Chapter 19 New Me
NEW ME
ASHLEY
By the time we reach the beauty salon, I’ve just barely managed to shake off the effects of that kiss.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
Similar to the spa, there’s an entire wall of windows looking out over endless blue. The ocean rolls by like a living screensaver, sunlight bouncing off the water and ricocheting across the mirrors so that everything gleams.
No wonder the prices are twice what we’d pay on land. Apparently, you pay extra for the atmosphere.
Fair enough.
I’m guided over to one of the styling chairs and sink into it with a sigh, letting the cape settle around my shoulders as the stylist gently twists my long hair up and out of the way. After the initial polite greetings, the woman attending to me falls quiet, something I’m beyond grateful for.
Honestly, I couldn’t make small talk right now if my life depended on it.
On the flip side, not talking means thinking.
The problem with kissing your husband—or soon-to-be ex-husband, rather—is that your body doesn’t care about final decisions, or moving forward. It just remembers. Every spark, every sigh, every piece of history you thought you’d buried.
So, yeah. I like kissing Beckett.
But that doesn’t erase the last twelve months.
It doesn’t erase the way I’ve been slowly doubting myself, one unanswered question, one lonely night, at a time.
I stare at my reflection while the stylist is brushing out my hair, and see the same person I’ve seen all my life.
I am functional. Normal.
Except… okay, maybe I’m not quite at one hundred percent. Even though I feel like I’ve had to function at one hundred and ten percent recently.
Asking him to move out was supposed to take care of that. Because he…
He was the one breaking me.
My brain spirals and then rewinds.
“If it’s work, then explain it to me.” I remember reaching for him, my hands shaking. “Tell me something. Anything that makes sense. Make me understand what’s going on with you.”
“Nothing’s going on with me. I’m just… Everything feels like a trap.” He kept shaking his head, muttering half-answers, refusing to look me in the eye.
A trap? He feels trapped with me?
And somewhere between my pleading and his silence, that tiny flicker of hope went out.
Something inside me… broke.
“I want you out,” I’d whispered. “If you can’t talk to me. Then go.”
He’d gone still, stunned. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am.”
“Like, what, you want me to stay at a hotel tonight?”
He’d stared at me a long moment. Talk to me, Beckett. Yell at me! Scream at me! Fight with me.
Fight for me.
For a second, there was something in his eyes.
But then…
He turned.
Grabbed the suitcase he hadn’t unpacked yet and…
He left.
And me? I cleaned. I organized. I scrubbed every surface until the house gleamed.
Only after I checked on the boys did reality hit.
Damn you, Beckett.
And that’s when I’d finally cried.
I stare at myself now in the salon mirror.
That night felt like the end of… everything. Not just the end of our marriage, but the end of our family. The end of friendships, our home.
Our life.
Oh, God. It felt like the end of me.
The stylist is finished combing out my hair. “Just a trim?” she asks, polite, friendly.
I meet her eyes in the mirror and make a snap decision. “No,” I say. “I want something different. Layers. Bangs. I don’t know—go wild.”
Kelsey—according to her name tag—lifts her brows, suddenly interested. “Color?”
“Surprise me.”
She fingers through my hair, thoughtful, then disappears. When she comes back, she’s carrying a bowl of something that looks like purple cake batter and smells faintly of chemicals and citrus.
Before I can second-guess myself, she’s sectioning my hair, folding it into neat squares of foil with focused efficiency. No turning back now.
Comb. Paint on color. Wrap the foil.
The rhythm is oddly soothing.
The day after Beckett left, I downloaded every book I could find to help me take back control. The Single Parent, How to Sleep Alone in a King-Sized Bed, It’s Called a Breakup Because It’s Broken…
Too many, probably.
Of course, I read them all.
And that’s why, sitting under a dryer now, I know that it takes an average of eighteen months to two years to feel happy again after a divorce.
One month for every year of marriage.
Healing isn’t linear.
Blah, blah, blah.
Apparently, if I follow the math, counting back to the time we started dating, I’ll start feeling normal around the time the boys enter middle school.
Kelsey turns off the dryer, opens one of the foils, and then nods.
“Let's rinse you off now.”
Head back, I close my eyes while hot water washes out the dye.
Then come the scissors. “You’re sure about this?” Kelsey asks.
“Absolutely.” If Beckett can get a tattoo, I can cut my hair off.
The first cut is decisive and I feel the weight lift—literally—as wet hair slides down the cape.
One section gone. The nights alone, waiting for a car that never pulled into the driveway.
Another section. All my unanswered questions. The doubts about myself.
With each snip, my head feels lighter. Freer.
When she turns the chair toward the mirror, I blink.
Still blonde—but warmer. Richer. And the bangs—actual bangs—change the lines of my face. Make me look like someone who is finally making decisions.
“You’ve got a curl,” Kelsey says, smiling as she lifts a section near my jaw. “The length was weighing it down.”
I’ve always called it frizz. Fought it flat every morning.
She scrunches the ends, sprays something sweet-smelling, and steps back. “Encourage it while it dries.”
I nod, knowing full well I’ll never recreate this exact magic.
But when she’s done, I barely recognize the woman in the mirror—and that feels… right.
I smile. A real one.
Not bad for someone whose life is unraveling.
Not bad at all.
I find Luna in the next section of the salon, mahogany curls pinned up in a messy bun, tendrils tumbling free around her glowing face.
We see each other at the same time and both gasp.
“I love it!” we say in unison.
She jumps up. “You look amazing, Ash!”
“You look like a princess!”
And she does.
When she throws her arms around me, a lump rises in my throat.
Luna is about to begin her marriage. I’m ending mine.
I hug her back a little tighter. “You’re gonna knock Noah’s socks off,” I whisper.
She grins and then stares at herself in the mirror again. “I can’t wear it like this tonight. I want to surprise him when I walk down the aisle.”
Funny thing, that my very unorthodox little sister wants to uphold so many of the traditional rituals for her wedding.
I nod. “Worry about that later. For now, makeup. And I need to check on Mom and the boys. I can’t help but feel guilty that she’s—”
“Mom is loving it. Don’t feel guilty. And honestly, they’re having so much fun in the kids’ center, she told me she feels like the one slacking.”
“I know, but…”
“Don’t worry about the boys. Go find Beckett. I can’t wait to hear what he thinks about your new look.”
And I can’t either. Kind of. But not because I care. Not because it’ll make a difference.
“Fine. Fine. Now you go. For now, get your glamour on.”
She leaves and I’m left standing alone, new hairstyle, new me.