We drove to a strip mall and parked in front of a sign that said "Lux Hair & Nails" in big loopy letters.
The men helped me out of the car and followed me to the front doors of the salon. One held the door open for me, while the other returned to the vehicle.
"Are you getting your nails done too?" I asked.
There was no responce, as I'd anticipated. I strolled into the building, feeling a strange sense of calm wash over me in the unfamiliar room.
The walls were a minty green that contrasted well with the cushy white furniture. The air was thick, a layer of perfume covering the smell of chemicals. But it reminded me of a simpler time, sitting next to my sister as our nails were filed and painted.
It reminded me why I needed to do this. I needed to keep her safe, and for now, this was how I did it.
The woman behind the desk took one look at the man next to me and said, "You're Mrs. Amy?"
"Tarpi," I corrected, and then had to backtrack, "oh right, yeah, I'm his, um," I trailed off and she gave me a reassuring smile.
"We already have all of your stuff ready to go, just follow me."
The man I was with soundlessly went over to the collection of chairs full of people waiting and sat.
I felt their eyes follow me, questioning why I was bypassing their wait.
I was as surprised as them, not to mention curious as to what stuff they supposedly had waiting for me.
My chair was in the far corner of the room, through a labyrinth of nail techs hunched over people's outstretched hands.
I sat down in the chair and set my wrists on the table. My unease was evident. It felt like I was missing something like they all knew stuff that I didn't.
A woman sat down in the chair opposite me and placed a tub on the table for me to soak my hands.
I smiled politely but didn't say anything. I was way too interested I whatever she was about to do to me to bother with social niceties.
I removed my bandages and allowed my hands to soak for a minute while we sat in silence.
"So," she said, tucking a strand of brown hair behind her ear, "How did you and Mr. Amy meet?"
The look on her face seemed more like an accusation. To her, I was just a vapid gold digger. I could already see the stereotype forming in her brain.
I was tempted to shrug off the question with a vague response, but I had a bitter urge to try and prove her wrong. I would be lying regardless, so I might as well make myself seem credible. And I knew exactly which story I would tell her. The only one that felt real to me.
"We met last summer," I allowed the memories to float back to me, trying to adjust them to sound normal, "I used to go running past his house when we lived in Kentucky."
It felt so strange to tell the story without all the creepy details. Incidentally, if you take out all the death, violence, and gore, the story actually sounds pretty normal.
She squirted some cream, which claimed to accelerate bruise healing, into her palm and rubbed it all over my hands, "That's pretty far away."
I smiled, mentally trading the aged man's face for a beaming smile and long wisps of brown hair, in an attempt to ease the story along.
"Yeah, he'd moved in down the street. We began hanging out every day. He would play guitar while I sang, and I would read to him."
"Oh, because of his eyesight?"
I snickered, "Yeah," and then continued, "It was probably the happiest I've ever been. He was one of the only people I'd ever met who didn't make me feel like they had somewhere better to be. I always felt so lonely, and most of that was just me, I know that. I was never the most open person, but that didn't stop him."
I trailed off, feeling my eyes burn with tears. When I looked up at the woman I knew I'd done the job well. That snarky look was long gone.
My watery eyes had done my story good, even though in reality they were tears of sadness, she didn't know that.
"And you moved here with him?"
"No I go to Chapel Hill, he moved here a little while ago as a surprise," I replied.
"Oh." Was all she said.
I took a few deep breaths, trying to clear the old memories from my mind before I broke down in the middle of the salon.
"Well, you're very lucky." She said as she began painting my nails a light pink.
I was about to ask where that color came from, but I already knew. Was there anything he wasn't going to decide for me?
We finished up at the salon and I was driven back to the house.
They herded me into the room hastily, probably anticipating my intent to look for Peter.
I let them do it. I could wait, but I would find him, there was no stopping that.
There was a note sitting on the bed stating that Randall would be out until tomorrow, so I would get the whole room to myself for the night.
I was excited that I wouldn't have to deal with him for the night, but my heart sank at how the note inferred that this wasn't going to be a common thing.
Would I have to sleep in the same bed as him?
A chill ran through me.
I needed to find Peter. I would find Peter.