Page 97 of Love Bleeds Red
Thoughts swarm my mind—King grabbing me by the hair, Ms. Harrington painfully ripping the brush through my knots, forcing me to wear tight French braids.
“Yes, please,” I say, not giving it another thought.
“Yay! Let me see if Blake has good scissors in her medical bag.” She hops off the couch and heads upstairs toward thebedrooms. “Oh, and make yourself at home. There’s some food in the kitchen.”
As soon as she’s upstairs I stop for a moment, bending to kneel next to Jasper. He looks so different from the brother I grew up with but here, asleep, he’s peaceful. My eyes fill with moisture and I exhale a shaky breath. I thought I’d never see him again. Never get to tease him for being a womanizer. Or get aggravated at him for eating all the snacks in the house. I thought I’d never get to feel the safety of having him hug me and ruffle my hair. Tell me he’ll beat up anyone who messes with me.
Around Jasper, I’ve always felt safe and loved. No matter if we were slamming doors in each other’s faces or goofing off.
I lean against him, wrapping my arms around his big frame. “I missed you, Jas.” My words escape in a choked whisper but after I say them I feel better. Not wanting to wake him, I get up and head into the kitchen. Right there on the table is a package of croissants.
I freeze, staring at them. They’re not fancy or special, just store-bought pastries. Most people take having such things to eat for granted. But for me, those croissants represent everything I was denied. Every breakfast where Sir would stuff himself with his elaborate freshly made spread while I picked at fruit or plain yogurt. Every time I reached for something I wanted only to have my hand slapped away or my choice criticized.
“Do you think a croissant is appropriate for maintaining your figure?”His voice echoes in my memory, full of control masked as care.
But he’s not here now. There’s no one watching, no one to judge or deny me. My hands tremble as I open the package and take one out. It’s still soft, probably baked this morning. I bite into it, and the rich, buttery flavor floods my mouth. It’s perfectly flaky, and so damn good I could cry.
I close my eyes and take another bite, then another, not caring about the crumbs falling onto my shirt. For the first time in I don’t even know how long, I’m eating something simply because I want to. Because it tastes good and it was offered to me without repercussions or ultimatums.
Tears run down my cheeks as I finish the entire croissant, and I’m already reaching for a second one when Falin’s voice comes from the living room.
“I’m ready when you are,” she says.
On instinct, I yank my hand away from the package, my pulse pounding like a drum. Shit. What am I doing? I don’t need to hide the fact that I’m eating. It’s fine.
I force air in through my nose and out through my mouth and reach for the second croissant just as Falin comes into the kitchen.
“Aren’t they yummy? I had one earlier. We should run out later and grab more. I have a feeling they won’t last long.” She smiles brightly, and I can’t help but return it.
“They’re great. Best thing I’ve eaten in a long time,” I say.
“Good,” she says, holding up a pair of medical scissors. “Blake had these in her kit. They’re sharp as hell, so we should be able to get a clean cut.” She gestures toward the kitchen chair. “Have a seat. You can bring the croissant.”
I nibble on a few bites as I get seated and wait for her to grab a dish towel from a kitchen drawer.
“How short are we thinking?” she asks, running her fingers through my tangled hair. “Just a trim to clean it up, or do you want to go shorter?”
“Shorter. Let’s chop it off.”
Falin nods, and adjusts a towel around my neck. “This is going to feel awesome. There’s something so freeing about changing your hair.”
I know it’s not scientifically true that hair can hold memories, but as I watch the first strands fall to the floor, I imagine all the hands that grabbed it, pulled it, used it to control me are being sliced away with each cut—like I’m literally shedding those moments.
Snip. Snip. Snip.
Each cut feels more freeing than the last, like it’s nothing but dead cells keeping me down.
Falin’s quiet as she works, stepping back every few minutes to check on her progress. “You have gorgeous hair, you know. The color is so pretty. These honey-colored highlights, are they natural?”
“Yeah,” I answer, smiling to myself. I hadn’t really thought much about my hair being pretty. Not for a long time. If anything I’ve wanted to downplay anything about my looks, hoping I could stay unnoticed.
But right now, with this decision made to cut off so many inches, it’s another step toward reclaiming my body.
My hair is pretty, and that’s a good thing.
“There,” she says finally, stepping back to admire her work. “Want to see?” I run my hands through the much shorter strands, nodding. “Let’s go to the mirror.”
I follow her into the bathroom and blink at the reflection staring back at me. I barely recognize myself. My hair now sits just above my shoulders, choppy and uneven but in an intentional way. It frames my face differently, makes my eyes look bigger, but somehow makes me look older too. Not like the scared teenager that was taken.
