Chapter 10 Brianna
Brianna
Fall in love with what?
I’m sitting at my kitchen table, iced coffee in hand, thinking through everything Asher said to me this morning. It makes sense logically, but emotionally? Well, I might need more weapons to battle my inner demons.
I’m nowhere close to who I used to be, but I felt something shift last night curled up between Asher’s strong arms. It’s true what I said to him—I don’t hate him.
He’s been amazing with me ever since he showed up on my doorstep.
But sometimes, the poisonous snakes bite, my self-doubt the venom that pulses through my veins.
If I keep this up, I might never find the girl I once was. Sometimes, I wonder if I’ll ever be.
But the way he caressed my stretch marks last night as if it was the sexiest thing about me was exhilarating.
And the desire I felt? It’s a sensation I’m craving a repeat of.
His touch quieted every negative thought I’ve had about my body since I’ve gained weight.
Now that I’ve had a hint at what freedom tastes like, I want more.
And I think that Asher is the perfect person to help me.
While Asher’s at the store picking up storage boxes, I try to come up with a plan of things I want to work on.
The first thing that comes to mind is my negative body-image.
I still only look in the mirror when necessary, and it’s only for a brief second or two.
I’m not the size eight I used to be, and it's been a struggle coming to terms with my curvier shape. It’s not that I want to lose weight—or need to— to feel beautiful.
I just want to fall in love with the body I’m in.
I want to fall in love with sex again.
Sex for me was a way to celebrate my body, my femininity.
I mean, yeah, I’ll admit I loved the attention from men, but it was more than that.
Having every inch of me explored and appreciated was exhilarating.
I am a firm believer in being both a giver and receiver, so I made sure to find partners with the same mentality.
Now, when I think of sex, I’m hyper-focused on how I look to my partner, and it just takes me out of the act altogether.
So, really, I guess sex and body image are one in the same.
I want to start living outside of the comfort of my own home.
I was always the social butterfly, and I miss it.
Besides Asher, Avery is the only other person who’s seen me, and I feel like that’s only fueling my insecurities.
Plus, I miss my best friend. We used to have so much fun together, and I’ve been stuck in this fear that I’d bring the mood down.
Which makes zero sense because Avery would never feel that.
It’s just something my mind has created.
After my talk with Asher this morning, I want to conquer my shame and guilt.
He’s right in the sense that I don’t need to carry this trauma alone.
Asking him to help me pack up my books was a huge deal for me.
I want to get comfortable with asking for help, which includes going to therapy.
I hate to admit it, but I need help. Even though he says I can lean on him, I don’t want to put all my trauma on Asher.
I also want to conquer my newfound fear of driving.
There’s something about getting in the car—no destination in mind, just driving.
I’d blast the music and belt the lyrics at the top of my lungs.
I’m the worst singer known to man, but I couldn’t care less.
Putting on Grammy winning—well, in my head they were—performances for just me and no one else was intoxicating.
I want that back. Not sure how that’s going to be possible, because anytime I even think of stepping foot in a car, my panic renders me useless for the rest of the day.
And lastly, I need to find my purpose. I’ve worked at the hair salon for almost a decade, and as much as I love it, it just doesn’t fill my cup like it used to.
Immediately after the accident, I threw myself into my job.
It worked for a bit, but then my depression got so bad that I couldn’t leave my bed.
Thank God I work for a huge salon, because my boss talked me into FMLA to give myself time to recoup.
And I’ve been on that until recently when it ended, but instead of feeling happy, I feel empty.
Salon.
That word triggers a Pavlovian response, transporting my mind back to a particularly hard day.
January 2026
The eggshell envelope weighs heavy and rough against my palm. Inside, its rectangular shape holds tainted money.
“Name a number—any number, and it’s yours.”
“How much will it take to avoid a lawsuit?”
Those were direct statements from the parents’ of the person who hit my car.
She came from money, and while they could do nothing to stop the police arrest, they could do whatever it took to prevent a lawsuit.
