Page 17 of October
His voice rose, hurt more than angry. "October,I providefor this family. I'm your husband. I'm their father. What does that even mean, you'll pay for it?"
"It means," I said quietly, folding the last shirt, "that I'm doing this for me and I don't need permission."
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. He didn't say anything else. Just stood there for a long second like he didn't recognize the woman in front of him anymore. The next morning, I dragged myself out of bed before the sun rose. The house was quiet in that heavy way it gets when everyone's asleep, and I stood there for a second, staring at the ceiling,wondering what the hell I was even doing. Then I moved. Because I had to.
I pulled on old leggings, the kind with a faint bleach stain on the thigh, and tied my hair up in a knot. My reflection looked tired. Stretched thin. But I ignored her. By the time I dropped the kids off—Jimmy at school, Alice at kindergarten, Lola at daycare—I felt like I'd already lived a full day. A thousand tiny decisions. Wipes, buckles, zippers, forgotten snacks, last-minute hugs.
And then I had five minutes. Just five minutes to sit in the driver's seat, head against the wheel, breathing like I might cry or scream or both. I needed support and for once, I didn't try to carry it all alone. I was proud of myself for reaching out. So I called August. August and I met in college—two girls who bonded over coffee breath, shared playlists, and the mutual fear of public speaking. We were close then. But life happened. Marriage, work, kids. The kind of busy that swallows even the best intentions. We fell out of touch, but never out of care. We talked often, but rarely met.
"Do you still go to the gym?" I asked, voice tight.
There was a beat of silence, then her warm, familiar laugh. "Still hate it, but yeah."
"I need a gym partner," I said.
Another pause. Then: "Pick you up in ten?"
When I finally pulled into August's driveway, I didn't say anything. Just waved when she opened the door in leggings and a hoodie, holding a thermos of coffee like it was holy. Just like that, we had a routine.
The gym became my sanctuary. A quiet place where everything could hurt in a way I chose. A way I controlled. With August by my side, it didn't feel so lonely. We started slow—ten minutes on the treadmill, sharing grimaces like,Why did we do this again?Then came the machines, then the weights, and finally, a kind of rhythm. Laughter in between reps. Complaints about sore thighs. A shared playlist full of rage and nostalgia.
We didn't talk about Thomas. Not at first. But August always knew how to read the silence between my words. She understood what it meant to feel humiliated and small. She understood the quiet violence of emotional pain. The kind that doesn't leave bruises but changes the way you carry yourself. One day at the gym, she tossed me a towel and said, "We're not here to get hot for anyone else. This is for you. Got it?"
"Got it," I nodded, then I turned to her and said, "I think I want to change my hair though."
She looked up from tying her shoelace and smiled slowly. "What kind of change?"
"I don't know. Not too Dramatic? But Something... not me."
"You mean something not him," she said gently, eyes knowing. "Change is good. But make sure it's stillyou. You don't have to become someone else to escape what he made you feel. You were always beautiful. You just forgot."
I looked at her. That same protective warmth from college still wrapped around her. Maybe a little stronger now. Sharpened by her own past.
"I won't let you look like anyone but the badass version of yourself," she added with a smirk. "But yeah. Let's do it. Cliché haircut and all."
So we booked a salon appointment right then and there. No overthinking. No Pinterest board. No asking for opinions. Just... change. I walked in with long, tired hair that felt like it belonged to someone else. The version of me who held everything in, who kept the peace, who disappeared quietly behind everyone else's needs. I sat in the chair and looked at myself in the mirror, really looked. And I said, "Cut it."
The stylist raised a brow. "How short?"
"Short," I said, my voice firmer this time. "Above the shoulders. Maybe even a little shorter."
August grinned at me in the mirror. "You're gonna look amazing."
I went warmer—rich cinnamon and deep chestnut, with hints of honey in the light. Something bold but soft. She gave me soft layers that framed my face, brought out my cheekbones. The weight of the cut hair on the floor felt symbolic, like I was shedding months—maybe years—of things I'd swallowed just to keep going. When it was done, I ran my fingers through it and didn't recognize myself in the best way possible. Like a soft rebellion. When I walked through the door that evening, Thomas looked up and froze.
His eyes scanned me like I was a stranger.
"You changed your hair," he said.
I didn't answer.
"You're always beautiful, you know."
Still, I said nothing. His phone started ringing, I looked down it washername, no picture though, I just sighed and walked past him. Later that night, there was a knock on the guest room door.
"October?" His voice was cautious, careful, like a man standing near a cracked window, unsure if it was going to break or open.
I didn't respond.
