Page 26 of His Last Shot

I Have to Wash My Hair

Rachel

T he bar commotion, muffled and low, fills my ears as I count the cases of beer in the back room. It’s a typical Saturday here at Dexter’s. There’s no pool league play tonight, but that doesn’t mean people aren’t here to blow off steam after a long week of work.

Saturdays are usually nothing but chaos.

Normally, on our busiest day of the week, you can find me and Micah filling beers from the tap, tossing out glasses of whiskey, and making Long Islands (which are half off on Saturdays) with the other bartenders.

All while attempting to keep the customers happy and the bar neat and tidy.

It’s exhausting. Especially for someone like me.

But thankfully, I have the night off because of my date with Johnny.

Butterflies erupt in my stomach as I count and write totals on our inventory sheet.

I hoped that coming in to do weekly counts would help keep my mind busy, but I was mistaken.

This date and my nervousness have taken over my thoughts.

But most importantly, how anxious I am to tell Johnny about my RA.

It’s time. If I want to pursue any kind of relationship with this man, I need to be honest and tell him about this deeply personal struggle.

And believe me, I have an entire speech planned. It’s epic and one I have practiced since I asked him out in his truck. For the last three days, I have stood in front of the mirror in my bedroom, rehearsing my words while imagining him scooping me up in his arms and reassuring me he doesn’t care.

Out of habit, I rub the stiff spot on my elbow because, of course, my joints are especially angry with me today. It’s just plain old-fashioned stress.

This morning, I woke up with extreme soreness and my elbows seizing, the pain a sharp reminder of how my body works against me.

Despite taking my usual dose of Tylenol, the throbbing ache won’t stop.

My movements have been stiff and jerky all day, like a malfunctioning machine.

So, as usual, I try my best to hide it. A truth I keep hidden to avoid judgement from others.

And obviously, being nervous about this date and the terror of talking to Johnny about everything are causing me not only to lose sleep but also to not eat. Which is a huge recipe for disaster.

Thankfully, I washed my hair last night, so I don’t need to worry about that. For most people, when they get into the shower, washing their hair is a task they don’t give a second thought to. They wash, rinse, and repeat, just like the shampoo bottle instructs.

But for me, when I’m having a flare-up, well, washing my hair is the largest task in the universe. It’s painful and borderline impossible, so there’s no repeating. If I manage one wash, I’m a happy girl.

Both Micah and Shelby help me wash it in the kitchen sink when they can.

But tonight, Micah is here, and Shelby is visiting her family out of town.

So, Smart Rachel thought ahead, and thankfully, I won’t have to worry about it tonight.

I’ll just add some soft waves that, hopefully, Johnny will run his fingers through at some point.

A small smile plays across my lips because if Johnny is accepting of everything, it will be nice to not have to hide my pain around him anymore.

Will he, though? Accept me for … me. RA and all?

With a sigh and a determined set of my jaw, I try my hardest to shake the doubts and anxious thoughts that plague me and swarm into my head like wasps. Getting back to why I’m here in the first place, I count the cases of alcohol .

“Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-seven, twenty-nine … wait. Crap!” Ugh! I can’t do this. I toss the clipboard onto a carton of whiskey as footsteps approach from behind me.

“Can’t concentrate, huh?” Micah asks with amusement in his tone. He easily lifts a case of a local IPA, one that has been popular with the regulars. When I see how simple tasks like that are for him and others, jealousy shoots straight to my chest. Reminders like that surround me every day.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “No.” I sigh and draw my eyes to meet my brother’s. “What if he can’t handle it?”

Micah sits the case on the ground and rests his warm palm lovingly on my forearm. “Then you saved yourself a lot of time, and you know he isn’t the guy for you. But you wanna know what I think?”

“Even if I didn’t, you’re gonna tell me, anyway.”

“That man is over-the-moon, move-hell-or-high-water crazy about you. Everyone here knows it. There is no way something like a chronic illness is going to keep him away.” He bends and heaves up the case onto his shoulders. “Trust me. Have I ever lied to you?”

I smile. “No. You haven’t.”

He takes a few steps back toward the bar but stops and kisses me on the cheek. “Love ya, sis.”

“Love you too.” The door clicks shut behind him. Of course, Micah is right. If Johnny isn’t on board, I’ve saved myself a lot of time and heartache. But if he’s accepting, I could be jumping into the greatest adventure of my whole life.

With a sigh and a yank of the clipboard, I complete the inventory with just enough time to leave. After locking up the cooler and importing the numbers, I grab my purse and walk down the hall, heading to the bar to let Micah know I’m leaving.

With anxiety coursing through my veins, I round the corner and survey Dexter’s.

It’s a madhouse.

Patrons fill every stool; the air is thick with the smell of alcohol and anticipation as they wait for their drinks.

The bartenders spin and move around each other with professional ease.

Dancers sway to the pulsing beat on a packed dance floor, a sweaty mess of bodies; meanwhile, the rhythmic clack of pool balls echoes from the lively tables.

But I don’t notice Micah, who I know is behind this bar somewhere. “Micah, I’m taking off! Inventory is all done!” I call out, hoping my voice will carry and cause him to pop up from somewhere.

