Effort. There’s that damn word again, but I didn’t realize how much I needed it until right now. I nod my head to him and open the scissors by placing my thumb in one slot and my index finger in the other. With a deep breath, I place my hair between the blades and give Owen one last look of uncertainty.
He urges me on, nodding, big eyes and a hopeful smile, something that seems so foreign to a face that has been frozen in stone for so long.
I close my eyes, take another breath, and when the nerves finally settle, I stare at myself as I make the first cut. The hair snips, falling to the floor in individual strands. The blades meet, and I gasp in surprise when I start to see a version of myself I like.
A chunk of the past is gone.
Hurriedly, I gather another strand.
And another.
This time as I cry, I feel free. I’m liberated. Every cut is a chain that monster put on me. Every cut is one of the times he hit me. Every cut is a time he raped me, made me beg for food, spit on me, pissed on me, laughed at me.
Every cut is me owning who I am again.
And the last cut is for the baby he made me bear. The baby I lost. The baby that was mine, that was never meant to be mine, the baby I wanted, but never wanted at the same time. The baby I loved with a confusing amount of hate because of the man who impregnated me.
The baby who owns a part of my soul that I’ll never get back.
But cutting off this last strand of matted, dirty, heavy hair, I’ve gained a small fraction of who I am. I look better, healthier, even … dare I say, happier.
“Well, look at that,” Owen compliments, dusting the hair off my shoulder. “A true beauty underneath all that pain.”
“I could say the same about you,” I say, remembering our conversation.
He fluffs my hair, and I grin at him through our reflections. Again, our eyes meet.
And this time, the little flame inside me that was lost for too long sparks. Not for Owen, but for me.
And it’s warm, and inviting, and I never want it to end.
Owen’s effort.
It’s intoxicating.
Ten
Owen
I check my watch for the twentieth time this morning and wonder where the hell Jolie is. It’s nearly noon, and she hasn’t woken up yet. I’m starting to get worried.
“She’s just sleeping,” Jaxon says, giving Quinn a quick kiss on the lips. “Relax, Owen.”
“I can’t wait to meet the woman who has you in knots,” Quinn states, groaning as she sits on the stool. “Oh my God, I’m a damn whale.” She leans against the back of the barstool and lays her hand on her swollen belly.
“Don’t talk about my girl like that,” Jaxon says, laying his hand against her stomach, just like she is.
A pang hits my heart. I haven’t felt a pregnant belly since Annabeth. It’s a beautiful feeling, touching something so small, something growing inside the person you love. There isn’t anything like it. “I know, but she’s been asleep so long. Maybe I should go check on her,” I say, ripping my eyes away from Quinn’s belly and toward the hallway, hoping Jolie will walk through.
“She hasn’t slept on anything comfortable in a long time, I assume. Give her time,” Jaxon says.
“We could take her shopping.” Gabriella takes a bite of egg that Sebastian made for her.
“There’s that new boutique in town. We should go,” Finley says. “We would have a lot of fun.”
I nod, but it makes me nervous. I don’t think she’s ready to go out around people she doesn’t know. “It will be up to her, but I don’t think she’ll want to go. She freaked out when she met the guys. I don’t know how she’ll do in a crowd.”
“I can call ahead and rent the boutique out?” Jaxon offers. “I’ll make sure they have privacy.”