Free Love Me If You Must by Nicole Young Page B

Hotel, lifting my glass in toast to a possible future together.
    I slumped at the vision.
    The only lipstick I owned had to be at least three years old; I’d never had my nails done professionally; and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d bought a new outfit. Goodwill clothing had always served my renovator lifestyle just fine.
    Before my thoughts degenerated into an all-out pity party, I reminded myself that David had asked me out before I cut my hair or bought new clothes. He appreciated me for qualities beyond my outer appearance. What those qualities were, I couldn’t yet fathom, but I hoped to discover that on Friday.
    Still, stick-on nails with a glossy coat of polish could only enhance my inner attributes.
    “A manicure sounds good,” I said.
    Tammy led me to an oblong mahogany table near the window. A display rack filled with nail colors took up one end. I sat in a floral-patterned chair and lay a hand on the vinyl pad opposite me. Tammy picked up a file and went to work. White dust gathered on the black surface beneath my fingers.
    I peeked at Tammy’s own perfectly manicured hands and wondered how she’d managed to dodge a wedding ring through the years.
    “It sounds like you were pretty involved in high school. Do you still stay busy?” I asked, interrupting the steady ssht ssht of the file.
    “Absolutely. I spend most of my time with the teens from church. You wouldn’t believe how many hurting families there are in this town. And most of them live in the pretty houses.”
    I nodded. I hadn’t lived in one of the pretty houses, as Tammy put it, but I’d endured the lingering pain of my mother’s suicide. I’d probably never forgive Mom for leaving me to be raised by my grandmother.
    “Your mother would be spinning in her grave if she knew you were hanging out with that girl,” Grandma would scold. “And look how you’re dressed. Nice girls don’t wear clothes like that.”
    It seemed Grandma never approved of anything I liked—my friends, my music, or even the books I read. I finally figured out that life was simpler if I did things Gram’s way.
    College had been my first taste of freedom. Unfortunately, it hadn’t lasted long. I remember the sound of Christmas music playing on my roommate’s stereo and the smell of homemade gingerbread cookies from a care package as I answered the phone in my dorm that day more than ten years ago. Nat King Cole’s rendition of “The Christmas Song” became a surreal requiem in light of that brief conversation.
    “I’ve got some bad news, sweetie.” Grandma’s voice was filled with false bravado as she told me she was given only a few months to live. “Come on home and we’ll talk about it.”
    “Which color do you prefer?”
    My head snapped up at Tammy’s question, and I realized I’d been staring vacantly as she’d applied my nail tips. I looked at the myriad of opaque, gloss, and pearlescent polishes on the rack beside me.
    Choices.
    I excelled in a one-color scheme in all my renovation projects: off-white. When dealing with discerning homebuyers, walls the color of cream cheese frosting were the safest, least offensive choice.
    But that seemed far too tame a shade for a Friday night at the Rawlings Hotel.
    Tammy leaned her elbows on the vinyl pad. “What will you be wearing? That’s the easiest way to decide.”
    What will I be wearing? I chewed my lip. Jeans and a tee would never do.
    “What should I wear?” I asked. After all, she was the professional.
    She cocked her head and poked her lips to one side. “Hmmm. How about something blue? That will show off your hair and eyes.”
    The suggestion brought to mind an exterior paint chip card I’d been contemplating for accent colors at the Victorian. The shade was a rich, medium blue, like the sky over Lake Michigan on a summer morning.
    I wrestled my mind back to the moment. I could probably track down some bluesy outfit at one of the local clothing stores.
    “Blue it is,” I