Chapter 4
Chapter Four
ALIX
Unfortunately for Alix, mornings at the bungalow always started with Phyllis clattering around the kitchen like she was auditioning for a local philharmonic’s percussion section.
At sixty-five, Phyllis somehow had more energy before eight a.m. than Alix could muster with three Alani energy drinks injected straight into her veins.
Phyllis puttered around in her battered Oakland Raiders sweatshirt, humming the Jeopardy!
theme while filling in her crossword, like mornings weren’t a personal affront to everyone else.
Alix staggered in behind her, hair damp from the world’s fastest shower, jeans half-buttoned, and a tee so rumpled it looked like she’d pulled it from the laundry basket. She collapsed into a chair at the kitchen table.
Phyllis lowered her glasses, looked her up and down, and said, “Well. You look like hell’s understudy.”
Alix groaned and let her forehead fall to the table. “Is there coffee?”
A mug slid across the wood toward her a moment later, two sugars, splash of oat milk, no questions asked. Phyllis might bust her chops, but she always got the order right.
Phyllis tapped her pen against her chin. “Five letters, ‘something you can never find when you need it.’”
“Sleep,” Alix groaned.
“Hmm, no. Doesn’t fit.”
Alix sipped, hissed at the heat, then sipped again. “Dignity.”
“That’s seven letters, dear,” Phyllis said without hesitation, eyes back on her crossword. Then, as if it were an afterthought: “So. Who’s Grace?”
Alix nearly snorted coffee up her nose. “Excuse me?”
Phyllis raised a brow. “Don’t play dumb. I’ve seen her name on your phone dozens of times now. For days you’ve been grinning at that thing like it’s a slot machine spitting coins. Unless you finally joined a pyramid scheme.”
Alix covered her face with her hands. “She’s just a friend.”
Phyllis slapped the crossword triumphantly. “I knew it. Tell me about her.”
“She’s… just someone.”
“Someone,” Phyllis repeated, wrinkling her nose like the word had spoiled. “Someone who’s worth you sneaking around like a teenager?”
Alix peeked out from between her fingers. “We’re just texting about our breakups. Purely platonic. She’s funny. Smart. Some kind of lawyer. She’s in Florida.”
Phyllis leaned back, steepling her fingers like she was holding court. “All right. I’ll need her résumé, three references, and a blood sample. Can’t have you wasting more years on nonsense like Kirstin.”
Alix groaned again.
Phyllis only smiled into her crossword.
The salon where Alix worked wasn’t hers, which was the point.
It belonged to Vince, a man who’d leaned so hard into a punk-rock aesthetic that the place looked like a Hot Topic tent exploded at a Warped Tour.
Black-and-red everything, posters of bands no one had listened to in a decade, chains bolted to mirrors.
Vince thought it looked edgy. It reminded Alix of Spencer’s Gifts, circa 2003.
She didn’t like it, but her clients didn’t come for the décor or Vince’s faded eyeliner phase. They came for her. For her steady hands, her ability to yap about anything to anyone, for the way she could make a corporate VP feel a little dangerous with bangs that looked artfully alternative.
If she wanted, she could open her own place. People would follow her. Even Lola and Oscar had said they’d join her. But for now, she loved the short commute and sharing a bungalow with Phyllis and her crossword addiction. She loved the simplicity.
She wasn’t ready to give that up yet.
She rolled in on her longboard anyway, Docs thudding against the floor as she stashed her board in the break room. Lola was already at her station, wrangling a jar of sanitizer wipes, while Oscar leaned against the front desk, scrolling his phone. He barely lifted his chin in a nod.
“Morning, sunshine,” Lola singsonged. “I put on your favorite mix to get you in the mood for Halloween.”
Alix paused, listening until she realized Lola was smirking and she was playing the Twilight soundtrack, which even Alix had to admit had some bangers.
She’d agreed to dress up with Lola and Oscar for Halloween, but she had very little say in the theme, unfortunately.
”I need more coffee,” Alix said instead, though she’d had two mugs already.
Her first client was a woman in her fifties with an executive bob and the faint smell of eucalyptus.
Not her vibe, but Alix knew her type — someone who wanted to look sharp enough to be taken seriously and kind enough to be approachable at work.
Alix delivered textured layers that did both, and the woman tipped generously.
She was rinsing a dark cherry cola dye out of her second client when she saw her.
Kirstin.
Of fucking course.
Sliding into Vince’s chair like she owned the place, blond hair glossy, Oud Wood perfume curling through the air. Alix’s gut twisted. This was her turf, her workplace, and Kirstin damn well knew it.
Kirstin didn’t look at her right away. She never did.
That was part of the game. The delay, the control, the faint suggestion that Alix was the one reaching.
She crossed her legs and scrolled through her phone, pretending not to notice.
Like they hadn’t spent nights together. Like she hadn’t once laughed against Alix’s collarbone and whispered she was trouble.
Alix felt the sting in her chest, quick and sharp, then shoved it down. Silly. It had been casual. Nothing official, nothing promised. Just a few months of bad decisions and great sex that got messy at the end. That’s all.
But it didn’t feel like nothing when Kirstin finally looked up and smiled that same slow, knowing smile.
