Page 11 of A Thousand Little Goodbyes

“Besides, I’ve gotten a ton of reading done in those chairs,” Chrissie added. “It’s one of the only times I get to just sit and relax, you know? I read the whole ofAnna Kareninathat way.”

Scarlett’s sober expression didn’t lighten. If anything, it darkened even more. In Kat, an expression like that would only look petulant and sullen, but Scarlett looked like a silent film star—a French one, naturally.

“I want you to write down what you just said.”

“What? Why?”

Scarlett grabbed a pen and notepad from the bedside table. The logo of the motel—Royal Mills—was emblazoned across the top in bright green. “I’m serious. Put it in ink and read it back to yourself.”

Chrissie knew from experience that no good would come of playing Scarlett’s games. Since the day they’d become friends, she’d found herself constantly twisting and turning and tying herself in knots before they even made it to the starting line.

But this was supposed to be a vacation, after all.

“Fine.” Chrissie grabbed the pen and started to write.

I like donating platelets because it gives me time to sit and read without interruption.

“Good girl.” Scarlett took the pen from her and liberally scratched out half of what she’d written.

I likedonating platelets because it gives me timeto sit and read without interruption.

“I’m not sure I understand what you’re getting at,” Chrissie said. “Lots of people like to read. It’s not an exciting pastime, I’ll admit, but—”

“But nothing. If you want to read a book, then read a book. Don’tbend over backwards to justify it to the world.” Scarlett paused a beat. “And if you want a kick-ass haircut from a place that costs two hundred dollars just for a consultation—”

Now it was Chrissie’s turn to interrupt. “It costswhat?”

“Then you can get a kick-ass haircut from a place that costs two hundred dollars just for a consultation,” Scarlett finished in a hard voice. “You can still do the hair donating and bloodletting if you want to, but as a separate thing. Adifferentthing.”

Chrissie swallowed, doing her best not to notice how bitter the taste of her own saliva was on her tongue. That bitterness could have been a figment of her imagination—or the aftereffects of a bottle of wine that seemed to have been delivered to the grocery store straight from a tannery—but she suspected its true source. It was easy for Scarlett to lecture her about how she used what precious little free time she had, and even easier for her to throw money around like it meant nothing.

But Chrissie had more than just herself to think about. She had a daughter and her massage therapy clients and a cat that liked to look her straight in the eye when he copped a squat and peed on her favorite throw. She had bills to pay and four years of college to plan for, not to mention the crushing guilt that was affixed to her like the second head of a freak-show cow.

“Sure, Scarlett. I’ll read a book for you if it’ll make you happy.”

“Not for me. Foryou.” Scarlett peeled the top page off the pad of paper and folded it neatly in half. Tucking it carefully in Chrissie’s palm, she gave an exaggerated yawn and started to flip off all the lights. “Hold on to that, okay? I get the feeling we’re going to need it.”

“Scarlett,” Chrissie began, but her friend had already clicked off the lamps and was preparing to slip between the sheets. The hour wasn’t terribly late, but if they were going to make it to Boise tomorrow in time for her hair appointment, they’d need to get an early start.

Besides, knowing Scarlett, they’d be up well before the sun, one ofthem bright-eyed and ready to face the morning, and the other with a terrible red-wine hangover and even worse regret.

* * *

“Oh, geez. You weren’t kidding about this place, were you?”

The moment Chrissie walked through the door to a hair salon that had a bona fide bouncer at the door, his meaty arms crossed against anyone who tried to slip inside without an appointment, she knew she was going to hate every minute of this experience.

A young man, who stood only a few inches over five feet and had one of the neatest pencil mustaches Chrissie had ever seen, came forward to greet them with a silver tray holding two glasses of champagne. Scarlett sighed happily and reached for one, but she was delayed by a softtskas the man plunked a raspberry into each one. The popping fizz of the bubbles only made Scarlett sigh louder.

“Of everything I’m going to miss, I’m going to miss champagne the most,” she said as she lifted the stem between forefinger and thumb and drank half in one gulp.

“Are you giving up alcohol soon?” Chrissie asked as she accepted her own glass and tentatively sipped. “Never say so. Your poor liver won’t know what to do with itself. It’ll probably go into shock.”

“Livers are replaceable,” the petite Clark Gable said with a wink. “Which one of you is Christina?”

“I am,” Chrissie said. Since it was her turn to drive after this, she set the glass of champagne back down on the tray. “But only my mother calls me Christina. I’m Chrissie to the rest of the world.”

“Well, Chrissie. You’re in for a treat. Bernice doesn’t usually take new clients on such short notice.” He winked in a way that felt like both an insult and a papal blessing. “If you’ll follow me, one of the salon assistants will wash your hair while another preps the studio.”