Fallon
Chapter eleven
Town Population: Too Small
Song lyrics flow through the styling space, an upbeat, catchy tune. Jules and I sing in synchronized harmony as we clean. After a long day, my entire body aches. Most of our local clients had appointments today. When the walk-ins started, I got behind a chair to help move clients out quicker.
Every client who sat in my seat was interested in talking about Cyrus’s life or speculating about it. I spent all day redirecting conversations until the man’s intrusion, despite not being in the building, pushed me to blast music and drown out the gossip.
Supposedly, he’s a working single father whose looks rival Alan Ritchson and a man some are convinced is the second coming of Christ. That last part is my own addition, but at this point, it fits the narrative.
The speculation only gets worse from there. His baby mama is a government spy. He used a surrogate. My personal favorite—he adopted a child from a mob boss.
I shake my head, laughing despite myself. This community is unhinged.
Helena, the librarian, described Cyrus as charismatic but focused when he looked into the library’s broken window last week.
Donna Hughes said he rescued a kitten from the river.
Janette at the corner market swore he was in the courtyard yesterday helping kids fly a drone.
Everyone is singing his praises. And honestly?
If I never hear his name again, it’ll still be too soon.
Closing my eyes, I spin around to face the front of the salon, curling iron near my lips, the chorus to a song Jules and I love forming on my tongue. A small giggle slips through the music. My eyes snap open. Standing in the doorway is a little boy with Cyrus’s bright blue eyes.
Time stalls. Seconds, hours—I wouldn’t know. My world tilts as my attention locks onto him. Ash-blond hair. Same oval blue eyes. Same straight nose. If they were the same age, I’d swear they were twins. Cyrus clears his throat.
My heart tightens with something I refuse to name as I take in their linked hands—his holding the boy’s, while mine has never known that grip.
I am going to puke.
“Hello, Fallon.”
His voice—rough-edged, familiar—lands like it never learned how to stop affecting me. I don’t want to look up. I don’t want to meet his gaze. But Cyrus McCoy is devastating in a way time never dulled.
His dark ash-blond hair used to be kept short. Now it curls at his ears, longer on top, softened by years I wasn’t there for. His eyes—frosted blue, unreadable—track me with quiet precision, taking in every detail like I’m something he’s memorized before but refuses to forget.
Like nothing has changed. Like everything has. And still, I feel it—that pull. The same one I never learned how to let go of. The silence between us thickens, painful and unwelcome. Color creeps up his neck, small blotches rising along his jaw. I notice it before I can stop myself.
I wonder what he’s thinking. What I am to him now—if he thinks of me at all. My gaze tracks the tension in his mouth, the subtle movement of his throat as he swallows. He feels unfamiliar in a way that shouldn’t be possible, and yet every part of him is still etched somewhere too deep to forget.
A flicker crosses his expression—quick, unguarded—gone before I can name it. Judgment. Or something that feels too close to it. He’s standing in my salon. Looking at me like he’s trying to reconcile who I was with who I’ve become.
And I hate that I remember—he spoke to me. Just moments ago. My brain unable to form coherent sentences. Like I don’t know how to exist in the same air as him anymore.
Straightening my spine, I pull my lips into a professional smile and reply to his heat, coolly.
“Hello, Cyrus. Welcome to Twisted Scissors. How may we help you today?”
His son looks from his dad to me, then hesitantly pulls his hat off. Revealing twin bald orbs around his ear.
“Jumping crickets.” Jules’s surprised words cut in. The little boy grins up at me, melting my heart.
“Did we play with Dad’s clippers, buddy?
” I ask, keeping my voice light and sing-song.
Kids usually respond well to that kind of energy—it helps put them at ease.
It’s worked for me before. I shift closer to inspect the side of his head, keeping my smile steady and warm. He answers with one of his own.
His reflection in the mirror catches me off guard, and for a moment it feels like it’s mocking me. I become painfully aware of how much he resembles his father—just like my daughter does in ways I can’t ignore. He’s observant, too. Too observant.
“No, Ma’am, Dad does my hair. It’s always perfect.” He shuffles his feet. “Well, it usually is.”
“Yeah, my hand must have slipped.”
