Page 79 of Beautifully Messy
But it doesn’t matter. It’s too little. Far too late.
Because the damage isn’t from last night.
I see it clearly now: Mason hasn’t changed. He’s still the man I married.
The difference… is me.
I’ve changed.
“We should head back,” I say and look beyond Mason to his parents.
Margaret and Gary look away. That's all it takes. Years of believing I'd found a real family, gone. They won't protect me. Not from their own son. I mistook their warmth and easy affection for the kind of family bond that shows up even when it's hard. Their silence tells me more than their words of affection ever did.
I leave Mason standing there with his flowers, daring him to react.
Twenty-Four
Forthefirsttimein forever, I do something for myself.
I schedule a makeover. Not out of vanity, but out of necessity. A quiet reclaiming of the woman buried beneath the labels of wife and mother. My hair has been long my entire life, the kind of femininity men such as Mason expect—soft, compliant, easy to wrap around their fingers. And today, I’m ready for something new.
The stylist chops it short, giving me a layered bob that settles sharp at my chin. The weight that lifts is both literal and symbolic, shrugging off a version of myself I’ve worn too long. I shake it out and catch my reflection in the mirror. I look… like me. Therealme.
Mason barely blinks when he sees me. “What did you do?”
His voice is all shock. NotWow, that looks great,orI love it. Just accusation.
“It’s a haircut,” I say calmly, reaching for Anna and heading upstairs to pack for her overnight with his parents.
Tonight is New Year’s Eve, and my in-laws have generously offered to take Anna and my nephews to the resort, giving the rest of us some rare adult time to celebrate—or as Margaret put it, “remember what it’s like to let loose.”
Margaret isn’t clueless. She’s a mother whonotices.
She watched the aftermath of skating and my refusal to accept Mason’s flowers and apology. We maintain the distance of polite strangers. Ivy and Jamesspeak in short, terse exchanges. Ivy has moved full force into wedding planning, ignoring James’s request to wait until after the holidays. Jules and Tom exchange whispers with the eagerness of tennis spectators.
This offer isn’t just to let loose. It’s a message:Get your shit together.
My dress for tonight is a masterpiece of black silk. From the front, it’s elegant in its simplicity. But the back is something else entirely: a plunging V that bares my spine, dipping above the curve of my ass. Paired with my new haircut, it’s bolder than anything I’ve worn in years.
Tonight, I feel powerful.
Tonight, I take up space.
“Syd? Are you ready? People are arriving.” Mason calls from the bedroom.
“Just a sec.” With one last glance in the mirror, I smooth the edges of the dress and take a deep steading breath.
Mason’s jaw drops as he takes in the sight of me. “Wow. You look... incredible.”
“Thanks,” I reply, a playful smile curving my lips, meant more as a shield than a welcome.
We’ve politely danced around each other since the ice rink, neither addressing the deck incident nor abandoned flowers. It’s standard Wallis family strategy. Don’t rock the boat. Don’t address the elephant in the room.
But tonight, I’m playing with fire.
As we descend the stairs, eyes fall on me. Jules, ever the supportive friend, whistles her appreciation. Ivy, her expression a blend of disapproval and fascination, purses her lips but says nothing. She’s wearing a demure sheath dress. Conservative, boring. Safe.
“Damn, girl.” Jules walks over to get a closer look.