The one that used to make Alix’s knees weak.
For a second, her brain short-circuited.
The sound of the blow dryers faded and the salon blurred.
All she could think about was that one night they had stayed tangled until morning, Alix half-asleep while Kirstin traced the ink on her arm like she was memorizing it.
It was stupid to remember that. It was stupid to feel anything now.
It wasn’t like they’d met at a bar. They’d met here, under these lights, over this linoleum.
Vince had called out hungover one morning, and Alix had stepped in.
She’d given Kirstin the cut of her life, sharp and sleek, and an hour later they’d been pressed against the break room wall, mouths hot, hands greedy.
Now Kirstin strolled in like nothing had happened, like she hadn’t turned Alix’s world sideways and then walked away.
Alix finished rinsing, jaw tight. She smoothed her apron, squared her shoulders, and walked back onto the floor with the kind of grin she wore like armor.
“Kirstin,” Alix said lightly, as though her insides weren’t boiling. “Didn’t expect to see you today.”
Kirstin’s eyes glittered. “Just needed a trim.” She raked her gaze up and down Alix’s body.
Alix’s laugh was low, practiced. “Right. Silly me. How could I ever forget how much you love that fuck-ass bob?”
Kirstin tilted her head, lips curving. “You always did remember the important things.”
The smirk on Kirstin’s face made Alix want to scream, but instead she glanced away with a disinterested expression. Only when she slipped into the break room did she let the mask drop, phone already in her hand.
Grace’s thread glowed at the top. She typed before she could think.
Alix
My ex just walked in like a horror movie jump scare.
The reply came fast.
Grace
Do I need to call security, or is this the part where you get to pretend you don’t care?
Alix bit her lip, thumbs flying.
Alix
Pretend, obviously. Except my stomach just did a triple axel and landed flat on its ass.
Grace
Sounds athletic. Gold medal worthy.
Alix huffed a laugh, leaning against the counter.
Alix
Why do I feel so small? Like… she’s not even better than me. Just shinier. And I’m… here, cutting rich women’s hair, and she’s some bigwig creative director at a marketing agency making up ads for Pepsi.
The words sat there heavier than she meant them to.
The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Grace
Shiny doesn’t last. Trust me, I live in Miami. It rusts, chips, and eventually peels.
Alix chewed her bottom lip, watching the dots appear again for a long time.
Grace
She can be fake and shallow and shiny all she wants. You’re the one people actually like being around. Even if you don’t always see it first.
Her throat tightened. She stared at the words, not sure what to do with them.
Then, to really break her out of the spell, her mom’s contact photo popped up on the screen.
She swiped open the call, heart pounding.
Surely someone was dead. Her brother? Her dad?
Her mom, calling from beyond the grave? If anyone could figure out how to haunt her via cellular connection, it was Helen Wolf.
“Mom? What’s wrong? Everything okay?” Alix asked, feeling breathless.
Her mom made an amused sound. “Hello to you, too, Alexandra. Of course everything’s okay, why do you say it like that?”
Because you’re calling? A thing we almost never do? “Just checking. What’s up?” Alix asked.
“I was just checking in to see if you’d decided on Christmas plans this year,” her mom asked.
Dread pooled in Alix’s stomach. She hadn’t been home in… more years than she had fingers to count. “Uh, I’m not sure. My work schedule is pretty hectic, and… yeah, you know. We’ll see.”
Her mom sounded disappointed as she said, “I understand. I’d really love to have you for Christmas this year, though. Your dad and I both would.”
Yep. That settled it. Her dad had a terminal disease. Alix narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “I’ll really try,” she said, though she wasn’t entirely sure if she meant it.
Oscar stuck his head in the door. “Hey, heartbreak hotline. Your three p.m. balayage is here.”
“Mom, I have to go. We can talk later,” Alix said.
“Sure. Have a good day, dear,” her mom said.
Alix shoved her phone into her pocket, cheeks hot. She wasn’t sure if it was Kirstin in the next chair or Grace on her screen or Christmas plans in Colorado that had her burning.
Maybe all three in combination.
The day dragged. For an hour or so while her bleach processed, Kirstin’s laughter floated across the salon, light and sharp, needling under Alix’s skin until she finally, finally left.
Alix didn’t look up from her razor cut as she felt Kirstin’s eyes on her as she walked out the door.
Alix powered through her appointments, plastering on her cocky smile, hiding the thrum of inadequacy whispering steadily under her ribs.
But every lull, every stolen moment, she texted Grace. About nothing and everything. About nightmare clients. About her mom’s call. About Phyllis interrogating her that morning over coffee. About how Simple Plan stared back at her from a poster above her station.
Grace answered every time. Wry. Clever. Steady.
By the time the shop closed, Alix was wrung out, her Docs heavy against the floor as she grabbed her longboard from the break room. She kicked off into the fading light, the streets glowing warm and quiet around her, phone buzzing in her pocket.
She didn’t know what she was doing. Didn’t know why the conversation with Grace flowed so effortlessly.
Most of the time, they didn’t even text about their breakups or exes.
All she knew was that seeing Grace’s name pop up on her phone made her smile and feel light in a way she hadn’t felt in a long time.