With the rowdiness of the crowd at an all-time high … he doesn’t.

My fingers dig into my purse, searching for my keys amidst a chaotic mix of lip gloss, receipts, and loose change.

Finally, I find them, and as I jerk them out, I lose my grip, and they clank onto the floor.

I bend to pick them up while Micah approaches with a pitcher of beer and three brimming glasses.

WHAM! Our bodies collide.

“OH MY GOD!” Micah exclaims.

Glass shatters onto the floor, and as for the beer? Well, it’s now dripping down my hair and clothes, puddling onto the new LVT floor.

Utterly speechless, I stand, stunned, my arms spread wide, a tremor of shock running through me.

“Rachel, are you okay?” He immediately notices my hair.

“Oh, no.” His voice trembles, the words barely audible, knowing the impact this will have on me.

“Your hair.” His gaze, brimming with remorse, locks with mine; the weight of his regret is heavy.

I choke back the tears because now I am going to have to go home and attempt to wash my hair. And I can barely lift my arms over my head, let alone bend my elbows.

“I am so sorry, sis,” he whispers.

Within seconds, a flurry of activity happens. A bartender and a waitress run over as Slick jumps up. “I’ll get the broom.”

How does he even know where the broom is? He doesn’t. Helping me is his knee-jerk reaction.

My mind is a whirlwind of thoughts, and I’m stuck, motionless, standing in a puddle of Bud Light.

Micah shakes my shoulder, drawing me from the inner freak-out I’m now having. “Rachel, go. We got this. ”

Zombie-like, I walk out of the bar, leaving the chaos behind. Someone yells my name, but it doesn’t register through the fog of my shock. I open my car door, get in, and stare as person after person files in and out of the bar. And I bet none of them have trouble washing their hair.

No! I am not going to let this get the best of me!

I pull down my visor and wipe away the tears streaming from my cheeks. Droplets of beer fall from my soaked hair onto my jeans.

There is no way my RA is going to keep me from this date with Johnny. I am going to find a way to go home, wash this beer off my body and hair, and get ready for what is going to be the best time of my life.

I start my car, pull it out onto the street, and hit the gas. Determination coursing through my veins.

I got this.

“I totally don’t got this,” I say to absolutely no one as warm water cascades down my naked body, masking the tears that are already there.

Because of my bone spurs, no matter how many times I try to lift my arms to my head, my elbows lock, and pain shoots into the joint. I even attempted to bend over to see if that position would be easier. It wasn’t. So now, I’ve been standing here for so long that the shower is running cold.

The coolness of the water is giving me the shivers, and without finishing a simple task like washing my hair, I know I need to leave this bathroom and cancel my date.

With slow, robotic motions, I grab the nozzle and turn it, leaving me even colder than I was before.

Before getting out, I run my hands through my wet hair, which still reeks of beer.

Now, I’m stuck waiting for my brother to come home and help me.

The frustrating drip, drip, drip of the water only amplifies the headache forming behind my eyes .

Reaching for my towel, I dry off my body the best way I can, drudge down the hall to my room, and slip on some comfortable clothes. Shorts and a baggy zip-up hoodie are my only choice since I can’t lift my arms over my head. Shivering, I yank on my warmest, fluffiest socks.

I’m beyond crying at this point. The tears have dried on my cheeks as I fish my phone out of my purse and settle on the couch. My favorite fuzzy blanket rests beside me, so I yank it over my exposed legs.

The time on my phone catches my eye before I open my messages, the digital glow momentarily blinding as I inhale deeply, resting my head back on the couch.

Crap. He’s probably already on his way here.

I type anyway.

Me: Are you on your way?

Johnny: Of course. Driving cow. Can’t wait to glee you.

Johnny: Driving now. See you.

Johnny: Stupid talk to text.

I let out an amused chuckle. Ugh! He’s making this even harder. Time to rip off the band-aid.

Me: I’m so sorry, but I have to cancel.

Three dots appear, then disappear. Then reappear again.

Johnny: Are you ok?

Even though it will sound like a lie and beyond ridiculous, I decide to be honest and tell him the truth.

Me: I have to wash my hair later.

There’ s nothing for a few more minutes. Restless, I wait, my leg franticly bouncing against the blanket.

Johnny: I had to pull over. Are you serious?

Me: Yes. Please go home. I can’t do this.

Suddenly, my phone lights up in my hand. He’s calling. I’m sure he wants answers. Answers that I can’t give him. Because now, after what just happened in the shower, there is no way I can tell him about my RA. I mean, come on, what kind of woman can’t even wash her own hair?

A weak one, that’s who.

I feel so helpless, like a child that needs her mother. Not a strong grown woman that this amazing man deserves.

I’m not the person for him.

I hit the red button, sending him to voicemail.

Then I throw my phone on the coffee table in front of me and stew in my self-loathing.

The remote catches my eye, and I decide to watch The Bachelor as I wait for Micah.

It will be a nice distraction, and I might as well watch other people fall in love since it’s obviously not in the cards for me.

It’s better this way. He deserves to be with someone who is perfect.

And I am anything but.