“He’s pretty good.” Violet walks with me down an aisle of guitars toward Charlie, Manuel following a few steps behind.
My fake husband sits on a stool, his body curled around an old electric guitar. That’s my extent of knowledge when it comes to identifying these instruments. I’m not musical in the slightest.
Love listening to the stuff, but I couldn’t even master the recorder in elementary school.
“I’ll take your word for it,” I say. Whatever Charlie is strumming sounds pleasant, but I couldn’t have said if the song was the easiest thing to learn or a master-level arrangement. Before we reach him, his long fingers stop their talented dance as he converses with a young guy in torn jeans hovering next to his stool.
“…and you see here, this has had a beautiful restoration. I mean, look.” Charlie holds up the guitar at eye level for both him and the stranger he’s talking to. “A lot of Jazzmasters have a neck angle problem. People try to correct them with a shim, but then that causes bowing in the neck. This one has a nice straight line. And the frets are all perfectly level. Just gorgeous.”
“Man. I never knew,” the guy says, eyes flitting between the instrument and Charlie, tinged in awe.
“Yeah. Each of these has its own quirks and history. Are you interested in a classic?”
“Totally. I’m all about vintage. Are you buying that one?” The young guy has the look of a hipster. People often use the moniker with disdain, but I’m a fan. Where hipsters congregate, there’s usually excellent beer and tasty food trucks. Plus, they’re bringing back an interest in nutritious, unprocessed ingredients, which helps with my business.
“Oh, no. I wish. Not in the budget right now. Besides, I have three beauties at home I haven’t touched in ages. Can’t make a good argument to buy more until I get back in the playing habit.” Charlie sets the guitar back on the display stand. “But whoever adds this one to their collection is a lucky SOB. They’ll have some envious glares when they bring it out onstage.” My fake husband runs one more loving gaze over the instrument, then lifts his head and finds us all watching him. “Hey! Sorry, are you ready to go? Didn’t mean to hold you up.”
“Don’t apologize!” Violet waves a hand. “Love to hear a man compliment beautiful craftsmanship.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the almost imperceptible tightening of Manuel’s mouth. I wonder if Violet was aiming a well-aimed dig at the guy, or if he just doesn’t like it when his client goes around complimenting men.
Interesting. If we weren’t in a business relationship, I might try asking her about it.
Violet and I have very different personalities, but I still enjoy whenever we have sessions together. There’s an ease between us that doesn’t happen often with my clients.
Maybe that’s her habit of saying outrageous things.
Or maybe I’m just starved for companionship. I’d be lying if I said having Charlie around my house is horrible. I shouldn’t get used to him. Then I might come to depend on him, and that’s a whole bucket of issues I’d have to deal with when we peace out in a year.
“You don’t have to leave,” I offer to Charlie. “We’re just going food shopping. You should stay here. Play with all the toys.”
“Instruments,” Violet corrects with a playful prod to my side.
I smirk her way before meeting Charlie’s eyes again. Or at least attempt to. He’s currently gazing around the place as if already imagining his hands on every guitar in the shop.
Lucky guitars.
Shut up, horny brain.
“You don’t mind?”
“Nope. I’ll text you when we’re done and come back to pick you up then.”
Fifteen minutes later, Violet, Manuel, and I enter an organic grocery store. I don’t demand my clients eat organic food. As a dietitian I try to work with realistic expectations, and if they don’t want to go to the more expensive grocery store, that’s their choice. But Violet let me know she’s all organic. To the hipster market we go.
“You really think with the right diet I could be as strong as you?” The country singer glances at my biceps. I get a sudden flush of pleasure. With my shorter stature, people rarely notice my strength.
Not until they see me go a few rounds in the gym or get into a brawl.
Not that I brawl often.
Hearing the observation from Violet threatens to inflate my ego.
“Diet and the right exercise. Yes. No doubt in my mind.”
“Well then.” The A-lister makes sure her hat and wig are in place, then grabs a cart. “Lead the way. Pour all the magic food in my cart. Please and thank you.”
