Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 119476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 597(@200wpm)___ 478(@250wpm)___ 398(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 597(@200wpm)___ 478(@250wpm)___ 398(@300wpm)
It's stupid, so absurdly stupid, but something inside me warms at hearing her call me her friend.
For years, my entire world was narrowed to only one person... no, not a person; a monster. But now, I have three people in my life that I care about and that care about me. Four, really, if I count my jellybean. Although, if I'm being honest, the latter is the most important, because this baby gave me the push I needed to escape the hell I had all but resigned myself to.
My son may have been conceived through horrific circumstances, but he... he saved me, too.
“Do you know how you want it cut?” Scarlet asks, drawing me out of my thoughts.
“Um.” I flex my fingers in my lap. “What do you think?”
Scarlet regards me carefully. “Well, I think you're so used to deferring to other people that you have no idea what you want.”
I swallow roughly as tears burn the back of my eyes. Do not cry, do not cry, do not cry. I repeat the words like a mantra to myself, over and over. Scarlet clearly already thinks I'm pathetic—the last thing I need to do is break down in the middle of this fancy spa and prove her right.
But my best efforts aren’t enough and a sniffle breaks free, alerting Scarlet to my distress.
“Hey, Nora, whoa. Clearly that came out wrong.” She reaches for me and, instinctively, I flinch away from her touch. “Jesus Christ, I'm fucking this up left and right. Atlas is never going to let me take you anywhere ever again at this rate.”
“I'm sorry,” I whisper.
“No, don't be. I guess decision making isn't something you're used to anymore. But, babe, it's time to reclaim that shit. You are free. You are your own boss. You're a fucking queen. Own that shit.”
“I know. Kind of. At least, I want to... you know... own my shit.” I whisper the last word, my cheeks burning. “But I wouldn't be opposed to some guidance.”
Scarlet rubs her hands together in a way that should probably worry me. “Well, I'd say you could stand to lose like five or so inches. Your hair is long and will still be long.”
I run my fingers through the ends. She's right. My hair is long, and I have absolutely no idea how to style it. Mama bought me a flat iron when I was in middle school, but outside of that, I'm clueless.
“Okay, that sounds good.”
“How do you feel about color?”
My no is both instant and emphatic. “My dad... his hair was the same color as mine. It's probably stupid, but it's all I have left of him now.”
“No color, got it.” She claps her hands together. “A gloss then. It will just make it, like, really shiny.”
Before I can reply, two women step into the waiting room. “Scarlet, Nora, we're ready for y'all.”
I once again let Scarlet take the lead as she warmly greets both women, before relaying to one of them what I want. Here's to hoping she knows her stuff...
Ninety minutes later, I'm a well-styled puddle of goo. Seriously, I’m pretty sure my stylist has magic fingers or something.
“Wow,” I whisper, for probably the hundredth time as I run my fingers through my perfectly waved hair. It's seriously perfect. Bouncy and healthy and shiny and... yeah, perfect.
“If you liked that, you'll love a pedicure,” Scarlet says, grinning at me. “Now let's go pick our colors.”
“What are you getting?” I ask, my heart already racing at the multitude of choices laid before me, in neat and tidy rainbow order. Bottle after bottle, as far as the eye can see, and I’m somehow supposed to narrow it down to one.
“Something bright and bold.” She taps her index finger against her bottom lip. “Oh, this one!” She grabs a polish that I can only describe as neon red. It's pretty, if a little loud. Perfect for Scarlet.
“Hmm.” I scan the wall until the colors all start to blend together before finally settling on a soft pearlescent blue. It's understated but pretty. Safe, but with a little sparkle, too.
“Oh, that's cute,” Scarlet murmurs as she guides me over to the pedicure chairs. “Have you ever done this before?”
I smile, as a bittersweet warmth fills my chest. “A few times with my mom before...” I swallow roughly but push through. The past is just that, and I have to learn to be able to talk about it. I have to own my trauma so it doesn’t own me. “Before she met R-Rand.” I hate the way I struggle to say his name, like it somehow will summon him to me.
When I read Harry Potter as a kid, I always thought it was so stupid how everyone was scared to say Voldemort's name. But now, I get it. There is a power in a name, and whether I like it or not, his still holds power over me.