12. Just Like Her #2
I rake my fingers through it one last time before dragging the soaked lengths over my shoulder.
They aren't copper anymore. They aren't auburn. They're… Gone.
The sound that escapes me doesn't even feel human. It's somewhere between a sob and a gasp, torn from so deep inside my chest it hurts coming out. I press both hands over my mouth, trying to hold myself together, but it's useless. Every shaky breath catches before it reaches my lungs.
Behind me, Jackson hasn't moved.
I can feel him standing in the doorway without looking.
I don't need to turn around to know his eyes are on me.
They have been since he carried me into this room, following every tear, every tremor, every tiny crack forming inside me as though he's waiting to see what survives when everything familiar has been stripped away.
Eventually, when the water runs clear, there's nothing left to wash away.
I stand there for another few seconds anyway, unable to make myself move, hoping—ridiculously, desperately—that if I stay where I am long enough, I'll wake up and discover this never happened.
"Princess." His voice is quiet. “Here,” he says as he lowers a bundle of fabric onto a stool outside of the shower.
My legs feel hollow as I step out, wrapping my arms around myself while cold air prickles across my damp skin. My face burns from crying so hard, my eyes swollen enough that everything beyond a few feet blurs together.
A folded pile of clothes waits on the wooden stool beside me.
Dark joggers.
A black cropped T-shirt.
I stare at them for a long moment. They're just clothes.
Normal clothes. The kind I'd have thrown on to stay home on a Sunday.
And yet that normality unsettles me almost more than if he'd laid out something deliberately humiliating.
It feels calculated somehow. Like he's stripped away the parts of me that mattered while leaving everything else untouched.
You're still you.
Only you aren't.
I pull them on with trembling hands, the damp fabric clinging uncomfortably against my skin while my wet hair sticks to the back of my neck. Every movement feels mechanical, detached, as though my body has decided it's easier to keep going than to accept what's happened.
Jackson waits until I've finished before opening the bathroom door.
Donnie is already waiting in the corridor, leaning lazily against the wall until we step out. His eyes flick over me once before he pushes himself upright, saying nothing as he falls into step ahead of us.
No one speaks.
The only sound is the quiet shuffle of my feet against the polished floor and the steady rhythm of boots behind me.
Jackson stays close enough that I'm constantly aware of him, never touching me, never needing to.
Every time I slow, I can feel him there, an invisible pressure between my shoulder blades urging me forward.
The bedroom door opens.
"Sit." His voice is lower now, rough.
The fight has drained out of me somewhere between the shower and this room. I don't argue. I don't tell him no. I don't even think about refusing.
The moment I close my eyes, hoping to shut out everything that’s happened, warm air hums softly to life behind me.
The hairdryer.
A second later, fingers slip gently into my hair. I flinch so violently the chair creaks beneath me.
Jackson.
His touch is impossibly careful as he separates the damp strands, guiding warm air through them while working patiently through every tangle with his fingers. There isn't an ounce of force in the movement.
It's gentle. Too gentle.
The memory hits so suddenly it steals the breath from my lungs.
Jacob sitting behind me on the sofa after we'd come home from the hospital, disappearing into the kitchen because he couldn't find my pink hairbrush.
He'd come back looking almost offended by the thing in his hand, muttering that it looked like a fucking toy before trying—so earnestly—to brush my hair anyway.
He'd pulled too hard.
I'd yelped.
The horror on his face had been almost comical.
"I'm sorry," he'd blurted immediately, dropping the brush like it'd bitten him. "I didn't realize..."
Softness had never come naturally to him, but he'd tried. God, he'd tried.
A sob breaks free before I can stop it. Jackson's hand stills for the briefest second. Then, just as quietly, he continues. The tears come harder, dragging another memory up with them.
Mama sat on the edge of my bed while sunlight spilled through the curtains, patiently brushing my auburn waves after another awful day at school.
"I hate it," eight-year-old me had whispered, wiping angrily at my eyes. "Everyone keeps calling me carrot top."
She'd smiled at me through the mirror.
"People notice what stands out, sweetheart."
"It's ugly."
"No." She'd leaned forward and kissed the top of my head. "It's fierce. It's rare. One day you'll realize people are just jealous."
"You promise?"
"I promise."
My chest caves in. Because she was right. It was rare. And now...
The dryer falls silent, cutting me out of my thoughts.
The room is swallowed by quiet, and I force my eyes open. Jackson is watching me through the mirror. His expression is unreadable at first, his gaze moving slowly over my face before settling on my hair. His fingers slide once through the dark strands resting against my shoulder, almost reverently.
"There." The word barely rises above a whisper.
His expression flickers, and then he leans in, settling his nose into my scalp to inhale the scent before planting a kiss to my head.
"Just like her."