The first time Aiofé Byrne stormed into The Tiki Tumble, Heidi genuinely thought someone important had died.
The front door flew open hard enough to rattle the little bell above it, and in swept a woman dressed entirely in black despite the tropical humidity trying to actively murder everyone outside.
Black sunglasses.
Black silk blouse.
Black leather skirt.
Black heels sharp enough to puncture tile.
She looked like a funeral director who sold cocaine recreationally.
“Absolutely the fuck not,” the woman announced before Heidi could even say hello.
Heidi blinked from behind the counter.
“I’m sorry?”
“You lost my towels.”
The woman ripped off her sunglasses dramatically.
Big green eyes. Thick spider-lash extensions. Plum-black lipstick sharp enough to commit crimes with. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulders in expensive waves, and a glittering choker wrapped around her throat like a fashionable hostage situation.
Heidi stared.
The woman stared back.
Then both women spoke at once.
“Who are you?”
“Who the fuck are you?”
Silence.
Then:
“Oh good,” the woman sighed. “Another white girl.”
Heidi laughed before she could stop herself.
That seemed to irritate the woman further.
“You think this is funny?”
“I don’t know yet. Keep talking.”
The woman slapped a stack of papers onto the counter.
“The Posh Parlour contract,” she said. “Spa linens. Robes. Facial towels. Massage sheets. Black hand towels embroidered with the gold logo because apparently rich women need luxury fabric while getting cucumber sludge smeared on their foreheads.”
Heidi looked down at the paperwork.
Then back up.
“Oh shit.”
“Correct.”
“The old owner didn’t mention a salon contract.”
“The old owner also disappeared halfway through hurricane season and left me with two weeks of damp robes smelling like mildew and emotional neglect.”
“That’s… specific.”
“I own a fucking spa. Presentation matters.”
The woman leaned both palms onto the counter dramatically.
“I have women spending four hundred dollars to look younger than their husbands’ mistresses. I cannot have crunchy towels.”
Heidi bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from smiling.
The woman pointed a rhinestone-covered fingernail at her.
“Do not smile at me. This is serious.”
“You said crunchy towels.”
“Yes. Because they are crunchy.”
“That’s objectively funny.”
The woman narrowed her eyes.
Then, against her own will, one corner of her mouth twitched.
Heidi saw it.
A crack in the armor.
There you are, she thought.
The woman sighed heavily and pulled off her sunglasses completely.
Up close, she looked exhausted beneath the glamour. Not old—she couldn’t have been more than her early thirties—but worn around the edges in a way expensive makeup couldn’t quite hide.
“I’m Aiofé,” she said finally. “Owner of The Posh Parlour. Professional asshole waxer. Part-time emotional support animal for rich women.”
“Heidi.”
“I know. Jacques told me.”
“That’s concerning.”
“Everything involving Jacques is concerning.”
Fair.
Aiofé glanced around the laundromat.
The pastel walls.
The potted palms.
The fairy lights Heidi had strung near the windows because apparently she’d decided to emotionally renovate her own nervous breakdown.
“Hm.”
“What?”
“You made it less depressing.”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.”
“It wasn’t a compliment. It’s still a laundromat.”
“Okay, there’s the hostility again.”
Aiofé shrugged one sharp shoulder.
“I’m British. Warmth feels suspicious.”
Heidi laughed again.
That one stuck.
Aiofé looked annoyed about it.
Unfortunately for her, she was fascinating.
She looked like Morticia Addams had wandered into a beach vacation and accidentally become successful. Every inch of her was dramatic. Even the way she leaned against the counter looked rehearsed for maximum visual impact.
“You own the spa near the marina?” Heidi asked.
“The giant black building covered in bougainvillea and unresolved trauma? Yes.”
“I passed it yesterday.”
“And?”
“It looked expensive.”
“It is.”
“You must do well.”
Aiofé snorted.
“Darling, women will survive heartbreak, betrayal, childbirth, and capitalism itself before they survive a bad balayage.”
“True.”
Aiofé slid the contract toward her.
“Can you handle the volume?”
Heidi scanned the paperwork.
It was a good account. A very good account.
“I can.”
“You sure?”
“I survived corporate tech support and a Trump presidency in America. I can survive towels.”
“That bad?”
Heidi stared at her for a moment.
“Yes.”
Something flickered across Aiofé’s face then.
Recognition.
Not understanding exactly. But familiarity. The subtle instinct of damaged women spotting another one in the wild.
“Hm,” she said softly.
Then the moment vanished.
“Well,” she announced loudly, “as long as you can remove massage oil and vaginal steam residue from Egyptian cotton, we should be fine.”
Heidi choked on air.
