6. Chapter Six
6
CHAPTER SIX
December
Eight Months Earlier
New York
“Are you 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 energy zinged through 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.
“Now for the fun part,” the stylist said to her reflection. “You ready?”
Samantha nodded, trying hard to keep the wobble from her voice. “I think so.”
The salon was relatively quiet as Sam sat in the chair, flipping through the second beauty magazine she’d picked up in two hours. Her head was down, covered in a thousand lengths of foil as she read an article titled, “Celebrity Weight Loss Secrets,” a revolutionary new plan guaranteed to make you shed ten pounds in seven days.
Sam scoffed, disgusted by the beauty industry designed to make women feel like shit, and threw the magazine back on the pile. She took a deep breath, wiggling her toes inside her fur-lined boots, hoping the friction would warm them. It wasn’t working. Not for the first time, she wondered how in the world she would get used to this cold.
Intending to ask Renee just that, she glanced up but stopped when she found her best friend staring into nothingness. Her slender shoulders were propped against the wall, an exhausted slouch rendering her elegant figure almost unrecognizable.
“You okay?” Sam asked, sitting forward.
Renee’s chin jutted up. “Yeah, why?” But her tone was off, and her reply came much too quickly.
“I don’t know”—Sam tilted her head— “you seem…distracted.”
Renee covered a yawn, then looked down at her feet. “Tired is all,” she whispered, but Sam’s Spidey senses flared inside her chest.
Renee wasn’t acting herself. She wasn’t bubbly and dancing around the salon like she normally would. In fact, she’d hardly said more than a few words all morning. Sam tilted her head to the side, intending to push the subject farther, but her own reflection caught her eye. Her hair was mostly covered in foil, but the short wisps that escaped were barely long enough to reach her collarbone.
Sam reached for the ends, suddenly feeling uneasy. What if Tristan hated it? She hadn’t given him a second thought when she’d made this decision, but as she glanced at her reflection, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d made a terrible mistake. Steven, her ex-boyfriend, had told her on multiple occasions how much he hated short hair. In fact, he told her specifically not to cut too much every time she went to get a trim. “Your face is too round, Samantha. It wouldn’t suit you.”
Renee’s eyes met hers in the mirror, as though she read Sam’s thoughts.
“Think Tristan will like my hair?” Sam asked.
“Of course he will,” Renee said without skipping a beat.
“Steven hated short hair,” Sam stated, staring at her own reflection.
“That’s because Steven was an asshole.”
Sam nodded, then ran her fingers through her ends, gently tugging. She wasn’t sure why she was so harsh on herself, considering her mission as an artist was to show others the beauty others considered flaws. A rose, blistered by the setting sun. Wrinkles at the corners of middle-aged eyes caused by decades of laughter. A mother’s belly, riddled with stretch marks after keeping her child safe for nine months.
Tristan saw her in that way … sometimes, when she felt her worst, he thought she was her most beautiful.
“Have you talked to him today?”
Sam looked up. “What?”
“Have you talked to Tristan?” Renee clarified.
“No, why do you ask?”
Renee shrugged, but something in her expression gave Sam goosebumps.
“Spill it.” Sam sat forward a little. “What are you hiding?”
Renee turned in her seat, crossing her arms at her chest. “It’s just that—” her words stumbled over themselves–– “Dad called me yesterday.”
“What?” Sam practically fell off her seat.
“I didn’t answer.” Renee shook her head. “I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”
“Did he leave a message?”
“No. He sent a text.”
“What did it say?”
“Call me,” Renee stated.
“That’s it? Samantha asked. “What do you think he wanted?”
“I—I don’t know,” Renee stammered out.
Sam glanced at her phone.
Would Tristan tell her if he heard from his father? Would he answer if his father called?
Her mind flashed back to a not-too-distant memory. Two years earlier when she’d shimmied into the house, her arms loaded with groceries as she balanced Tristan’s birthday cake in her hands. “Close your eyes!” she yelled when she noticed him on the couch. “You’re not supposed to be home until four.”
But Tristan was so absorbed in his phone that he barely noticed her.
Concerned, Sam placed the cake on the entryway table and let the bags fall from her wrists to the floor. “Tristan?” She’d walked into the living room and sat beside him. “Is something wrong?”
Tristan didn’t remove his eyes from the phone. “It’s nothing,” he said in a hollow voice.
“It’s not nothing,” Sam whispered. “Are you okay?”
Tristan's attention shifted from his screen to her face, his eyes vacant and red rimmed. “I thought”—he sounded confused and hardly himself— “of all days, that he’d call me today for some reason.”
Sam’s heart broke into a million pieces as she hugged him to her chest. They hadn’t spoken of Tristan’s father in six months––since Renee’s wedding––but she knew that it was his father’s call that he waited for. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “You deserve so much better than this.” And he did. They all did. Every single one of them deserved to know why he hadn’t shown up.
The salon shrank around her, and Sam found it difficult to breathe. “Do you think he called Tristan too?” she asked, nervously plucking at a thread on her sleeve. “Is that why you asked about him earlier?” Sam’s brain was spiraling.
Renee shook her head, but didn’t make eye contact. “I—I did wonder.”