Page 31 of A Trap So Flawless

Even though he’s not touching it, he’s staring at my hair as I go wash my hands and face and rinse my mouth at the sink. As I pat my face dry with a small towel, he catches an especially brightly highlighted strand and rubs it between his fingers and thumb.

“I bought you hair dye,” he says.

I drop the towel on the counter.

“What?”

“Bought you all kinds of shit.” He reaches down, his arm brushing my hip as he pulls open the door of the cupboard beneath the counter. Below, I see various bottles of cosmetics. Shampoo, conditioner, toothpaste, facial cleanser. There’s even a jar of my favourite fig and Sicilian lemon-scented moisturizer, the exact same one I have sitting on my bedside table in my room in Toronto. It seems unlikely he could know I actually use this product. Maybe he saw “Sicilian” on the label and thought of me.

And there, behind the jar, are boxes of hair dye.

I reach for one box and pull it out, examining the apple-cheeked, dark-haired model on the front.

“Box dye?” I ask, plunking it down on the counter. “With all these highlights, this is probably just going to turn my hair green if I put it on top.”

“Green would be a vast improvement.”

I hate that his flatly uttered statement stings. I guess I’ve gotten too used to his declarations back in Canada. Declarations about how beautiful I am when I come.

Fuck you for being so fucking flawless.

“You think I look that bad as a blonde?” I snipe, slamming the cupboard door shut with my knee. I sound pathetic. I know I do.

“I think you could have no hair at all and still be a fucking masterpiece,” Darragh counters without hesitation. I catch his gaze in the mirror, and he looks pissed, like he’s resentful of that fact.

“Then what’s with the hair dye?”

He’s not looking at my hair now, but at my eyes in the mirror. But then he grimaces, grabs my shoulders, and spins me around to face him fully.

“Whenever you’re blonde,” he says quietly, one hand gripping my chin, the other remaining on my shoulder, “you seem to always be either engaged or getting married to other men. It’s rather infuriating.”

He’s right. Last time it was Dario. This most recent time, Sal.

“But you and me… When I think of us together, I think of darkness.” His hand slides from my chin to the back of my head, his fingers sinking into the strands. Tingles erupt along my scalp, prickling down my spine.

“Dark nights,” he goes on, his breath ghosting across my face. “Dark water. Dark hair.” His mouth twitches. “I’m not eloquent when I’m this fucking sleep-deprived. But what it comes down to is that, when I see you with your hair like this, I see you in that photo, in that wedding dress, arm in arm with that Di Mauro fucker. And that photo just about-”

He cuts himself off, ripping his hands away from me.

“What photo?”

Without speaking, and without really even looking at it, he pulls a phone from his back pocket and swipes at the screen. Then he hands it to me.

“Didn’t know about the Di Mauro engagement until I saw this,” Darragh says. “Didn’t know about the wedding until it was already done.”

It takes me a moment to realize what I’m looking at.

What I’m looking at is me.

That’s my wedding dress, before the wine and the blood and the hacking of the seams behind the bar of Sofia’s. Sal is beside me, his face still intact. Papà is behind us both, chest whole, suit unsullied.

I can’t look at either of them. So I look at myself. Blonde tresses, perfect makeup, heavy but beautiful dress. The picture has been taken from a bit of a distance. Maybe from across the street. I zoom in on my own face, and though the features are undoubtedly my own, I barely recognize myself. Under the blush and bronzer, I look pale. My face shows no signs of bridal bliss. Only numb resignation.

“Must be something about this fucking city,” Darragh mutters cryptically. “Dublin is the only place I’ve ever cried.”

I place the phone screen-down atop the counter. My tired brain is having trouble keeping up with Darragh’s rapid subject change. A moment ago we were talking about photos and hair dye and now he’s mentioning something about crying?

He must be back on the subject of Callum again. I can’t imagine Darragh shedding tears. It’s like trying to picture him holding a kitten, or blowing up a balloon for a child’s birthday. It literally just does not compute. But I don’t see why he’d lie about such a thing. And he did just bury his grandfather.

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