Page 110 of His to Save

“So, how long has it been?” she asks, parking in front of what looks like some kind of fancy spa that's way outside of my budget.

Well, my pre-Atlas budget. The man spares no expense, regardless of how awkward it makes me feel. He’s big on taking care of what’s his—and even though it’s a little caveman of him, it also feels kind of good to be… taken care of.

“Um...” I gnaw on my bottom lip as I run the numbers. “I think my last real haircut was when I was fifteen or sixteen. Before Mom got really sick.”

I dare a glance toward Scarlet, expecting to see pity shining in her gaze. But I don't. Instead, I see her eyes wide and her lipscurled in a look of mild horror. “Holy. Shit. Nora. Your split ends probably have split ends.”

Something about her unexpected shock sends me into a fit of laughter. What utterly different lives we've led. “Haircuts are inconsequential when you're trying to survive.”

She scoffs and throws open her door. “Okay, Daisy-Downer. Let's go get you checked in.”

With only a little reluctance, I follow after her.

The inside of the salon is every bit as nice as the outside. Nicer even—it’s all gleaming white marble mixed with ashy woods and matte gold finishes; it's a modern marvel unlike anything I’ve ever seen.

“Welcome to Bliss,” a melodic voice says, drawing my attention to the front desk. The woman seated behind it is the living embodiment of ethereal grace, with her pale skin, blood-red lips, and nearly white hair. “How can we make you feel beautiful today?”

I shoot Scarlet an apprehensive look, because I don't have a clue. Luckily, she takes the lead.

“I have a ten o'clock with Rochelle and Nora here is booked for the same time with Mira.”

“Great, let me get you both checked in.” She clicks around on the computer for a few seconds. “Oh, and I see you’re both booked for nails after. Perf. Your stylists should be ready shortly. In the meantime, would either of you like anything to drink while you wait?”

I shake my head no, right as Scarlet says, “A mimosa would be great.” She tips her head toward me. “And my friend here will take a water.”

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 threepeople 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?”

Mynois 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.”

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