him come back around the corner before getting the shower started. We’d have breakfast together, eat, make love, talk or watch a movie, end up back in bed, where he’d either fuck me like his own personal whore or gently make love to me like I was his wife. Whichever really depended on his mood. Luckily I hadn’t cried again! Oh my gosh, that was embarrassing. Luckily he hadn’t brought it up.
After finding out how we were connected, he’d opened up a little bit more, but not as much as I’d like. Ethan lived in his head. I’d wanted to get in there at first, but it was a maze even he was lost inside of, so I could only pull him out, forcing him to read to me, watch old movies, or draw me, a secret talent of his. He was an artist, obsessed with classical works of literature, art, and people. I’d ask questions only to keep him from falling back into the abyss of his mind. I was sure he knew, but he went along with it. The one thing he did not talk about was his childhood or his parents. All he’d say was that his parents loved each other, loved him and his siblings, and never wanted them to be weak. That was it.
Each day I tried to pry more and each day he changed the subject. Today I was determined to get him to speak up about it. However, of course we were now going somewhere…the both of us.
Glancing over at him as he drove in the rain, his hand was like a heater on my thigh, stroking back and forth gently.
“Yes?” he asked, not needing to look at me to know I was staring.
“You still haven’t told me where we’re going.” He just said ‘out’ when I asked him before. “Or will you not know until we get there?”
“We’re here,” he said, pulling up in front of a barbershop, the name “Carofiglio” elegantly written on the windows.
“I thought you cut your own hair?” I’d seen him perfectly cut and style his hair yesterday with nothing but scissors and barber razors.
Of course he didn’t answer me, instead stepping out of the car and coming around to my side to open the door for me. Stepping out, I eyed him carefully.
“You’re very interested in my childhood, and I prefer not to talk about it,” he said, shutting the door behind me and taking my hand. “This is a compromise.”
I didn’t understand how until we stepped inside on to the checkered floor, the wooden walls covered with dozens if not hundreds of photos, some faded to black and white.
“Ethan!” An old man, who had more wrinkles than the bunched up shirt, pure gray hair, which was parted and styled with waves in it, and a small gut, put his scissors down to come up to Ethan, who bent down to the man who was a few inches shorter than me, to kiss his right cheek, then his left. When they backed up the man grabbed his shoulders. “Mio caro! Che piacere vederti. Mi sei mancato molto! Come sta?”
Ethan actually smiled at the old man. “Non posso lamentarmi con una bella moglie così.”
The old man’s brown eyes finally shifted over to me. “Una vera bellezza!” he said before pulling me into a hug and kissing the sides of my cheeks so quickly I didn’t even have time to process he’d done it till I was standing apart from him.
“Ivy,” Ethan called, finally back in a language I could understand. “This is Giovanni Carofiglio, my former boss. Giovanni, Ivy Callahan, my wife.”
“It is a pleasure, my dear.” Giovanni smiled at us, crossing his arms to look at us together. “For shame your wedding was so private.”
“Oh, yes, for shame you missed free wine and food.” Ethan snickered at him then nodded to his stomach. “Though, I see you are preparing for two—”
Giovanni sucked his teeth and raised his hand. “Do not forget your mother gave me permission to smack you if needed.”
“How could I forget?” Ethan rolled his eyes. “You find a way to mention it each time we meet.”
“Former boss?” I cut, looking between them before they continued merrily down memory lane.
“Oh, yes.” He nodded to the seventh and only barber chair not occupied. It sat in the corner, like a well-polished leather throne. The name Ethan C. was engraved on the upper corner of the glass next to pictures. Mesmerized by it, I walked toward it. Sure enough the photos were of him when he was a teenager, still tall, his hair a little shorter than now but ever the epitome of cool. There were pictures of him cutting hair of small children and of older men, and even women too. The most shocking was Wyatt, both of them laughing. Ethan looked ready to bust his gut, while Wyatt used a piece of hair to make a mustache over his upper lip.
“When was this?” I whispered, looking at each picture on the corner of the mirror.
“Ethan started working in my shop when I lived in Chicago. He was twelve,” Giovanni said, now standing beside me, looking at the pictures with pure pride. “He wasn’t anything but a sweeper when he first got started.”
“And in no time I had more regulars than you,” Ethan said, walking around to the other side of the chair and taking off his leather jacket, picking up a gray button-down uniform shirt. His name was also stitched onto it.
“The bitter part of me wants to blame it on your last name.” Giovanni huffed angrily. “Of course people would want to get their hair cut by a Callahan…”
“But my skills spoke for themselves,” Ethan said, pulling out a box filled with barber tools that shined beautifully.
“Humility goes a long way, boy,” Giovanni replied.
“Humility is not in the Callahan dictionary,” I said, laughing. This was amazing. Who would have ever thought Mr. Richie-Rich, silver spoon-fed Ethan had a part-time job growing up?
“Aww, true.” Giovanni nodded, looking at me. “It would help too if they were bad at some things. Did your husband not tell you he’s my greatest student?”
“Auhmmm!”