Cyrus’s mask of indifference falls as I lower myself, meeting his young son’s gaze. “Hiya friend, I’m Miss Fallon.” I extend my hand, and his small hand latches onto mine.
“Liam McCoy, Ma’am.”
I stand, glancing at his father, who looks like he wants the floor to open and swallow him up, before turning my attention back to Liam.
“Oh, you adorable, sweet boy! Let’s get your hair fixed.”
Taking him to my booth, Liam hops up onto the chair.
The cape snaps open with a soft swoosh as his father joins us, and my heart rate ticks up.
I can’t do this. His presence has made me acutely aware of my blood pulsing through my body, unsure if it’s from hating him, nerves, adrenaline, or desire.
Small tremors rack my hands. Oh God, please don’t let him notice.
How embarrassing is it that my body can’t process his nearness?
I’m in big trouble.
Cyrus gestures around the salon, asking, “So you’re the owner?” The smile that lights my face is nothing short of pride. I tilt my head, fury in my stare. Before remembering, his child is with him.
“365 days out of the year.”
Cyrus doesn’t look impressed. If anything, he seems annoyed.
Inwardly, I’m fuming, but honestly…his opinion isn’t something I can or feel obliged to sway.
It isn’t new for me to be hated for existing.
Actually, it’s a neutral talent I possess.
Internally, I’m shrugging; outwardly, I play professionally.
I shift my attention to the little boy in my chair, tracing the angles of his head, reading the mistakes his father left behind, planning each careful snip. Stay sharp, Fal. Keep your hands steady.
I angle the scissors, letting instinct guide me, adjusting the line, smoothing the crown. Every careful motion is a quiet rebellion—proof that I can rise above the judgment, if only in this small, controlled space.
Cyrus huffs beside me, a subtle irritation in the air, but I don’t recoil. My eyes never leave the boy’s reflection in the mirror. The world outside this chair can wait.
Joining us, Jules plops down on a bench seat nearby. “We’re coming up on five years since the purchase.” Her eyes track from Liam to Cyrus, absorbing every minuscule detail, and my heart races for a different reason.
Jules arrived in our small town, knowing her aging grandmother.
Her cosmetology license and willingness to help me build proved to be a stroke of luck.
Wit, intelligence, a warm smile, and talent in one human are scarce these days: she’s a genuine blessing.
Her gaze fixes on the three of us, her eyes flash to me, promising trouble in my future.
“Jules, don’t you have things to do?” My false sweetness fools no one. Silently praying, she leaves us. Now isn’t the time for her to observe us too closely.
With a wiggle of her eyebrows, grinning, she pops the lid and blows them directly into the little guy’s face. He laughs hysterically.
“My plan was to entertain little Liam while he’s getting his haircut.”
“Entertainment’s taken care of,” Cyrus hands over a device with a video game loaded for Liam to play.
He moves closer, his earthy cologne filling the air, his proximity shattering my composure. I glance over, stealing a peek. His deep blue eyes are on me, the distance of time fades, the years slipping past, until the boy who my life revolved around with young reckless abandonment is all I see.
Snip!
“Ouch, darn it!” A small stinging sensation shatters our connection. Red liquid bubbles on my fingertip. I cover it quickly, not wanting to scare Liam. Jules launches from the chair. “Blood spill kit, got it.”
“Thank you, Jules.”
Cyrus covers my finger with a tissue from the station.
He lowers his head, inspecting the cut. “How bad is it?”
“No big deal, it’s a scratch.”
“Are you certain you’re all right?” I forget to breathe when his eyes lock onto mine. My saving grace is that Liam is so focused on the phone that he misses my sliced finger.
“Does this happen a lot?” His words hold doubt about my competence; clipped words batter back at him.
“Enough times to remind me that paying attention to where the blades are going is important.”
Jules comes to stand on the other side of me, wrapping my finger, and shooting me a tight smirk when she finishes. My laugh sounds forced. This is a nightmare I need to escape.
“Sweetheart, are you all right? You appear preoccupied.” Jules doesn’t lower her voice. Not even a little.
Oh no.
My brain short-circuits; every coherent thought scatters.
I am too aware of my own face, of the silence that follows, of how any response I give now will absolutely confirm that yes, I am hiding something and yes, it is probably embarrassing.
