Page 68 of Halstead House

He nodded again and exited the office. A light flipped on with a switch I hadn’t noticed, and we stood shoulder to shoulder for a moment while he looked around.

“I’m trying to decide which car will be the easiest to get hair out of,” he said after a moment. “I guess it’s only fair that we use mine, since I did make the offer. It wouldn’t be very fair to use Eliza’s when she isn’t here to defend herself.”

I said nothing as he guided us to his car and opened the passenger door for me. I climbed in and popped down the visor as he walked around. The mirror was lighted, as I had suspected it would be, and I angled it to see myself better.

Lucas entered the driver’s side of the car and closed the door. “Can you see all right?”

I could see. I could see the desperation, fear, and anger in my eyes. I could see the flushed cheeks, the lips red from my chewing, and the tears begging to fall. I could see everything happening inside of me. I didn’t want to see any of it.

I held up a piece of my hair and looked at it for a long moment. Lucas was silent, letting me fight the battle myself even though I was sure he had opinions about what he’d stumbled into. I was grateful. He knew that I was tired of people running my life. Lucas was a man of action, a man used to controlling things, and yet he sat in silence and let me be.

It was probably the kindest thing he could have done, talking to me like this situation was normal, walking me to the car and helping me get all settled to chop my hair off. The tears escaped as a sob forced its way out on the sound of brittle laughter.

“This has to be the stupidest thing you’ve ever seen,” I said in a strangled voice as I turned to him.

He shook his head. “Nah. I’ve seen worse.”

I laughed, releasing more tears, and sniffled. “I would look terrible in a purple pompadour.”

“Purple?” His eyes grew wide for the first time since he’d walked in on me. “This is the first I’ve heard of purple.”

“It would have made a statement.” I tried to form my wobbling lips into a smile, but all I did was grimace.

“No doubt.”

I handed him the scissors and closed the visor mirror. I thought I heard him sigh softly, the sound of someone who’d been practically holding their breath, as he took the scissors and set them out of the way.

“I hate who I am around my mother,” I said. And then I was crying. Really crying.

A lot of people say they can’t remember the last time they truly cried, but I could because it happened so rarely. It had been the day I’d gotten the call that Mary had been laid to rest. Her body had been sent back to her beloved Lavender Island, and I hadn’t been able—okay, allowed—to attend. I had kept a stiff upper lip about it, pretending to understand my mother’s dictates, but when I’d been alone I had sobbed out my broken heart.

Lucas reached across the console and took my hand in his. His larger hand enveloped mine as his thumb caressed my knuckles. I ducked my head, embarrassed for him to see my tears, and clung harder to his hand.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. It was enough. What else was there to say, anyhow?

I allowed myself to release the emotions for a few more minutes, all the while loving the feeling of my hand in Lucas’s and the comfort it brought.

I wasn’t sure how much time passed, but when the tears wound up I was left feeling gutted, raw and exposed, and absolutely exhausted. I dried my eyes on my sleeve—like a child—and finally dared to look up at Lucas. I felt my cheeks warm as we made eye contact.

“So, having me as a friend might be more than you bargained for,” I said in a still unsteady voice.

He smiled and reached over to push a stray hair way from my face, and every single nerve in my body stood on alert. “It might be fun to have a friend with purple hair. It would lend me some street cred.”

I blinked a few more times and then started laughing, hard, my head leaned back against the seat, shoulders shaking. After a few moments I looked over to him. He was grinning, happy to see me smiling. He lifted our still entwined hands to his lips and kissed the back of my hand. My laughter stopped abruptly, replaced by the most glorious sensation.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, dropping our hands back to my lap.

Did I? I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t used to being open, and it felt like a really heavy thing to start out with. Figuring out that my mother had been more abusive than I’d understood was something I needed more time to process.

“I don’t think I can yet,” I responded.

He nodded his acceptance. “Fair enough. Can I trust you around scissors?” I rolled my eyes, but my head bobbed. “Good.”

He let go of my hand and we exited the car. The sound of my bare feet against the garage floor made him look down as I walked around the back of the car to where he was standing.

“You really threw your shoes into the road?” he asked, his eyes amused.

“I hate them,” I stated with a shrug.

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