Page 83 of Unloved

I stupidly do as she says. Counting and breathing.

It kind of works, but I’m not going to tell her, because I’ll probably never use it again.

“Grace.” An older lady comes into Grace’s office. “Lennox’s brother is here.”

Grace lets out a loud exhale as she grabs my hands and stands me up. “Are you ready?”

I nod frantically.

“Come on, hold my hand and we’ll go and meet him.”

She leads me outside her office, and I quickly close my eyes for good measure. It can’t hurt.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi.

TWO MISSISSIPPI

SAMUEL: TEN YEARS OLD

“Do you need me to help you dry your hair?”

“Mom,” I whine. “I told you, I can do this on my own now.”

With a towel wrapped around my waist, and the blow-dryer in my hand, I wait for my mom to leave the bathroom.

When the door clicks closed, I tip my head upside down––just like I’ve seen my dad do a hundred times––and let the warm air dry my hair.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. Four…

A hard and loud knock startles me, and I turn off the blow-dryer. The bathroom door opens and my dad walks in. “How are you doing, bud?”

Irritated, I huff. “Why do you and Mom keep coming in? I know how to do my own hair.”

Despite my annoyance, he smiles at me and reaches for the blow-dryer. “Can I help you?”

I fold my arms across my chest. “I’m going to be eleven soon, Dad. I can get myself ready.”

“I know you can, but maybe I like helping you.” He places a hand on my shoulder. “Face the mirror.”

Doing as I’m told, I turn and stare at our reflection. Even though I’m only ten years old, there’s no mistaking that I look exactly like my dad. He calls me his “mini-me” and I pretend to hate the nickname, but really, if there was ever a person in the world I wanted to be like—with a matching beard and to be the same height—it was him.

And that includes having the same long, curly, blond hair he has. “What number were you up to?” he asks.

“I told Mom I’m big enough to do it on my own,” I protest.

“I know.” He grabs the blow-dryer and asks again, “What number?”

“Four,” I answer.

He runs his fingers through the wet strands of my hair. “Let’s start back at one.”

He turns on the blow-dryer and starts counting. “One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi.”

My dad loves to count. When he’s angry, happy, or sad. He says it gives your brain a few extra seconds to work out what to do next.

When he reaches the number ten I join in and we both count to twenty, the irritation fading and a slow smile that matches my dad’s spreads across my face.

“There you go,” he states as the noise from the blow-dryer reduces to nothing. “Now you won’t sleep with wet hair.”

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