Page 47 of This Could Be Us
When we enter the Cut, Preach greets us with a smile over the head of the customer he’s finishing.
“What’s up?” he asks. “Man, thanks for being flexible with the time. Had a wedding party this morning, if you can believe. All the groomsmen wanted fresh fades.”
“It’s fine. The boys enjoyed sleeping in.”
We’ve always been Preach’s first customers on the Saturdays when we come because the later it gets, the more crowded and loud the shop becomes. Neither of my boys responds to all that stimulation well. They carry noise-canceling headphones in their backpacks in case it gets to be too much.
“Who’s up first?” Preach asks, patting the barber chair.
Aaron takes one of the seats in the waiting area, puts his headphones on, and pulls out his cube.
“Guess that means you, Adam,” Preach says, amused. He’s used to my boys by now. When they were much younger, haircuts were hell. They were incredibly sensitive at their napes and around their ears. I could write a thesis specifically on haircut meltdowns. A mom mentioned Preach to Tremaine in the waiting room of the boys’ speech therapist. The rest is history. Preach is patient and not intimidated by the sensory issues that defeated so many barbers before him.
I check emails on my phone while Preach cuts the boys without incident. He’s still cutting Aaron’s hair when the bell dings above the door to herald a new customer.
“What’s up, Si?” Preach shoots a wide grin at Josiah Wade. I don’t know him well personally, but we’ve often been in the shop at the same time. Preach cuts his son, Kassim.
“Hey, Adam,” Kassim says, and takes the seat beside Adam in the waiting area.
“Hey, Kassim,” Adam replies.
I know Kassim attends Harrington, but he’s younger than Adam,and I don’t see him often. There aren’t many Black boys at the exclusive private school, and though Adam has adjusted well so far and made new friends, I make a note to connect with more of the Black families there. Tremaine is much better at that kind of thing than I am. She’s more plugged in at Harrington, maybe because she does that commute and I handle Aaron’s, but I want to make the effort.
“’Sup.” Josiah lifts his chin in my direction, and I return the greeting and the gesture. “Preach,” he says, holding up a fistful of orange flyers, “you mind if I leave a few of these here in the shop?”
“Go for it.” Preach glances up from the buzzing clippers. “What is it?”
“Soledad’s doing this porch-drop thing,” he replies.
“Oh, yeah.” Preach grins. “I heard about that salad dressing of hers that went viral. Liz made it for dinner a few nights ago. It was good.”
“Yeah.” Josiah shrugs. “She’s been getting lots of traction over the last couple weeks from it. Anyway, Yas asked me to leave a few here in the shop in case anybody wants one.”
“What is it?” I ask, stepping over to the counter where he placed the flyers.
“Soledad Barnes.” Josiah proffers a flyer. “She’s doing this thing called Fall Focaccia. People order the focaccia in a basket she stuffs with some other fall shit, and she delivers it to their front porch when it’s ready.”
“Shit,” Aaron repeats, not looking up from his device.
“Oh, sorry.” Josiah sends me a chagrined grimace.
“It’s fine,” I reply, even though Aaron will probably randomly say “shit” forty times through the rest of the day and maybe half of next week. “Can I have one of these?”
“Sure.” Josiah grins. “You like focaccia?”
“Love it.” I’ve never had it and don’t actually know what it is.
But I do like Soledad. Did Josiah’s wife, Yasmen, say anything to him about the night I was at the house? Then again, what would she say? There wasn’t much to tell, and I’ve kept my distance, knowing this has been a huge transition for Soledad and the girls. In the ninemonths since I’ve seen her, no one has captured my interest that way. I didn’t want to be insensitive or raise any suspicions at CalPot after she turned over the thumb drive.
Edward is serving an eighteen-month sentence in Atlanta’s low-security facility, just as he predicted. Only when he gets out, that huge nest egg won’t be waiting for him.
But I’ve watched Soledad on social media enough to know she has been doing what she set out to do—standing on her own two feet and building a life she can be proud of. She’s the kind of woman anyone would—
I haven’t allowed myself to complete thoughts like that the last few months, but maybe now I can.
As Preach finishes the haircut, Aaron pulls out the device and displays Hops again. I’m surprised we made it through the haircut without hearing about it a hundred times.
“Cube,” Aaron says, pointing to the picture of Hops.