Her supplicant tone has me smirking. No way are we going that route. People can buy all the healthy food they want, but if they don’t eat a bite, then it doesn’t matter.
“You point out the things you would normally buy. We’ll work from there.”
Over the next half hour, we talk through Violet’s eating habits. There are some items I switch out for healthier versions with similar tastes. Food that I encourage her to consume more of for the benefit to her muscles, and items I suggest as occasional treats rather than staples of her diet.
Somewhere along the line, Violet starts treating the experience like a game, picking random items and asking me yes, no, or switch.
Then I test her.
All the while Manuel is our silent shadow.
“Oh, goodness. I know these are a no already, but my lord. Just look at them.” She picks up a large plastic-wrapped package of some name-brand cupcakes. The things are basically handfuls of sugar begging to rot out the teeth of innocent children. And country music singers.
Still, this isn’t about denying her things.
“Like I said. Make them a special snack.” I step past her and point to a similar package. “Here. These are wrapped individually. You’re more likely to only eat one rather than binging.”
“Makes sense.” Violet sets down her handful and reaches for the alternative.
Then she groans. “Goodness gracious. They’ve got chocolate and butterscotch.” She scoops them up and faces Manuel, as if they’ve been shopping together today. “Which one?”
“Neither,” he deadpans.
“Oh, I see how it is. Trying to impress the dietitian.” Violet sets the butterscotch cakes back on the shelf and tosses the chocolate in the cart. “Manuel, why don’t you be a dear and walk down the other aisle? You can meet us at the end. I just want to gossip with Luna without you hovering.”
The bodyguard doesn’t glance at her, gaze scanning the store. “No.”
Violet keeps a positive expression on her face even as I watch a muscle in her jaw tick. “And why not?”
“My job is to protect you. I need to see you to protect you.”
“But I’m with Luna. My self-defense expert.” Flipping her fake brown hair over her shoulder, she affects a stage whisper. “She’s got a gun, you know?” Violet gives him an exaggerated wink.
I can hear the strain of him trying not to roll his eyes. “I know.”
Good. Any decent security should be able to clock a holster, despite the weapon hiding under my jacket.
“Well then, I think she’s perfectly capable of protecting me for one aisle. Besides, it’s the feminine product aisle. I’m sure you don’t want to be there for that. You know, uterus, fallopian tubes, ovaries, periods. So gross.”
His stony face doesn’t change as he speaks. “I don’t care how heavy your flow is.”
Good thing I’m not expected to remain stoic, because that has me snorting.
Violet gasps, then glares in her best attempt at fierceness. “You know nothing about my menstruation, Manuel!”
Again, I give the guy credit for not cracking.
My client turns back to me. “Are you still in the ooey-gooey honeymoon phase where you can’t be separated from your man for more than a few minutes?”
“I don’t think I was ever in that phase.” I do my best to affect the same emotionless tone Manuel used, but Violet merely shakes her head at me.
“Well, that’s a bummer. You should work on that. Still, yay for me! Because I want you to come over tomorrow night. Just to hang out. As friends.”
My mind stutters over the request. “What?”
“I swear this isn’t because I don’t want to pay you for your expertise. If we end up talking about nutrition or self-defense, I’ll start the clock. But I’m thinking more of a wine and gossip situation. Please? You can say no. I know I’m a little much. That’s why Manuel won’t hug me.”
“I…” Normally I’m quicker than this. But I’ve never been invited to hang out by a client before. Sure, I’ve been gifted backstage passes or told my name is on a list at a hot new club. But those were more bonus gifts meant for me to use at my own discretion.
This is friendship.
And that’s a strange sensation.
Still, if I’ve learned one thing about Violet, it’s that she’s one hundred percent sincere. Almost to a fault. Which means, this invite is real.
“Yes. I…yes, I would like that.”
“Ooh, I want to hug you again. But I won’t.” She marches into the aisle, tossing some tampon boxes into the cart. “Now to the wine! I can have that, right? If you tell me no, I’m going to be such a bitch.”
“In moderation,” I answer in a daze.
“That’s not in her vocabulary,” I swear I hear Manuel mutter as he passes by me, following his bubbly employer.