily as my nerves gnawed at my stomach walls. Sitting stiffly in a pretty blue upholstered seat, my newly made—thank you, Office Emergency Last Minute Photo Enlargement store between Birds A ‘Plenty Wild Bird Shop and Target—portfolio resting on my bouncy thighs. Students hustled past outside, their voices rising and then falling as they went to class. I was staring out a window that had a white orchid resting on the ledge, willing myself not to be a moron today. Reply to the questions asked in a polite, friendly way without running on. Smile, exude confidence, and do not pick at the zit that arrived overnight. I’d covered it well, but I knew it was there, and I hated its mere existence on a level usually reserved for people in red⁠—

“Mr. Vale, Mrs. Petrovich will see you now,” a perky senior student—or so I assumed—informed me with a wave at a closed door beside a water cooler. “Just go right in. She’s on a call but is just about done.”

“Thank you,” I squeaked, rose, flattened out the wrinkles that sitting had caused to form in my wool dress, and forced my feet to move. I rapped softly. A gruff older woman’s voice called for me to enter, so I slipped inside, trying to keep as small as possible. The woman behind the desk looked up at me over wide, purple-framed glasses. Her silver hair had purple streaks. Her blazer was purple. Her desktop was purple. Everything that could be purple in this room was purple. She motioned for me to sit in a funky purple chair in front of her desk as she rolled her eyes at whoever she was talking to on the phone. The motivational posters on the walls were in purple frames. The flowers by the window were purple violets. Purple cat statues sat on shelves along one wall. A white wall. The wall and the tile floor were the only things in here not purple.

Her call ended with a hefty sigh. “Honestly, the governor’s office will squeeze a penny until Abe Lincoln cries. Well, not that we use pennies anymore.” She stood to offer me her hand. “Happy to meet you, Ryan.” I rose, shook, and then shoved my portfolio at her. Thankfully, she wasn’t too taken aback. “Oh, what is this?”

“It’s a portfolio,” I told her, sitting now with nothing to fiddle with other than the hem of my dress or the thin strap of the purse I’d brought.

“Well, this is nice,” she said with a smile as she sat down and opened the folder. “I’ve never had a student arrive with a portfolio.” She glanced at me with dark brown eyes that gave away little. “Is this a new trend? I’m woefully behind on what the kids are doing. Are we still dabbing?”

“No, no, that’s not a thing anymore. I had this made because… well, I wanted to present you with a professional layout of some of my work.”

She nodded along, looking at each picture, then closing the folder. She folded her hands atop it to look right into my soul.

“This is a very nice touch.” She patted the photos. “Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself?”

“Okay, yes.” I rubbed the thick wool hem between my fingers. I’d picked a nice soft pink polish to brighten up the rather severe black-and-white dress I’d chosen. “I graduated from high school. I didn’t have any honors or anything like that. Back then, school was hard for me. My mother died when I was young, so I fell into bad behaviors. I did graduate, though! Then my life sort of spiraled out of control for a while. I started using drugs.” I wet my lips as she nodded softly. “There were bad days, bad weeks, but then I got beat up.”

“Good heavens!”

“No, it was a good thing. I mean, well, I tried to rob someone, and… it’s a long story. I got into rehab, and I’ve been clean for over a year, and I’m attending a regional recovery addicts group. I guess I shouldn’t have led with all that. People generally turn me away from jobs when they learn I was an addict. I hope this school doesn’t. Cosmetology has been a part of me for as long as I can remember. When it was just Dad and me after Mom was gone, I’d put makeup on from her cases just to see how pretty it made me. Dad never objected. He says he knew it was how I felt close to her. But yeah, I, uhm… I love doing makeup and hair. I like to make people feel better about themselves, and if you let me attend Luxe and Lace, I promise I’ll be the very best cosmetology student I can be.” I had to catch my breath. “Sorry. I told myself I wouldn’t drown you with words, but I’m nervous as heck. This would mean so much to me. Like a dream come true. Sorry. I’m talking again. Please, you take a turn.”

She laughed. “I love to chat with potential students. And your forthrightness has saved me prying for information from you, so thank you!” I bobbed my head. “I think we’ve covered the preliminary questions that I usually ask. I’d like to say that your recovery is wonderful. I’m sure the people in your life are glad you’re healthy now.”

“Yeah, they are.” I pinched the hem tightly.

“Is there anything that you’d like to ask me?”

Which got her a thousand questions fired at her. She answered each one with patience, a smile, and a warm demeanor that helped lessen my anxiety. We discussed campus life, academic programs, and what I hoped to get out of their school. Did I want to go into television or film or open a shop?

Before I knew it, she was rising to offer me her hand again. “It’s been a real pleasure to meet you, Ryan. I hope we see each other again soon.”

“Me too. I like the color purple too.” That seemed a good way to end things.

I left the portfolio with her in case anyone else on the board deciding who got to go to Luxe and Lace wanted to see examples of my work. The girl at the main desk wiggled her fingers at me as I left the admissions office. With some time to kill, I meandered around the school, peeking into classrooms like a creeper. Which was not the vibe I was going for, so I hurried outside, gasping at the cold November winds as they lifted my skirt nearly over my head. I dashed to my car, jumped inside, and cranked it over. Then I called Gideon. He picked up after the first ring, his face popping into view in the corner of my phone. Dad leaned over his shoulder, both of them at the rink for morning skate, the sounds of the team dressing for the ice in the background.

“Hey, how did it go?” Gids asked right off, his bare shoulders grabbing my attention.

“Pretty well, I think. I sort of blabbered at her about my past. That was not my intention at all, but you know how I am when I get nervous. She didn’t act like she was disgusted or anything about my days using, so I think that might be good?”