Chapter 2 #4
Leo’s hoodie wrapped around my shoulders as he kisses me slow, the world shrinking to the sound of the waves below us.
We’re laughing about future plans. His and mine. Talking about college visits, road trips, stupid fantasies about taking a road trip together someday.
He cups my face like it’s something precious.
“You’re my girl, Jade,” he whispers. “Always.”
The dream fractures.
The slime hits my skin.
The crown slips.
The world roars back to life in the ugliest way.
He reaches for me in the dream just like he did in real life—
Too late.
Always too late.
I wake up with tears sliding across my temples and into my hairline.
The waves outside crash again, louder this time.
Or maybe my chest is the one breaking.
I press my sleeve to my eyes, wipe until my throat aches, and sit there in the gray dawn light trying to remember how to breathe.
Aunt Susan is already in the kitchen when I shuffle in.
She’s flipping something in a pan—eggs, maybe—but her eyes soften the second she sees me.
“Morning, honey,” she says gently. “Rough night?”
I nod, pouring myself a glass of water and trying to look less fragile than I feel.
“You’ve got time,” she says, sliding a plate toward me.
“Aunt Susan—”
“No, listen,” she interrupts. “I emailed the school first thing this morning. You’re doing remote work for the rest of the week. Then it’s Thanksgiving break. Think of it as a cooling-off period before you have to step foot back at Royal Oaks.”
Cooling off.
Like I’m a kettle someone finally bothered to take off the stove.
I sit down at the table and pick at the corner of the toast she set out. I don’t eat it—just hold it so my hands don’t shake as visibly.
“What about midterms?” I ask quietly.
“Online,” she says. “They’ll accommodate. Believe me, after everything, the last thing the school wants is more bad press.”
She takes a seat across from me.
“You’re not rushing back into that environment, Jade. Not until you’re steady again. Not until you decide what comes next.”
I swallow hard.
“I don’t know what comes next.”
She reaches across the table, covering my hand with hers.
“You don’t need to know today,” she says. “Today you just need to shower, maybe eat a real breakfast, and then let Irene fuss over you with whatever eyebrow torture she’s planning.”
Despite everything, a small laugh escapes me.
A real one.
The first since homecoming.
“Irene did say she wants to make me look like I own a European art gallery,” I murmur.
“She will,” Aunt Susan says with a smile. “And for what it’s worth, she’s the best at this kind of thing. Reinvention is her love language.”
I breathe out, letting the ocean fill the silence between us.
Maybe I can’t fix the world today.
Maybe I can’t fix myself today.
But I can sit here, in this kitchen, with the smell of coffee and eggs and sea air, and feel… something other than broken.
Maybe that’s enough for now.
Irene’s spa sits right in the middle of downtown Chatham, wedged between a bakery that smells like heaven and an art gallery full of ocean watercolors. The sign out front is hand-painted: Seacliff Sanctuary.
Inside, everything is white, gold, and soft blue. The air smells like eucalyptus and expensive candles. Women in matching black uniforms stop what they’re doing when Irene walks in.
“Boss!” one of them calls. “You’re early!”
“I brought a guest,” Irene announces, resting a hand on my shoulder. “Full treatment. Head to toe. Don’t hold back.”
My cheeks heat.
“Aunt Susan, I don’t—”
Susan waves a hand. “Let her.”
Before I know it, I’m sitting in a pedicure chair while a woman massages my calves.
Another starts on my nails with some pale neutral polish that makes my hands look way more elegant than they have any right to.
Someone else brings warm water and citrus for a hand soak.
A masseuse appears, all serenity and soft voice, and works the knots out of my shoulders until something unclenches in my chest.
I don’t feel good.
But I feel… held.
And that’s something.
Then Irene appears at my side, clapping once.
“Time for your hair, sweetheart.”
She leads me back to a private room with tall mirrors and bright lighting. My wet, short hair clings to my jawline. I still barely recognize myself.
Irene runs her fingers through it.
“Perfect cut,” she says. “Now let’s refine.”
Her scissors glide like she’s painting.
Razor on the ends.
Flat iron for shine.
Blow-dryer pulling everything forward and sculpted, not soft.
When she’s done, I look… dangerous.
Not messy dangerous.
Not broken dangerous.
Controlled dangerous.
A girl reborn in fire and ocean wind.
Everyone in the room lets out a low “damn.”
Even Susan whistles.
I’m still staring at myself when my phone—Aunt Susan’s phone actually, because mine is still back home—buzzes in her purse. She answers on speaker.
“Hello?”
“IT’S ME!” Shani practically yells.
Susan flinches. “Damn, child, use your inside voice.”
“WHERE IS SHE?” Shani demands. “Leo is FREAKING THE HELL OUT. He showed up at the Barn this morning asking if we’d seen her.
Then he showed up at my HOUSE. He’s pacing like a deranged golden retriever!
And everyone at school is trying to figure out if she slinked away in shame or if she’s gone for good. ”
Susan looks at me carefully.
My jaw tightens.
Slinked away.
Gone for good.
Is that what they all think?
I take the phone from her hand.
“Shani.”
“—are you okay? Do you want me to come—”
“No,” I cut in. “Listen to me. I am NOT running from shit.”
Silence.
Then a soft inhale.
“Okay,” Shani says. “Okay, bitch. What do you want me to tell them?”
I stare at myself in the mirror.
At the sharp hair.
The stronger posture.
The girl who is still hurting but done being prey.
“Tell them,” I say slowly, “there’s a new bitch in town when I get back.”
Susan snorts. Irene cackles. One of the stylists gasps, hand over her mouth.
Shani laughs like she’s been waiting years for this moment.
“Oh, I am ABSOLUTELY telling them that.”
I hang up.
It hits me in a wave—
anger, hurt, humiliation, determination.
All layered over each other, messy and hot.
Irene sees all of it.
She doesn’t comment.
She just hands me a tissue and presses a kiss to the top of my head.
“Let’s finish the transformation,” she says.
We leave the salon and hit the shops.
Susan hands me an envelope of cash.
“Part of the treat,” she says. “New wardrobing to go with the new look.”
I protest for about thirty seconds before giving up.
Everything I’m drawn to is black.
Black sweaters.
Black skirts.
Black trousers.
Black bodysuits.
Black boots.
But then—
Then I see it.
Hanging in the corner of a consignment boutique like a treasure someone left behind.
A black leather jacket.
Real leather.
1980s cut.
Fringe dripping from the arms like shredded midnight.
I touch it and something inside me lights up.
It looks like a punk-rock princess stole it from a biker girl.
“I need this,” I whisper.
“It is very you,” Irene says.
I don’t even check the price.
I spend almost everything I have.
I buy black suede heeled boots next.
Also black.
Dress code compliant.
Dangerous enough to make people stare.
Back at the cottage, Irene pulls me into the bathroom and teaches me makeup.
Coal-black eyeliner.
Soft smoky eyes.
Sharp cheekbone contour.
Matte nude lip with a hint of cool undertone.
European model energy.
Not goth.
Not sad.
Strong.
Untouchable.
Reborn.
When I finally see myself in the mirror—
I don’t recognize the girl looking back.