Page 13 of The Man I Love

For the second time.

When he got injured playing football, he’d had to start over, to re-envision the dream he’d had since boyhood. One moment, one second was all it took. He didn’t even remember what happened, yet his football career ended. His body had failed him, and when he woke up from surgery hours later, he realized life as he knew it was over. He’d lost his scholarship, his livelihood, and his identity—and had fallen into a depression henever thought he’d climb out of. But somehow, he did. Somehow this business fell into his lap and gave him purpose.

Tristan, the pool boy. To some of his friends it was a joke, and he fit the role perfectly. Young, fit, good-looking. He laughed right along with them because he'd never really taken himself seriously. He was the jock, the fuck boy, the player…but for some reason that changed when he reconnected with Samantha. She took this seriously, allowing him to see for the first time in four years all that he’d accomplished. He’d built the business from a meager one-truck pool route to a full-blown five-truck operation. Something he should be proud of, and he was. His only mistake had been trusting the wrong person. The fatal flaw which seemed to have plagued him his whole damned life.

Trust was what brought him here. Trust was what had him back to cleaning pools for the first time in two years. Trust was what allowed him to be hurt so much by his father.

“It’s a bad idea, son,” he’d said when Tristan approached him with his plan. “How will you ever support a family cleaning pools?”

Until two months ago, Tristan would have laughed in his father’s face. “I told you, Dad. I told you I’d make it work.” But now, overlooking the pool littered by at least a thousand leaves, defeat weighted down his body like algae.

His cell phone pinged again, yet this time he couldn’t resist reaching into his holster.

Dad:Please call me.

6

CHAPTER SIX

December

Eight Months Earlier

New York

“Areyou sure you want to do this?” Renee asked, standing at Samantha’s side with a death grip on her shoulders.

It was the first time they’d seen each other in weeks, but Sam locked eyes with her best friend, feeling as though no time had passed at all since their last meeting. A nervous energyzingedthrough her body, sending goosebumps to run up the length of her arms and legs. “I need a change, Ren,” she whispered. She needed it more desperately than air.

The stylist stood behind her chair, picking up Samantha’s hair, which was plaited in a long braid down the middle of her black. “Are you ready?” the stylist asked in a soothing voice.

Samantha nodded. “Yes.”

“It’s not too late to change your mind, you know?” But even as the stylist said the words, Samantha felt the hard sheers push against her shoulder blade.

Samantha sat a little taller, willing herself not to chicken out. “I’m rea—.” The sound of breaking strands told her it was too late. Her ears filled with echoes, and she forced her eyes to flutter closed. Never in a million years had she thought she’d cut her hair this short, but this morning she woke up knowing it needed to be done.

It’s only hair, it’ll grow back,she recited to herself.

Before she knew it, the hairdresser slapped the heavy braid onto the table and Samantha’s eyes jolted open. She’d had long hair for as long as she could remember, and in a second, it was gone.

“You can breathe now, honey,” the hairdresser said close to her ear. “The hard part is over.”

Samantha laughed— a nervous, manic laugh that rolled from her abdomen, like she was on the verge of a panic attack. “It’s ridiculous.” She opened her eyes. “I know it’s only hair, but...”

The stylist discarded the twelve-inch braid like an amputated appendage and rolled the cart to the side. “There’s no reason to hide now, honey! Let the world see you!”

Samantha sat up. Because the words hit too close to home.

For five months, that’s exactly what she’d been doing. Hiding—hiding in her apartment, from her roommates, even Renee. The truth was, most days, she had no idea why she was there.

Last night had been a rude awakening. She was wasting precious time, wasting this opportunity that would never come again. She wasn’t sure if it was Edward’s words about her sculpture, spending time with friends, or something else, but this morning, she woke up determined not to let this wonderful experience slip through her fingers.

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to look in the mirror. Dark bags framed the hallows of her sleepless eyes. Her skin—which had always been porcelain—now took on a lifeless hue.But there was something else, something different that she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

She adjusted her gaze to her hair. Its collarbone length made her feel like she was looking at someone else entirely.

The stylist ran her fingers through the mass, splaying its blunt ends against the black drape. It was choppy and uneven, but it lifted Sam’s features, accentuating the cheekbones she’d inherited from her great grandmother.

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