"But he's nice in other ways/' I protested. "He's a good boyfriend."
"No he isn't." Alan said. "You just think he is. But sooner or later a sixty-eight will show his true colors outside the bedroom. Leaving you at home while he goes out with his buddies. Buying himself a new car while you get the used one. A sixty-eight always takes the biggest slice of cake, honey. Don't waste your time with him. Trust me, I know from experience."
"Alan's right," Heather said. "I dated a sixty-eight a couple years ago, and at first he was, like, a total hottie. But he turned out to be the biggest jerk ever. Major bummer."
Until that moment I hadn't seriously considered breaking up with Tom. But the idea was an unexpected relief. I realized what was bothering me had nothing to do with blow jobs. The problem was, our emotional intimacy, like our sex life, had its limits. Tom had no interest in the secret places of my heart, nor I in his. We were more adventurous in our selection of gourmet foods than we were in the hazardous territory of a true relationship. It was beginning to dawn on me how rare it was for two people to find the kind of connection Hardy and I had shared. And Hardy had given it up, given me up, for the wrong reasons. I hoped to hell he wasn't finding it any easier than I was to build a relationship with someone.
"What's the best way to end it?" I asked.
Angie patted my back kindly. "Tell him the relationship isn't going where you hoped it would. Say it's no one's fault, but it's just not working for you."
"And don't drop the bomb at your place," Alan added, "because it's always harder to
make someone leave. Do it at his place and then you're out the door."
Soon after that I worked up the courage to break up with Tom at his apartment. I told him how much I had enjoyed our time together but it just wasn't working, and it wasn't him, it was me. Tom listened carefully, impassive except for the movement of tiny facial muscles anchored beneath his beard. He had no questions. He didn't offer a single protest. Maybe it was a relief for him too. I thought. Maybe he'd been bothered as I was by the something-missing between us.
Tom walked me to the door, where I stood clutching my purse. I was thankful there was no goodbye kiss. "I...I wish you well," I said. It was a quaint, old-fashioned phrase, but nothing else seemed to capture my feeling so exactly.
"Yes," he said. "You too, Liberty. I hope you take some time to work on yourself and your problem."
"My problem?"
"Your commitment phobia." he said with kind concern. "Fear of intimacy. You need to work on it. Good luck."
The door closed gently in my face.
I was late getting to work the next day, so I would have to wait until later to report on what had happened. One of the things you learn about working in a salon is that most stylists love to dissect relationships. Our coffee or smoke breaks often sounded like group therapy sessions.
I felt almost lighthearted about breaking up with Tom, except for that shot he'd taken at the end. I didn't blame him for saying it, since he'd just been dumped. What troubled me was the inner suspicion that he was right. Maybe I did have fear of intimacy. I had never loved any man but Hardy, who was secured in my heart with backward barbs. I still dreamed of him and woke with my blood clamoring, every inch of my skin damp and alive.
I was afraid I should have settled for Tom. Carrington would be ten soon. She had been deprived of so many years of fatherly influence. We needed a man in our life.
As I walked into the salon, which had just opened, Alan approached with the news that Zenko wanted to talk to me right away.
"I'm only a few minutes late—" I began.
"No, no, it's not about that. It's about Mr. Travis."
"Is he coming in today?"
Alan's expression was impossible to interpret. "I don't think so."
I went to the back of the salon, where Zenko stood with a china cup filled with hot tea.
He looked up from a leather-bound appointment book. "Liberty. I've checked your afternoon schedule." He pronounced it the British way, shedule. It was one of his favorite words. "It seems to be clear after three-thirty."
"Yes, sir," I said cautiously.
"Mr. Travis wants a trim at his home. Do you know the address?"
I shook my head in bewilderment. "You want me to do it? How come you're not going? You always do his trims."
Zenko explained that a well-known actress was flying in from New York, and he couldn't cancel on her. "Besides," he continued in a careful monotone, "Mr. Travis specifically asked for you. He's had a difficult time since the accident, and he indicated it might do him some good if—"