CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
KYE
The first time I saw Trell after the salon, he was inside a television mounted to a courtroom wall. He wore an orange jail shirt and looked tired.
My body still reacted like he was close enough to touch me.
The victim advocate sat on one side of me. My mother sat on the other. I had asked the girls not to come because the waiting room barely held my fear without adding every unfinished thing between us.
They listened.
Trell’s attorney told the judge he had gone to the salon to retrieve personal property and apologize. She said the rear door was open, he did not have a weapon, and he never physically harmed me.
All technically true except the part where any of it gave him permission to be there.
The prosecutor played forty-three seconds of camera footage.
Trell entering through the propped door.
Looking into the camera.
Closing and locking my suite.
Following me into the shampoo room.
Hitting the closet door.
Running toward the rear exit when security arrived.
The courtroom stayed quiet after the video ended.
The judge looked at Trell through the screen. “Were you aware a final restraining order prohibited contact with Ms. Monroe and prohibited you from entering her place of employment?”
Trell glanced at his attorney.
She stood. “Your Honor, I advised my client not to answer questions concerning the pending charge.”
The judge nodded and continued.
His release conditions included no direct or indirect contact, electronic monitoring, and staying away from the entire salon property. The prosecutor said the criminal contempt case would continue separately. The digital-harassment investigation was still open.
Nobody said the word closure.
Court did not close things.
It named them, scheduled them, and told everybody where to stand next.
Outside, my mother hugged me before I reached the elevator.
“You did good.”
“I sat in a chair.”
“You sat in a chair and didn’t jump through that television. Growth.”
“I considered it.”
“I know.”
The victim advocate reminded me that electronic monitoring lowered risk but did not replace the safety plan. She gave me the next court date and told me to report any message sent through friends, relatives, fake pages, or businesses.
“Even if it looks harmless?” I asked.
“Especially if it is designed to make you question whether it counts.”
Trell was good at harmless-looking things.
Flowers after an argument.
A location request framed as concern.
A joke with a warning inside it.
I put the card in my wallet.
My salon stayed closed for eight days.
Eight days sounded short until I calculated chair rent, canceled appointments, and clients who booked somewhere else. My savings dropped below three hundred dollars. The final restraining order did not pay December’s suite fee.
The building manager met me Thursday morning with the access log and an apology.
A plumber had propped the rear door with a bucket while carrying equipment. Trell entered during the nine-minute gap before security noticed the alert.
The manager installed an alarm that sounded whenever the rear door stayed open longer than thirty seconds. He moved the camera so the hallway had no blind corner and waived half my next month’s rent.
It proved systems could fail and still be repaired instead of pretending nothing went wrong.
I reopened the following Tuesday for daytime clients only.
My mother sat near the window with a crossword puzzle and looked up every time the door opened.
I hated it.
I loved her for it.
At noon, Ari walked in carrying a toolbox.
I looked at the box, then at her. “You fixing hair now?”
“No. Your mother said you wanted that shelf down.”
The floating shelf over my product station was one Trell installed the first week I rented the suite. I had been staring at it every day since the arrest.
“I didn’t tell her to call you.”
“She didn’t. She mentioned it to my mother. My mother mentioned it to me like she wasn’t mentioning it.”
“That sound like them.”
Ari sat the toolbox on the counter. She wore jeans, a sweatshirt, and a low bun. Her edges were neat because she was still Ari, but she did not look dressed for a picture.
“You don’t have to help,” I said.
“I know.”
That answer made room instead of taking it.
My mother announced she was going for coffee and left before either of us could stop her.
Ari opened the toolbox. “Which screwdriver?”
“The one shaped like a plus sign.”
“I know what a Phillips head is.”
“Then, why you asked?”
“I wanted to make sure you knew.”
I laughed once.
The sound settled between us carefully.
We moved products from the shelf. Ari held it steady while I removed the screws. Trell had anchored it properly. Of course, he had.
That was what made leaving him hard to explain to myself sometimes. He could build something straight. Remember what I needed from the store. Make my mother laugh. Then punish me because I did not answer fast enough.
People wanted bad men to be bad every minute.
That would have made my life easier.
The final screw stuck.
Ari braced one hand against the wall. “Turn it left.”
“I am turning it left.”
“Your other left.”
“See, this why I didn’t ask you.”
The screw loosened.
The shelf came free in both our hands.
We lowered it to the floor.
A clean rectangle remained on the wall where dust and hair spray had not reached the paint.
Ari stared at it. “You going to put something else there?”
“Eventually.”
She nodded.
Instead, I said, “I need to tell you everything about senior year without Cam sitting there turning it into a competition.”
Ari’s shoulders went stiff.
“You don’t have to listen today,” I added.
She looked toward the door, then pulled the second styling chair closer and sat.
“Talk.”
I sat across from her.
At seventeen, I liked Cam first.
Not loved him.
Not even knew him enough to love him.
I liked that he noticed me when most people noticed Ari before they noticed the rest of us. I liked that he called me pretty without adding funny after it. I liked feeling chosen in a room where Ari had never asked to be compared to me but got compared anyway.
“He flirted with both of us,” I said. “I knew he liked you more. I acted like I didn’t care.”
Ari’s face stayed blank.
“The night we slept together was after graduation rehearsal. You and him had been talking, but y’all weren’t official. That don’t make it right. I knew you liked him.”
“Did he know?”
“That I knew you liked him? Yeah.”
Her eyes closed for one second.
I kept going before fear edited me.
“Afterward, he acted like it was nothing. I felt stupid, so I sent the messages you saw. I said you only cared about being picked because I was mad he picked you. Then, when y’all got together, he told me saying something would make me look jealous and break the group up.”
“And you listened to him for four years.”
“I listened to the part of me that wanted to keep you and not pay for what I did.”
Ari looked down at her hands. “Every time you joked about him,” she said, “was you laughing at me?”
“No. Sometimes, I was laughing because he really did dress like he was allergic to buttons. Sometimes, I was pissed as fuck because I saw him doing things that reminded me of who he was. And, sometimes, I was loud because guilt get nervous in quiet rooms.”
A tear rolled down her cheek. She wiped it without turning away.
“You let me tell you things about us.”
“I know.”
“You did my hair for dates with him.”
“I know.”
“You stood beside me while I defended him and knew he had something on you.”
“Yes.”
I did not decorate the answers.
Ari cried harder, still silent.
I stayed in my chair.
After a while, she said, “I don’t forgive you yet.”
“I know.”
Her eyes sharpened.
I corrected myself. “Okay. I heard you.”
“I don’t know what friendship looks like after this.”
“Me neither.”
“But I don’t want him to be the reason we never find out.”
My own tears came then.
“That ain’t forgiveness,” she warned.
“I heard that too.”
The salon door opened, and my mother walked in carrying three coffees.
She saw our faces and stopped.
“Do I need to go back out?”
Ari wiped under her eyes. “No. You need to help put this ugly shelf in your car.”
My mother looked at the wall. “About time.”
We carried it outside together.
I did not feel healed when it left the suite.
I felt one screw lighter.