I’m about to argue with my cousin, when the TV grabs all of our attention. A picture of Shane Giraldi flashes across it with some breaking news banner. The anchor, a woman I recognize from the thousands of other times I’ve watched this sports channel broadcast, begins to talk.
“We have some crucial updates in the Shane Giraldi domestic violence case. As the charges are still pending and he’s awaiting trial, the two-time World Series champion issued a statement today.”
A block of text attributed to Shane pops up on the screen, and my eyes read it at hyper-speed.
This is a private matter between my family and me. That being said, what transpired on the night in question was a gross misunderstanding, and I am both apologizing to my wife and my daughters for the strife this is putting them through. I love my wife very much; she has stood by me throughout my entire career. I hope we can settle this matter between ourselves and that the public will give us time to heal as a family. I hope my baseball family can understand this matter, and the league reconsiders their decision on my suspension. I love this sport and its fans, and miss them greatly.
-Shane Giraldi
We all watch in jaw-dropping disbelief as the anchor details the events of the last month, in all the gory detail the three of us remember vividly.
“At this time, Hannah Giraldi has not publicly come out in support of her husband. She has remained largely unseen, as is not the case many times with these kinds of cases. Jim, talk about Mrs. Giraldi’s actions and what her not acting as the quote, unquote good wife can speak to regarding the allegations,” the original anchor says.
Another talking head comes on, some sports slash legal analyst, and begins talking out of his ass, because he clearly has no inside view of the situation.
“Why the hell is he putting out statements right now? His public relations person must be really bottom of the barrel. His agent and his original PR rep fired him. Plus, that statement is garbage. It’s all about him!” Colleen is raging at the television.
“I hated that guy from the first day in the locker room. What a piece of shit,” Hayes mumbles.
I, on the other hand, am grinding down on my molars that I’m afraid one of them has already cracked. Shane is lower than scum, he’s the kind of evil you never want to encounter. Not only is he denying anything ever happened, when I saw with my own two eyes him using his fists on his own wife, but he’s trying to communicate with her through the media. He’s using his star status as a work-around to the order of protection Hannah had sought and won. This is the kind of manipulative shit only sociopaths or psychopaths resort to.
And the fact that Hannah couldn’t outright tell me if she planned on leaving him, even if she thought I wasn’t privy to that information, means that something like this bullshit apology could totally reel her back in.
I drain the second beer in one fell swoop and head to the fridge for another. There’s nothing to do now but get good and sloppily drunk, maybe crash in Colleen’s guest room.
I’d seen Hannah all right, and nothing had gone as I planned.
7
Hannah
For the seventieth time in three minutes, I check my makeup in the rearview mirror.
The hair salon doesn’t open for another fifteen minutes, but I arrived extra early with butterflies in my stomach because that’s what you do when you land a job after being out of work for six years.
My day started at five a.m., when I awoke with nervous jitters and couldn’t let my head hit the pillow again. I showered, took time for the first time in weeks to actually style my hair, clothes, and face, and then spent an hour with the girls before I had to get in the car and go.
Technically, the salon doesn’t open to the public for another hour, around nine a.m., but the owner asked that I get here at eight to learn some of the basics. With no leg, or license, to stand on, I had no problem doing that. After all, she was taking a chance on me when there was no logical reason why she should. But they’d just had another apprentice leave to move across the country and were in a bind when I called to inquire about the job.
I look calm and cool on the outside, with winged eyeliner and a vintage Beatles T-shirt Dahlia lent me. I hope my outfit and style choices read both relaxed but edgy, and that they’ll fit right in at Siesta Salon, the boho-chic salon I googled pictures of before my first day.
The pay is minimum wage, and I’ll make no tips due to the fact that my first few months will be spent sweeping up hair and giving shampoos, but I am actually pretty excited about being back in the hair world. Once upon a time, I loved this space, had spent every waking hour in it. It was my passion, and though I wouldn’t be working on actual highlights or cuts for a while, I couldn’t wait to perform that art again.
Exiting my car with my purse slung over my shoulder and my heart two-stepping with anxious energy, I make my way to the entrance of Siesta.
It’s only about two minutes that I wait outside the front door of the salon before a woman with purple-gray hair comes to unlock the front door.
“You’re Hannah?” she asks, a warm smile stretching her mauve-painted lips.
“Yes. Ginny? Nice to meet you.” I extended my hand, hoping it isn’t sweaty.
“That’s me. Though I’m not really Ginny until my third cup of coffee, but it’s still nice to meet you. Thanks for coming in early.”
The woman I interviewed with, a co-owner of Siesta, is the size of a toothpick soaking wet, but has on jeans with a swirl of caftan and jangling bracelets preceding her every step as she beckons me into the salon. I can’t tell if she’s older or younger than I am, which I feel like is part of what she’s going for, but she’s beautiful in a way I’ll never be able to pull off.
The place is a work of art, with gigantic dream-catchers hanging from the black-beamed ceiling, exposed brick, vintage gilded mirrors and an olive and beige aesthetic that I’m sure puts every guest at ease. The front desk is made of a large slab of concrete, with flowering plants installed in little cubbies on its facade. The product wall is set up on glass shelves from floor to ceiling next to comfy cognac leather chairs, and the sink setup in the back is all flecked gold bowls and farmhouse pendant lights hanging above.
“Wow, it’s gorgeous in here.” I breathe, kind of mesmerized by the whole effect. “And while we’re on the topic of thank you’s, I really appreciate this chance. I know I’ve been out of the salon business for a little while. I’m grateful you took a chance on me.”
Ginny throws me a smile over her shoulder. “The other owner, Cassandra, is a bit of a decor freak. But I agree, it definitely makes it easier to come to work.”
She stops right in front of a coffee bar with several pots, an espresso machine, and a sign about cold brew in the mini-fridge below, and turns her amber gaze on me.
“As for the chance, don’t thank me. Full disclosure, I recognized your name. Who wouldn’t with how much it’s been repeated over and over on the news. And as someone who has been through that, we have to stick together. I know I could have used an outstretched hand when it was me. All I ask is that you work hard and take care of those girls.”
My heart plunges into my stomach. So, she’d given me the job because she knows I am a domestic violence victim.