Or incriminating. Or both. It’s both. Jules is the closest person I have to a best friend, and she doesn’t even know that my daughter’s father is standing beside us. I have to work on my trust issues.
Beside me, Cyrus goes rigid. Not subtle, rigid—full, statuesque stillness. He’s bracing for impact. I can practically feel the heat of his panic syncing with mine, a shared, unspoken secret worried about how we are about to be perceived.
Jules, meanwhile, smiles brightly, the way she does when she knows exactly what she’s doing. “You know,” she adds cheerfully, “you’ve been staring into space for a full thirty seconds. I counted.”
My cheeks burn. Cyrus clears his throat—once, then again—stepping back to put more distance between us, which somehow makes it worse.
“Jules, I’m grateful for the bandage. Weren’t there some towels that needed to be folded in the back?
” Praying, she takes the hint and beats tracks before this encounter becomes any more humiliating for me.
She doesn’t, though, and I have myself to blame.
I’ve avoided telling her about Cyrus to protect my professional life because I feared her reaction.
I don’t have many friends; fear of judgment is a bitch sometimes.
Blissfully unaware of my dilemma, misreading the signals the two of us are giving off, she continues.
“Why don’t you two arrange a playdate for the kids? I bet Liam could use some friends, being new to the area.”
My feet refuse to move, glued to the floor as my pulse hammers in my throat.
Heat burns up my neck and into my cheeks.
My stomach twists, a living thing coiling inside me.
Why would she do this to me? My hands tremble, knuckles whitening as they curl into fists, and the answer cuts sharper than anything physical: she doesn’t know. Of course, she doesn’t.
A small, bitter voice hisses in my mind. Great. Now I’m standing here, unraveling with the one person I swore I’d never face—and he has his child with him. His other child. Crispy critters, what have I gotten myself into?
Every instinct screams to run. My legs feel like lead, every molecule of me wanting escape, yet my mind is screaming that this is my fault. Every misstep, every secret, every choice that led me here: all mine.
I take one step back, then another, every step resisting the spiral. My vision narrows, ears ringing with the rush of blood. The room tilts, the air is stagnant, and clarity cuts through the noise. I must get out. Immediately.
“You have children?” Cyrus’s words are clipped. A tremor coils through my veins. As I skirt the question. But, my darling Jules, my precious Jules, keeps on talking, not knowing how to read the room all of a sudden.
“Yes, Billy is nine years old.”
“You have a nine-year-old son named Billy?” One brow lifts, sharp as a blade.
I force my gaze downward, hands moving over Liam’s hair in careful, mechanical strokes. Purposely not looking at Cyrus. I can’t.
I hear the muscles in his jaw working, the quiet fury vibrating through the air, radiating off him in waves. He knew I was pregnant when he left. Knew. And here he is, standing in my salon, all silent judgment and barely contained frustration; he left me.
I swallow, tasting copper on my tongue. My fingers tighten on the comb. Ugh. Typical man—vanishing when it mattered most, leaving me to carry it alone, and somehow gaslighting me into doubting my own body, my own experience, my own life.
Liam hums softly, oblivious, tugging at a strand of hair, and something inside me splinters. I want to run. I want to yell. I want to shake him until he remembers he left me, that he walked away from a life he helped create.
But I don’t. I keep combing. And I hear every sharp, grinding click of his teeth, each one pressing against the taut line of my patience.
“My daughter actually. Billy, she’s almost ten.
” He doesn’t speak. The man doesn’t move.
I rush to finish Liam’s haircut; thankfully.
With no more accidents. Cyrus pays, mutters thanks, and leaves.
I watch anxiously from the counter, my watch ticking loudly in the tense silence.
Moments feel like a lifetime before his patrol truck finally pulls away.
Feeling once more like I’m being left behind.
Tears welling, Jules joins me. My heart aches again, as fresh as if it had just happened.
“Well, flip me like a pancake and butter my biscuits. Billy and Liam could be twins.”
I turn to my friend, a woman who has held onto me over these last few years, who has my trust and my admiration. Pain lances through my lip as I bite down, trying to stifle my tears. It’s no use. My past, our past all comes tumbling out between hiccups.