I didn’t sweep up what I did cut of

I didn’t sweep up what I did cut of Owen’s hair before we left the salon, but it’s gone, so I’ll have to thank her later.
I begin cutting his hair, and I do my best to focus on that and not so much on him. Somewhere between the beginning of the haircut and this moment, Emory returned to her station. She’s now seated in her own salon chair, watching us. She kicks off the cabinet with her foot and begins spinning.
“Are you moving forever or just for a little while?” Emory asks. Owen looks in my direction and raises an eyebrow.
“Oh,” I say, forgetting they haven’t been formally introduced yet. I point to Emory. “Owen, this is Emory. My strange roommate.”
He nods slightly and looks in her direction without turning too much. I think he’s nervous I’ll mess his hair up even more, so he’s being as still as he can possibly be. “A few months, probably,” he says in response to her. “It’s not permanent. A work thing.”
Emory frowns. “That’s too bad,” she says. “I already like you a whole lot better than the other guy.”
My eyes grow wide and my head swings in her direction. “Emory!”
I can’t believe she just said that.
Owen slowly turns his attention back to me and cocks an eyebrow. “Other guy?”
I shake my head and wave her off. “She’s misinformed. There is no other guy.” I glare at her. “There can’t be another guy when there’s not even a guy.”
“Oh, please.” She catches the cabinet with her foot and stops spinning. She points to Owen. “He’s a guy. A guy you apparently spent the night with last night. A guy I think is a lot nicer than the other guy, and a guy I think you’re sad is moving.”
What is wrong with this girl? I can feel Owen staring at me, but I’m too embarrassed to look at him. I glare at Emory again instead. “I was actually beginning to respect you because you never gossip.”
“It’s not gossip when I’m saying it to both your faces. It’s called conversation. We’re discussing how you guys are attracted to each other and you want to fall in love like . . . like . . . two . . .” She pauses for a moment and then shakes her head. “I suck at metaphors. You want to fall in love, but now he has to move and you’re sad. But you don’t have to be sad because thanks to me, you now know he’s only moving for a few months. Not forever. Just don’t give in to the other guy first.”
Owen is laughing, but I’m not. I grab the blow dryer to drown out her words and I finish styling his now-short hair, which actually looks really good. His eyes stand out even more. A lot more. They look brighter. So much so that I’m finding it really hard not to stare at them.
I turn off the blow dryer and Emory immediately begins speaking again. “So when are you moving, Owen?”
He stares at me when he answers her. “Monday.”
Emory slaps the arm of the chair. “That’s perfect timing,” she says. “Auburn is off today and tomorrow. You guys can spend the whole weekend together.”
I don’t tell her to shut up, because I know it wouldn’t stop her. I step behind Owen and untie the smock wrapped around him and then shove it into a drawer, all the while giving her a death stare.
“I actually like that idea,” Owen says.
His voice makes me fear for the safety of the world, because I’m single-handedly depleting the oxygen supply with all the deep breaths I take every time I hear it. I look at him in the mirror and he’s leaning forward in the salon chair, staring at my reflection.
He wants to spend the weekend with me? Hell no. If that happens, then it means other things will happen and I don’t know if I’m ready for other things yet. Besides, I’ll be busy with . . . Crap. I’m not busy at all. This is the weekend Lydia goes to Pasadena. There goes that excuse.
“Look at her trying to come up with excuses,” Emory says, amused.
They’re both staring at me now, waiting on me to respond. I grab Owen’s hat and put it on my head and walk straight for the front door. I don’t owe Owen a weekend and I definitely don’t owe Emory a sideshow. I swing open the door and begin walking in the direction of my apartment, which also happens to be the direction of Owen’s studio, so I’m not surprised when he appears next to me.
Our steps fall into sync, and I begin to count them. I wonder if we’ll make it all the way to his studio without speaking.
Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen . . .
“What are you thinking?” he asks quietly.
I stop counting our steps, because I’m not walking anymore. Owen isn’t walking either, because Owen is standing directly in front of me, looking at me with those big, noticeable Owen-eyes this haircut just created.
“I’m not spending the weekend with you. I can’t believe you would even suggest that.”
He shakes his head. “I didn’t suggest it. Your inappropriate roommate did. I just said I liked the idea of it.”
I huff and fold my arms tightly over my chest. I look down at the sidewalk between us and try to figure out why I’m so mad right now. Walking away from him won’t make me any less mad, because that’s actually the problem.