Page 19 of Be Your Forever
And lastly, I need to find my purpose. I’ve worked at the hair salon for almost a decade, and as much as I love it, it just doesn’t fill my cup like it used to. Immediately after the accident, I threw myself into my job. It worked for a bit, but then my depression got so bad that I couldn’t leave my bed. Thank God I work for a huge salon, because my boss talked me into FMLA to give myself time to recoup. And I’ve been on that until recently when it ended, but instead of feeling happy, I feel empty.
Salon.
That word triggers a Pavlovian response, transporting my mind back to a particularly hard day.
January 2026
The eggshell envelope weighs heavy and rough against my palm. Inside, its rectangular shape holds tainted money.
“Name a number—any number, and it’s yours.”
“How much will it take to avoid a lawsuit?”
Those were direct statements from the parents’ of the person who hit my car. She came from money, and while they could do nothing to stop the police arrest, they could do whatever it took to prevent a lawsuit. I had no interest in dragging the case further than what the cops had in mind, so I took the money–and it was a substantial amount. Enough to cover both mine and my brother’s medical bills, as well as living expenses for a while. Must be nice to come from money.
The envelope lays unopened in my palm, but I already know what the contents of the check will say. Yet, I can’t bring myself to open it. With the money I also received from the insurance, the solid nest egg in my savings from the salon, plus the continuous help I’ve received from my parents, I’m set. Despite my lack of communication with them, they still send money from time to time. And every time, guilt threatens to pull me under as if I’m stepping into quicksand.
It’s always the same. Guilt takes me hostage, setting a ransom I can never pay. Tears sting behind my eyes, and panic climbs up my throat. Guilt turns to panic, and by that time, I’m already wrapped up in the vine as it squeezes the breath from my lungs.
“Uh, ma’am. Are you planning to get out?”
The trance that’s overcome my body shatters like glass, and my eyes snap to the mysterious voice. A man in what seems to be his late forties, early fifties glares back at me from behind a pair of wire-framed glasses. His lips are pursed in a displeased scowl while the hand wrapped around the steering wheel taps in an annoyed rhythm. I shift my focus outside the window to find I’m in the parking lot of the salon.
Right. The salon.
“Oh, um yes. I-I’m getting out. Thank you.”
I gather my purse and my phone before climbing out the car, but not before I hear the Uber driver huffing and puffing about dumb chicks. I have zero energy to pick a fight with him. So, I thank him again before closing the door and watching him speed off. I leave him a generous tip for the wait and head into my job. Could you really call it a job if you aren’t actually doing any work? Alison has been amazing with everything, giving me busy workto keep my mind off the chaos that is my life. But I haven’t been operating at one hundred percent.
I bet this is why she called for a meeting.
You’re getting fired.God, can you do anything right?
I swallow the hard words down my throat, their bitterness churning in my stomach.
It’s now or never.
I push open the solid-glass door, ignoring the sympathetic looks from my coworkers. I can’t take their pity. I want to get this meeting over and done with so that I can crawl under the confines of my comforter and hide from the world—where no bad things happen.
I knock on her solid-wooden door, and the minute she opens it, I’m hit with a strong patchouli and rosewood scent.
Alison, my eccentric, fun-loving boss, greets me with a smile and a warm hug, the type of embrace only a grandmother is capable of giving. Alison is in her mid-sixties with neon purple hair styled in a hawk-fade. Both of her ears are decorated with piercings, and she has a full length tattoo sleeve decorating her right arm. She is a complete badass on the outside, but sweet like butterscotch candies on the inside.
She greets me with a warm smile and her arms outstretched, leaving me no choice but to walk into them. Not that I’d ever deny her. Alison’s hugs have some sort of healing power, and anything that is going wrong in my life melts away. She leads me into her office, choosing to have one arm wrapped around my shoulders.
“So, I think it’s time we talk.”
Alison is also known for her waste-no-time attitude. The moment I sit down, she gets right to the point.
“I-I’m sorry, Al. I’m—I can…I can do better. I promise, I—”
Alison holds out her hand, a soft smile splayed across her face.
“Bri, you need the time off." She smiles at me sweetly, a tender hand on my shoulder. "We will all be here when you're rested and ready to come back."
“But I—wait, you’re not firing me?”
“Why would I fire one of my best stylists? That would be stupid.” Alison leans over her desk, laying a comforting hand on mine. “You’ve been through a lot. I think you need to take some time, really prioritize yourself. You can’t function on an empty tank, my dear. Your job will still be here when you’re ready. Because of the size of our salon, you can partake in the Family Medical Leave Act. I highly encourage you to take FMLA, Bri. And if you need more time, then you take it. No questions asked. No consequences.”
