Too bad I loved her. She’s one of a handful of people in the entire world who sees me as I am. If only Maren had been an overtly sensitive child, she might’ve had my life, and I might’ve had hers. Instead, I spent my teens as a pop star and she spent hers guiding muskie fishing tours in northern Wisconsin. I have to imagine her clientele was fifty-fifty sincere elderly fishermen and unruly bachelor parties.

Maren spins me around in the worn salon chair and pulls my hair close to my chin, tucking it in and biting her lip, considering.

“You do have the face for it. Round with high cheekbones. You’ll look older. Short hair always makes you look older.”

“I am older,” I reassure her. “Besides, I’m not trying to look younger, anything but, honestly. Just … more like me. I want the outside to match the inside.”

Maren nods, tucking her own shoulder-length auburn curls behind her ear and then, quick as lightning, twisting them up and securing them with a giant clip. Suddenly all business. Excellent. Maren doesn’t really cut hair for a living. Her mom used to, so she has the tools. But years spent winning pageants have given her the skills she needs to make me look nice.

Plus, I want to keep this a secret. For a day at least.

“Okay.” She gathers my long, golden strands in one hand, wrapping them carefully in a hair tie and holding the length out to the side so I can see it in the mirror.

“If you’re sure, then I’m thinking all of it.” She points to the nape of my neck and a thrill rushes through my belly.

“Perfect.”

She squints. “Side part, maybe. Chunky and stacked in the back. So, longer layers around the face to frame the front and you can still slip it behind your ears.”

Lorelai looks up from the outdated women’s magazine in her lap and meets my gaze. She rolls her eyes, but it’s friendly. “Jesus, Springfield, you’re going to be so cute, he’ll die.”

I scoff. “Lyle can fuck—”

“I meant Cameron,” she cuts me off neatly. “Obviously.”

My mouth falls open as Maren asks, “Cameron Riggs?”

“Yes, Cameron Riggs. Cameron Riggs, who looks like a frigging Patagonia model and stares at our Shelby as if she put the ever-loving stars in the sky.”

“Reeeeeally?” Maren drags the word out long enough for me to recover myself.

“No, not really. Well,” I admit, “the Patagonia model part is true. He’s stupid good-looking. But not the part about him staring at me.” I narrow my eyes at Lorelai. “You know our history is complicated.”

“Do I? Weird. I forget,” she says casually, flipping a page and ignoring my glare. “Was he or was he not your first love?”