Chapter 8This evening, after another dreadful day at work—why did I ever go back to being a financial consultant?—I headed straight to the hair salon. Myles and I had planned to go for a ride because—his words—”I’ve been dying to sit on that big, throbbing thing”. I’d planned on taking the beautiful scenic route into Lachine and maybe stopping at Dairy Queens, where a raspberry fudge bliss cake could have been dinner for two.
But instead, Bump, I met Ethan, whom I’m going to tell you right now, I dislike immensely.
The salon, which by the way is called Fiennes, because, yes, you guessed it Ethan’s last name is Fiennes, was closed, its front door locked. But through the glass door, I could see Myles and Ethan and their many mirror reflections, having what appeared to be a major argument.