I had no interest in dragging the case further than what the cops had in mind, so I took the money–and it was a substantial amount.
Enough to cover both mine and my brother’s medical bills, as well as living expenses for a while. Must be nice to come from money.
The envelope lays unopened in my palm, but I already know what the contents of the check will say.
Yet, I can’t bring myself to open it. With the money I also received from the insurance, the solid nest egg in my savings from the salon, plus the continuous help I’ve received from my parents, I’m set.
Despite my lack of communication with them, they still send money from time to time.
And every time, guilt threatens to pull me under as if I’m stepping into quicksand.
It’s always the same. Guilt takes me hostage, setting a ransom I can never pay. Tears sting behind my eyes, and panic climbs up my throat. Guilt turns to panic, and by that time, I’m already wrapped up in the vine as it squeezes the breath from my lungs.
“Uh, ma’am. Are you planning to get out?”
The trance that’s overcome my body shatters like glass, and my eyes snap to the mysterious voice.
A man in what seems to be his late forties, early fifties glares back at me from behind a pair of wire-framed glasses.
His lips are pursed in a displeased scowl while the hand wrapped around the steering wheel taps in an annoyed rhythm.
I shift my focus outside the window to find I’m in the parking lot of the salon.
Right. The salon.
“Oh, um yes. I-I’m getting out. Thank you.”
I gather my purse and my phone before climbing out the car, but not before I hear the Uber driver huffing and puffing about dumb chicks.
I have zero energy to pick a fight with him.
So, I thank him again before closing the door and watching him speed off.
I leave him a generous tip for the wait and head into my job.
Could you really call it a job if you aren’t actually doing any work?
Alison has been amazing with everything, giving me busy work to keep my mind off the chaos that is my life.
But I haven’t been operating at one hundred percent.
I bet this is why she called for a meeting.
You’re getting fired. God, can you do anything right?
I swallow the hard words down my throat, their bitterness churning in my stomach.
It’s now or never.
I push open the solid-glass door, ignoring the sympathetic looks from my coworkers. I can’t take their pity. I want to get this meeting over and done with so that I can crawl under the confines of my comforter and hide from the world—where no bad things happen.
I knock on her solid-wooden door, and the minute she opens it, I’m hit with a strong patchouli and rosewood scent.
Alison, my eccentric, fun-loving boss, greets me with a smile and a warm hug, the type of embrace only a grandmother is capable of giving.
Alison is in her mid-sixties with neon purple hair styled in a hawk-fade.
Both of her ears are decorated with piercings, and she has a full length tattoo sleeve decorating her right arm.
She is a complete badass on the outside, but sweet like butterscotch candies on the inside.
She greets me with a warm smile and her arms outstretched, leaving me no choice but to walk into them.
Not that I’d ever deny her. Alison’s hugs have some sort of healing power, and anything that is going wrong in my life melts away.
She leads me into her office, choosing to have one arm wrapped around my shoulders.
“So, I think it’s time we talk.”
Alison is also known for her waste-no-time attitude. The moment I sit down, she gets right to the point.
“I-I’m sorry, Al. I’m—I can…I can do better. I promise, I—”
Alison holds out her hand, a soft smile splayed across her face.
“Bri, you need the time off." She smiles at me sweetly, a tender hand on my shoulder. "We will all be here when you're rested and ready to come back."
“But I—wait, you’re not firing me?”
“Why would I fire one of my best stylists? That would be stupid.” Alison leans over her desk, laying a comforting hand on mine.
“You’ve been through a lot. I think you need to take some time, really prioritize yourself.
You can’t function on an empty tank, my dear.
Your job will still be here when you’re ready.
Because of the size of our salon, you can partake in the Family Medical Leave Act.
I highly encourage you to take FMLA, Bri.
And if you need more time, then you take it. No questions asked. No consequences.”
“I-I…um…thank you. I, maybe I will. I just…thank you.”
The chair squeaks when I stand up. Alison meets me halfway and pulls me into another hug. My vision becomes fuzzy, but I hold in the tears for when I get home.