Chapter 4
Four
ANDREA
“You sure?” she asks again.
Silver shears glint in the mirror’s reflection as the stylist’s plastic comb passes through my wet, waist-length locks. I stare blankly ahead at a ghost I don’t recognize, fluorescent strip lights emphasizing the purple bags under her puffy eyes.
Then she morphs into someone much more haunting: a boy with messy brown waves, tears streaming from his fractured hazel eyes, staining his splotchy cheeks as he whispers the same things over and over.
“I’m too sick to be what he needs.”
My best friend’s words form a noose around my throat and bind my hands behind my back. I can’t reassure him or hold him close enough to shoulder his pain. This agony— in his mind, his heart, his soul— is his alone.
I fucking hate it.
“He was mine. And I was his. Do you understand?”
Every unanswered prayer cycles through my skull.
I begged God to hear me, to ease his suffering, but only received screaming silence.
It’s a cruel, unnecessary punishment. And for what?
Because he fell in love with a boy? A boy I’d found on his knees, beaten, broken, and preyed on by so-called pillars of the school and congregation.
A boy who looked at my best friend like he was the sun.
“I love him, Drea… Even after everything. I don’t know how to stop.”
My eyes sting, but I refuse to let another tear fall.
How dare God abandon one of His ‘precious creations’ for loving another?
How dare He stand aside and let one of His children break beneath the weight of things too heavy for someone so young?
And how dare He expect my faith to be unwavering through His negligence?
My gaze shifts to the hesitant stylist.
“Do it.”
Her scissors cut through the first section like nothing, but the shackles loosen with each clump that floats to the floor. Piece by piece, the ghost comes back to life, the dwindling candlelight in her eyes scorching with renewed strength.
The mind-numbing whine of the hairdryer ceases and reality rushes back in. The stylist unclasps the cape, the thin nylon fabric slipping off in one swoop.
“What do you think?”
Blunt ends whisper over my shoulders, tickling my neck like feathers. Every angle appears sharper, harsher, more fierce. For the first time in months, my soul aligns with the person in the mirror.
“It’s perfect.”
She grins. “It suits you.”
I couldn’t agree more.
This reincarnated sense of self doesn’t bounce with barely contained excitement. She’s more assertive, fluid— almost sensual. Her skin fits like a glove, her body in sync with who I’m morphing into.
The door chimes on my exit as I pop in my headphones and scroll through my playlist in search of a song for the short walk home from the salon.
The sun begins its descent behind ancient oaks drenched in Spanish moss and towering palms swaying to the beat of the music.
Two right turns later, I reach my street, the plantation house I call home looming above our neighbors.
As I climb the steps and cross the painted porch, I can't help glancing next door.
It’s too early.
It’s become a routine— sitting at my window with an unread book in my lap while I wait for the neighbor's garage to open and the boy from move-in day to saunter out. He stretches, gym shorts hugging his muscular thighs as dusk's shadows caress his sculpted arms. Then he jogs off toward the pier.
But my favorite part of this nightly ritual is when he returns.
Without fail, he looks up at my window. Neither of us waves during our stare off. After a minute or two, he disappears through the garage again.
The first few times, confusion and embarrassment had me instantly shutting off the lights and jumping into bed.
But as the days melted into weeks, I found myself lingering.
While it should feel strange since we haven’t formally met, it doesn’t.
There’s something comforting in his consistent presence. Stable. Reassuring even.
If only I could fast-forward through the inevitable shitshow awaiting me inside.
As I pluck out my headphones, I’m greeted by the clink of china echoing down the polished cherry wood hall from the kitchen. My stomach fills with maggots.
“Andrea?” Mama calls. “You forgot to run the dishwasher before you left, so I had to do it on top of everything else. The least you can do is finish putting them away.”
Like I haven’t always obediently done the long list of chores she has no time for.
She’s just so overwhelmed. I mean, it’s such a hard life she lives, ensuring there are no wrinkles in Pastor Sinclair’s clothes, attending charity galas, and organizing important events like tea and gossip with the Women’s Bible Study once a week.
I inhale deeply and close my eyes.
But no prayer comes.
God won’t help me here. He never has. The more I scrutinize my past, the more I’m forced to acknowledge I’ve been on my own for a long time now. Maybe I've always been.
Warm yellow light spilling from the archway lures me with false promises of safety. I pause and watch my mother bustle between the rack of freshly cleaned dishes and the cabinets.
“Andrea—”
Her lecture dies in her throat as she takes me in. Horror flashes through her unblinking green eyes. Measured footsteps approach from the dining room. My heart rate escalates, and with it, the urge to bolt.
Remy’s tear-stained face flashes through my mind.
As does the burning fury of the girl in the mirror.
All-seeing, critical eyes whip unspoken threats at me like ropes of lightning, but I won't let my father see how much each invisible lash burns.
His lips flatten into a line. Tension crackles in the loaded silence.
Mama wrings her dishrag. “The hairdresser must have made a mistake.”
My father's nostrils flare. “She must have.”
The implication is clear: he’s aware I chose to cut my hair despite his outrageous decree of maintaining it long until my eighteenth birthday. Rather than cower or admit I disobeyed him, I hold his gaze and say nothing.
A cruel sneer unfurls on his face. “At least we won't have to worry about any untoward advances tomorrow, hmm?
Can't let vanity get in the way of our divine purpose.” Icy shame tingles across my scalp; rage boils my blood.
He clicks his tongue and snaps as if an idea has struck him.
“Ah, that reminds me. As Head Counselor, you'll need to be at St. Gemma’s promptly at 6:15 to help Susan and Kevin run the show.”
A veiled threat that this minuscule attempt at autonomy is fucking futile.
I'm thrown into a bottomless vacuum. Fighting tears, I cling to every ounce of anger in me and return his malicious smile. “Of course. I'd better get to bed. I need plenty of rest before such an exciting day tomorrow.”
Something bright, both familiar and foreign, flickers in his glare and with it, a small, tectonic shift— a thrill unlike anything I’ve ever felt.
I don’t wait for his passive-aggressive reprimand or lecturing sermon before heading upstairs. I’m floating. There’s a buzz beneath my skin and a taste of something intoxicating on my tongue. Rebellion.
And I want more of it.