Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,84

This is what it feels like to let the genie out of the bottle and actually admit I want something more. Something of my own. And as much as I hate to admit it, Brad was right about me. My attitude about cooking was the same as my attitude about everything else: I defined myself by what I wasn’t, not what I was. I don’t know where I’ll go, just not North Star. I don’t know who I am, I’m just not my mom. I don’t know what food to cook, but your food sucks.

“Know about what?” Dee asks.

“I was thinking about opening my own place. Maybe in Austin or one of those food trucks,” I say.

“Or you could open up your own place where your momma’s shack was. Sure, it needs some work, but it’s still y’all’s property,” Dee says. It sounds as though she’s been practicing this pitch for quite some time.

“I can’t say I haven’t not thought about it,” I say.

“You can’t say you haven’t not thought about it? I don’t even know what that means,” Dee says.

“I have thought about that option as well,” I say.

“Okay then. We’ll just leave it at that,” Dee says.

We are quiet. Just something to think about as we make our way back to the front of the salon.

Dee continues, “I personally love that Piggy Peggy is going to be here when Professor California gets here.” Dee laughs and walks back over to her station.

I spend the rest of the day sweeping up hair, filling shampoo bottles, and making appointments in the salon. When my unscientific tasting was over, the women chose my favorite version of my churro and we voted for the Mexican hot chocolate as well as that cajeta concoction that we all secretly want to bathe in later. We laugh and talk about the day’s events, all the while checking the clock, awaiting five thirty. I catch Merry Carole texting someone a few times, but decide not to bust her on it. I figure it’s Reed and am glad that she hasn’t cut off communication with him. I’m happy she’s at least conflicted.

I head back to the house at around four thirty to get ready, take a shower, and put on one of Merry Carole’s sundresses. I had to battle the three of them all day not to “fix my hair.” I don’t need to have Hudson walk in and be able to see my hair from the street.

As I blow-dry my hair, I can’t help but stare at my own reflection in the mirror. The freckles that dot their way across my nose, the pale skin that burns at the hint of sunshine, the pale blue eyes that always seem to be prying even when I look at myself. I borrow some of Merry Carole’s hair products to make my brown bangs stay put as I sweep them off to the side. I put on some mascara and lip gloss as the clock ticks down.

And I stare at my reflection.

I feel silly then stupid then terrified. What if I trot Hudson out in front of Piggy Peggy only to have him . . . no. Stop. I close my eyes and steady my breathing. I wonder if this is what getting your hopes up feels like. To me, it feels childlike. Silly. Like I should know better or something.

As I collect my purse from the dining room, I make a vow to myself. Tonight I will use words like “excited” and “invigorating” instead of “terrified” and “nervous.” I’ll think of it as if I’m on a roller coaster, jolting into that electrifying click, click, click of the climb before that first heart-racing drop. This is a good thing no matter how it turns out. Being with Hudson means I don’t have to think about the past or the future. I just get to be blissfully entrenched in the present. He doesn’t know who my momma was and he doesn’t care. When he walks into that salon tonight, he’s not trying to give the finger to Piggy Peggy and the North Star establishment (like I am), he just wants some good barbecue.

I walk back into the salon and see Piggy Peggy at Merry Carole’s station. Her hair’s separated with bits of tinfoil and she’s wearing a black-and-hot-pink smock that makes her torso formless and mountainlike. She’s absently flipping through a tabloid and looks up as the front door of the salon dings. The cartoonish terror that overtakes her