“I’m sorry—vaginal what?”
“You heard me.”
“That’s a real thing?”
“Oh sweetheart.” Aiofé removed a lipstick tube from her purse and reapplied it casually. “Rich women will pay alarming amounts of money to boil their own genitals.”
“That sentence just ruined my morning.”
“You’ll adjust.”
Aiofé leaned closer conspiratorially.
“Honestly, though? The ass hole bleaching clients are the worst.”
Heidi burst out laughing.
Full laughing.
The kind that escapes before dignity can intervene.
Aiofé looked deeply pleased with herself.
“The mentally unstable little gremlin under the customer service voice.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Please. I recognize emotional damage professionally. Half my clients are one glass of wine away from arson.”
Heidi shook her head, still laughing.
And just like that, the tension disappeared.
Not completely.
But enough.
Aiofé removed a cigarette from her purse, looked around the laundromat, then paused.
“You mind?”
“Inside?”
“Fine.”
She tucked it back away dramatically.
“You’re new here,” she said.
“That obvious?”
“You still have mainland shoulders.”
Heidi blinked.
“What does that mean?”
“You walk like you expect bad news.”
The words landed harder than Heidi expected.
Aiofé noticed immediately.
Of course she did.
She seemed like the kind of woman who collected people’s weaknesses the way other women collected handbags.
But instead of pushing, she softened slightly.
Not much.
Just enough to matter.
“Well,” she said, “give it time. The island sands the edges off eventually.”
“That sounds threatening.”
“It is.”
Aiofé wandered slowly around the laundromat while Heidi finalized the paperwork.
“You know,” she said casually, “I genuinely thought you were going to be awful.”
“Thanks?”
“No really. Another mainland woman buying local property? I prepared myself emotionally for reclaimed wood signs and phrases like beachy vibes.”
“I would rather die.”
“Good answer.”
She pointed approvingly.
“You already have more personality than the last American woman who moved here. She cried because a gecko got into her blender.”
“That feels valid.”
“She tried to sue the landlord.”
“Oh.”
“Exactly.”
Heidi finished signing the paperwork.
“There,” she said. “You officially have non-crunchy towels again.”
Aiofé placed one hand dramatically over her heart.
“You’re a hero.”
“I’m literally doing laundry.”
“Same thing.”
She slid her sunglasses back on.
Then paused near the door.
“You busy Friday night?”
Heidi looked up suspiciously.
“That depends entirely on why you’re asking.”
“There’s a bar near the marina, Sams, with dangerously irresponsible mojitos and a bartender who looks like he eats pussy for the olympics.”
“That is somehow both attractive and medically concerning.”
“You’ll fit right in.”
Heidi hesitated.
The old version of herself would have said no automatically.
Too tired.
Too anxious.
Too emotionally barricaded.
But she wasn’t in America anymore.
And standing in front of her was a woman dressed like a gothic divorce lawyer on spring break asking her to go drink rum on an island.
Honestly, life had been worse.
“Okay,” Heidi said.
Aiofé grinned.
It transformed her completely.
Underneath all the black glitter and sarcasm and sharp edges was something unexpectedly bright. Chaotic, absolutely. Possibly criminal. But warm.
“Perfect,” she said. “You can tell me your tragic backstory and I’ll pretend not to make it about buttholes.”
“I feel like that promise means nothing.”
“It means very little.”
Before leaving, Aiofé scribbled her number onto the back of the contract invoice in looping black ink.
Then she looked Heidi up and down thoughtfully.
“One warning.”
“Oh no.”
“If Jacques starts looking at you too long, throw water on him like a stray cat.”
Heidi snorted.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I’m serious. That man has the emotional stability of expensive whiskey.”
“And you know this because?”
Aiofé pushed her sunglasses higher onto her nose.
“Because I used to fuck him.”
“…what?”
“Long story.”
Then she swept out the door as dramatically as she’d entered, black heels clicking against the tile like punctuation marks.
The bell jingled behind her.
Silence settled back over the laundromat.
Heidi stared down at the phone number in her hand.
Then out the window toward the marina where Aiofé disappeared into the sunlight like a glamorous little thunderstorm.
A strange feeling settled in Heidi’s chest.
Not loneliness.
Not exactly.
Something lighter.
The unfamiliar realization that maybe, somehow, she was beginning to find people here.
Not replacements.
Nothing could replace what she’d lost.
But something new.
Something alive.
Outside, the island shimmered beneath the afternoon heat.
And upstairs in the old sea captain’s villa overlooking the water, Aiofé Byrne was probably already telling someone she’d accidentally made friends with another emotionally unstable white woman.
Honestly? She wouldn’t be wrong.
