Out of Myself (The Lakeland Bears #2)

Prologue

JORDAN

Six Months Ago

The bathroom is a massacre of color.

What was supposed to start as highlights, the tips of my rib-length, chestnut hair dipped in colored dye, maybe a strand here and there, is not what I’m staring at in the mirror.

I pinch my eyes shut, wishing this were a nightmare instead of the consequences of a rash, irresponsible decision. I drag in a slow, disappointing and ragged inhale, counting to five.

Maybe I was brainwashed by aliens last night. Or…isn’t there a brain eating amoeba? Maybe I have one. Something had to have happened to me because I’d never spontaneously go to the grocery store to buy boxed hair dye when I’ve never even dyed my hair before.

Mom is going to kill me.

I get to zero, but give myself two more seconds willing the color to vanish.

I didn’t even know what I was looking for.

Wandered down the cosmetic aisles till I located boxes of dye. Spotted a color I liked and read the sublabel: for darker hair tones or unbleached hair.

Perfect, I had murmured to myself in the aisle.

Perfect? More like terrible, ghastly, completely unlike me.

What was I thinking? I wasn’t. At least not about anything sensible.

I force my eyes open, blowing out a puff of air that morphs into a curse. There in the mirror, my reflection is the same. Brightly colored. Choppy and uneven. The left side a lighter saturation than the right.

“Fuck,” I curse again, shaking my head in disbelief. I grip the counter, knuckles white as I lean into my reflection. “How are we going to fix this?” I ask as if the girl in the mirror is someone else, hopeful she has a better answer than going full Britney.

I contemplate my options.

One: leave it as is.

Two: drive home to Minnesota in dire hope that my trusted hairdresser can fix this.

Three: say screw it, and dye all of it. It’s only hair, right?

Before I can accurately weigh out each option, the door is thrown open.

“What is that god-awful smell?” Xanie stills when she spots me, her eyelids flicking and jaw centimeters from the tile floor where flecks of dye are actively staining it. “Oh. My. God.”

“I—” The truth dies on my tongue. How do I sum up that I was having a bad day, caught in a riptide of grief, but when I saw him, I hastily decided I had to do this? The best explanation I can offer my stunned best friend is a hesitant “surprise” and a faux smile.

“Alright.” She pushes up imaginary sleeves, grabbing the extra pair of gloves.

Xanie snaps the latex against her wrists and picks up the box, making the decision for me—which is probably for the best. There’s no way I was pulling off a bob or leaving it like this.

“First, do a patch test,” she reads aloud, barely able to finish the sentence without laughing. “Well, you nailed that.”

“Not funny.” I groan.

“Jords, everything about this is funny.” We lock eyes through the mirror. My brownish-grays cat-like, her amber ones bright and supportive. “Second, prep with dry and unwashed hair.”

“And unwashed hair,” I say at the same time. “I’ve read the directions at least forty times.” That’s an exaggeration. I skimmed the directions once, ripped open the top and well…here we are.

“Apparently.” Xanie is unfazed by the eye roll I throw her way. We’ve been friends long enough that she’s unfazed by my attitude, immune to the coldness that easily seeps out of me.

She finishes reading the directions aloud, then gets to work. Quarter of the way through applying the dye to my roots, Xanie disappears.

“Xan—” I start.

“I’ll be right back.” Her voice carries from wherever in our dorm suite she bolted to. Based on how muted the four words are, I guess her room.

Returning with a paintbrush, she applies more dye. Switching between using her fingers to massage the dye and painting over my botched ends, it takes her less than fifteen minutes to coat all my hair.

“There.” She examines her work with a prideful glee. I glean some of her confidence, not hating how the color works with my complexion, intensifying the patch of light brown freckles across my cheeks and making my thick brows distinct.

Xanie helps me clean as we discuss our upcoming game till the hour timer goes off. Strands of hair curtain my vision, but even so, I can make out the droplets of watered-down color landing in the sink, weaving rivers into the drain as she washes my hair.

Her hands are replaced by a brush, carefully working the metal bristles from root to end. A smirk curls across her mouth, eyes locating mine in the mirror. “Whenever you decide to continue your hair exploration of ROYGBIV, I need a new hair brush,” she jokes.

Where my hair is silky straight, hers is all texture with a mind of its own. Some days it’s wavy, others it’s full on curly. But every day it’s the number one enemy of brushes. I’m officially out of fingers to use to count the number of times we’ve had to pry a broken brush from her hair.

“There will be no other colors, only brunette once this fades.”

Tone softening, Xanie asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

The words are a boulder lodged in my throat. Bound together by…embarrassment? No. Shame? Maybe, but I don’t think so. Ingrained insecurities, ones that if cut open make up the basics of my anatomy? Easily.

“A bad day,” is what I manage to squeeze out. There’s understanding in her ambers.

Quiet, she continues to brush through my hair. The ease of the brush gliding through damp strands is relaxing, calming.

Xanie brushes my hair often, styling it too. Which is why it doesn’t surprise me when she pulls out a thermal round brush, spinning me around. Heat and gusts of air roar to life.

Back in the mirror, I run my fingers through my hair, collecting and pulling it over one shoulder. Layered bangs frame my face, draping below my chin.

My best friend’s chin rests on my shoulder. “I think this is your color.”

She’s right.

Blue might be my color.