“Better,” the girl said.
Walker nodded.
“She’s home.”
Two simple words, but the relief inside them filled the room.
The procedure had gone well, he explained.
She had been frightened right up until they came for her, but when she started panicking she had demanded to see his hands.
So Walker had held them up.
Ten ridiculous purple nails under hospital lights.
She laughed.
Then she remembered the deal.
If Grandpa could walk into a nail salon and ask for princess purple glitter, she could be brave for a few more minutes.
Walker stayed beside her until the nurses had to take her through the doors.
When she came back, groggy and exhausted, the first thing she asked was whether he had removed the polish.
He hadn’t.
He kept it on during every visit.
He kept it on when he stopped for gas.
He kept it on while working on his motorcycle.
He kept it on when strangers stared.
That was why the manicure looked destroyed now.
He had never protected the polish because he was embarrassed by it.
He had protected it because he had made a promise not to remove it.
There was a difference.
The granddaughter climbed into the same little pink chair Walker had used.
Her feet didn’t reach the floor.
Tina set several bottles in front of her.
The girl immediately chose the same violet.
Then she pointed to Walker.
“He needs his fixed too.”
Walker shook his head.
“The deal was one time.”
The girl narrowed her eyes.
Tina unscrewed the bottle.
“I think you’re outnumbered.”
Walker looked around the salon.
Every woman who had once stared at him was smiling now.
He sighed and sat down.
The little pink stool groaned beneath him again.
This time nobody was afraid of the sound.
Tina painted one of the girl’s nails first, then Walker’s.
Purple.
Princess purple.
Gold stars.
I watched his granddaughter compare their hands when Tina finished.
Her fingers were tiny beside his scarred ones, but the color matched perfectly.
She pressed her fingertips against his.
Walker held absolutely still.
The first day he entered Tina’s Nails, I thought those scars told me his whole story.
I thought I knew what kind of man belonged to hands like that.
I was wrong before he ever opened his mouth.
The scars told only what his hands had survived.
The purple polish told what they were willing to do for someone he loved.
When Walker and his granddaughter finally left together, she was holding two of his enormous fingers so she wouldn’t smudge her nails.
He moved at her pace.
Slowly.
Carefully.
At the door she looked down at his manicure and warned him not to chip the stars again.
