Page 61 of Lucy and Her Wicked Three

"No offense, but you look like you slept in the barn. For a month. And what's with the hair? What in the hell is this?" She reaches out and lifts a piece of my hair, tugging, and I can almost feel the extension inches past my roots in her fingertips. "I've been waiting for the right moment to ask, I didn't want to offend you because I knew you had a lot going on, but I can't tell if you're going lazy-chic or if you really hadn't noticed this rat's nest." Abandoning all propriety, ignoring the fact that we're at a classy cafe having brunch in public, she threads her hand through some of my strands, tugging on the knots. "I mean…"

"Alright, enough of that. I can't help it! I've been busy and—"

"No, this was willful."

An argument sits on the tip of my tongue, but it's true. Something's been holding me back from taking any care in my appearance. And I don't think it really has anything to do with social media and being offline.

My girls watch me process and squirm until I finally admit I don't know what's holding me back. Turning in on myself, I'm grateful when Portia stops pushing. We finish lunch, Cara and Mary-Anne cheek-kissing their goodbyes. Portia and I walk slowly toward the park. I tentatively told her I'd do a photoshoot with her the other day when I promised to come to brunch. I'm glad she's changed her mind. Apparently Cara lit a fire under her ass and she has a whole new direction she wants to go in, so I don't question it. I'll gladly put it off, anyway.

She doesn't tell me what her new plan is, but when we walk past a salon and she not-so-subtly slows her steps, I realize why.

"Do I really look that bad?" I muse, though it kind of hurts to say out loud.

"Not even close. You're beautiful, Lu. With or without makeup, with or without couture."

"So are you."

"Aww shucks," she smirks, eyes glittering. "But this isn't about looking pretty. You should fix this," she lifts a lock of my hair.

"I just don't… I don't want to be defined by this. It feels fake. So much about my life before feels like it was fake. I mean, Delaney faked an affair with my boyfriend, nearly decimated my heart just so she could get more followers? And all the work I put in, all of the research into local fitness clubs and finding little holes in the wall that sold healthy food, all of that meant nothing. Because as soon as I drop off-grid, my followers nearly double? I mean, like, what thefuck? Who gives a shit what I look like. I'm done caring."

I fold my arms across my chest, my heart suddenly racing. It hurts to say those words. I don't know if I'm done caring, but I really want to be.

She doesn't say anything for a minute. Before I'm done stewing, she says, "Look, I get it. But taking pride in your appearance isn't fake. Do you think I'm fake?"

"No, of course not—"

"‘Cause I work hella hard on my platform. I'm a good person, I love my friends and my family. I donate money and time. Is there something wrong with me?"

"No! Not at all."

"So?"

"So, I…" I let out a deep breath. "I guess I'm just afraid of how much of my life is real. I don't want to be perfect anymore."

"When were you ever perfect?" Portia scoffs.

I laugh, but it's hollow. "Point taken."

"Look. I get it. I really do. But there's a difference between wanting to dye your hair because it looks pretty or get extensions because it makes it look thicker, and becoming obsessed or attached to the idea that ithas to be dyed and thickto be perfect. So, dye it blonde. Or brown. Or pink. Who cares? It's when youstart clinging to these ideas that things have to be a certain way to be perfect that you lose focus from the bigger picture."

"Which is?"

She shrugs one shoulder. "Which is, being kind to yourself and helpful to those around you. Dye your hair whatever color you want. Shave it. Keep dressing like this, although I beg of you to wear something other than this ugly yellow sweater, because every time I see you lately, you're wearing it. But none of that matters as long as you're choosing for yourself, not for other people or your followers. Fuck what everyone else thinks. Stop judging yourself so much because, honey, you're judging us all when you do that, and there is nothing wrong with me. Get it?"

I bite my lip and think about her words. I haven't given my appearance much thought since everything happened.

She continues, "I'm not saying you don't look beautiful just as you are. You're gorgeous. I'm just saying… choose how to take care of yourself or how to present yourself based on what youwant. Not based on what you're afraid it'll say about you."

And that was how she convinced me to walk into the salon.

Chapter 21

Mateo

"Let me see it," Noah prods, holding his hand out. I snatch my bag away from him and shove it into a drawer, like that'll solve the problem.

"It's not a big deal. I've already contacted my attorney. He's contacting Delaney later today." Beyond mildly infuriating, when I got home from work last night, there was another package waiting for me at the front desk. The doorman said a standard courier service dropped it off, and since I wanted to find out who was fucking with me, I passed the information on to Noah. He's good with computers, I'm sure he can at least help me figure out who paid for it.

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