Page 11 of His To Erase
“I don’t know,” I admit, quietly. “Maybe I just want to feel something that doesn’t come with a memory attached.”
Sarah sets the brush down and meets my eyes in the mirror. “You’re allowed to feel good without punishing yourself for it.”
God, if only it were that simple.
She moves behind me again, gently massaging toner into the ends.
“Besides,” she smirks, “if he’s a letdown, at least your hair’s out here making up for it.”
I roll my eyes. “Wow. Truly the support I needed.”
“Don’t blame me—your tits showed up dressed for applause.”
“You’re only saying that because I let you bleach me.”
“That, and because I’m not blind.”
I snort, pretending that any part of our conversations are normal. While she rinses the last bit of toner into the sink, she says, “So what’s your plan if the date goes well?”
I blink. “Define ‘well.’”
She shrugs. “Like, you don’t immediately plot his death.”
“Oh. Then yeah, I guess that’d be new.”
Sarah hands me a towel and starts wiping her hands. “You’re allowed to want shit, Ani.”
I glance up at her.
“You know. Mutual obsession, light emotional damage, and a good dicking. The essentials.”
I snort. “That last one was a stretch.”
“I said what I said.”
I love our friendship. I don’t say it out loud, but I think she hears it anyway. Because when I stand up and pull her into a hug, bleach stains and all, she just wraps her arms around me and says, “I’m just saying—if God has favorites, you’re definitely top five. Bare minimum.”
And somehow, that’s exactly what I needed to hear.
Once my hair’s done, we migrate to the kitchen like we always do when we’re avoiding the fact that time is passing, and she throws a pizza in the oven.
“Okay,” she says, cracking open a can of Sprite like we’re about to get serious. “You never actually told me what this man did to earn your attention. Aside from existing and having abs,” she adds, wiggling her eyebrows.
I groan, dragging both hands down my face. “That was taken out of context.”
“You called him a walking red flag with dick-slinging energy. Don’t backpedal now.”
“Okay, that one I might’ve said.”
We keep going like that—her poking, me deflecting, and of us pretending we’re not circling the fact that I said yes to a man I probably shouldn’t trust. What I really want is this—cheap comfort and snarky commentary from someone who gets me without needing the full rundown of why I flinch when people touch me too suddenly, or why I don’t talk about my ex.
Luckily, she never pushes. She just... gets it.
We were halfway through a YouTube rabbit hole of worst-date horror stories when her phone dinged.
She glances at it, then immediately shoves it under her thigh.
I raise a brow. “Oh no. That’s your I-did-something-face.”
