Fallon
Chapter fifty-six
Let Them
I smooth the front of my favorite skirt, a boho, burnt orange, eye-catching, piece.
That’s the point. I won’t hide. If someone has something to say, they can tell it to my face or stay behind their keyboards.
Fucking cowards. Those photos were taken for me, and I won’t apologize for them.
Whatever Cyrus and I have done, whatever decisions we’ve made, they’re ours to live with. They’re not public property.
The silk of my blouse glides over my skin, the crisp white fabric whispering, ‘successful woman.’ My brown-heeled boots are going to murder my feet by the end of the day, but they give me the extra height and confidence I need.
I’ve spent years blending in. Today, I am stepping out.
Doing this for my family. My children need to know not to bow to bullies.
Frankly, the rumor mill has exhausted any grace I had left for them.
I finish my clap-back outfit with gold bangles and large hoop earrings. This town can eat its heart out. Smokey eyes check. Pink lipstick check. Tight topknot check. A good outfit and the right makeup can prep a woman for war.
My spine straightens as I pass the bowl by the door, my keys untouched—no driving today. A casual stroll or strut sounds more appealing.
The streets are buzzing. Everyone and their mother are out enjoying the summer sun. This should be fun. Chin up, Buttercup. This isn’t the first scandal we’ve survived.
I’m startled when I pass the Harrisons—an older couple who run several local charities I’ve donated to. They smile warmly. “Morning, Fallon,” Mr. Harrison says.
“Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Harrison,” I reply, surprised.
They’ve always been polite, a simple ‘hello’ but never chatty.
Mrs. Harrison leans on her cane, swaying slightly.
I reach out to steady her. “Oh, you’re such a dear, Fallon,” she says.
“We’re so sorry about all that nasty business being done to you, sweet lady. ”
Mr. Harrison solemnly adds, “If someone violated our daughter with her private photos, this town would face a reckoning. Folks forget Lani was a scrapper back in the day. I wouldn’t want to cross that woman. Not even now.”
He smiles, the yellowing of his teeth showing. “Heard she’s been shutting down anyone who dares breathe a word against you or Cyrus.” That doesn’t surprise me in the slightest. Lani’s never been afraid of a fight. Of course, she can afford to fight. She’s always lived on this side of town.
Mrs. Harrison beams. “I think it’s so romantic.
He’s coming home as a single dad, you’re here as a single mom.
And now the two of you are giving it a go?
Lovely.” My heart swells. It’s possible that today will not be as difficult as I had previously dreaded.
“Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Harrison. I really appreciate that.”
Two blocks later, every person I pass has something encouraging to say—even the grumpy mayor, who gives me a sharp nod. Stopping in his tracks, he pivots toward me.
“What they did wasn’t right,” he says. “Private stuff should stay private.” He shoves the papers sticking out of his briefcase back inside and continues down the walk. Baffled, but definitely edging on having some slight relief. I turn the doorknob of the salon.
I’m honestly stunned when I walk into the salon. Every chair is full. Jules slaps two cold brews into my hands. “You’re gonna need these,” she says. “We’re fully booked. For several months. We’ll need to hire at least two new stylists to keep up with demand.”
I blink. “Wait—what? Why?”
Mabel, one of the local farmers’ wives, speaks up. “Gossip among friends is one thing, but dragging a hero’s family through the mud? That’s disgusting.”
Janie from the local food drives, I donate to chimes in.
“Fallon, releasing your photos to the public? Not okay. What they did to you? It’s repulsive.
The photos? Beautiful. Girl, you’re smoking hot—always have been.
Nothing to be ashamed of. We’ve all known you forever.
You’ve always been private, but this? This isn’t on you.
I can’t even imagine what that must be like—but you?
You did nothing wrong. You’ve got nothing to hide, dear. ”
Tears prick my eyes. One by one, the women in the salon open up—sharing their own experiences.
“My ex-husband released photos of me on social media after I left him for his cheating.”
“I tried to get help for a friend who was struggling with addiction. The nurse is one of Jo’s friends. She told another mom not to let her kids play with mine because their mother had an addiction. My little girls were crushed to lose their friends.”
“I posted a heartfelt statement about a pregnancy loss after announcing we were expecting, and the next morning I was accused of having had an abortion. My husband and I drained our savings to do IVF.”
“I was having drinks one night with some women I thought were my friends, and we were confiding in one another about trivial shared frustrations we had with a company we were volunteering for. At the time, I had no idea those women wanted my spot—they used what I said against me. I was let go. Do people believe I was having the conversation alone? Hello, everyone was venting that day. That’s all it was—a vent session with loose lips. ”
On and on, each person has their own story to share about the harm committed by strangers, friends, family, and classmates.
A cautionary tale of online cruelty and how quickly worlds were turned upside down.
Humiliation at the hands of people they trusted.
It’s heavy. Ruinous. Yet, in this moment, parts of us are healing together. And that is beautiful.
Mabel stands, coming to join me. Her soft brown eyes shine behind her oh-so-adorable leopard-print frames.
“Fallon, I’m sorry if we ever made you believe you weren’t wanted.
Personally, I thought you treasured your privacy; that’s why I’ve never invited you to my crochet parties.
We have them once a month, and you will always have an open invitation. ”
“Thank you, Mabel, ladies,” I say, voice thick. “Your bravery in sharing your stories means more to me than I can express. Now let’s crank up the music and work on those makeovers!”
Maroon 5 spills from the speakers as we highlight, tone, trim, and curl. We barely keep up. Lani enters the salon an hour later, offering to sweep, fold towels, and run the register. Every client rebooks before they leave. The phone doesn’t stop ringing all day. Things are looking up.
By the time Cyrus walks in, we’re hobbling around, the aching soreness setting in our legs from standing all day. We’re tired, but content.
“Hey, some of my favorite ladies!” he calls, holding up a bag. “I brought snacks and drinks.”
“Cyrus! You are my favorite mountain man!” Jules says, snatching a smoothie.
“You sure that title doesn’t belong to Jonah?” She flips him off, making her way to the door.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“Going to find my mountain man to climb. Bye, babes!” She calls over her shoulder, the salon door already closing behind her. Alrighty then.
Lani laughs. “When I was young, I climbed a few mountain men myself, back in the day. Like, light-years.”
“Mom!” Cyrus groans, covering his ears.
Usually her friends are the rowdy ones. It’s so unlike Lani, that I burst out laughing.
And once I start, I can’t stop. My belly hurts.
A snort slips out. Lani wipes tears from her eyes.
Even Cyrus chuckles. With a simple joke, the heaviness lifts.
We’re laughing. We’re healing. Creating our own future—for once it feels as if we’re winning.