“How long’s your little fag hag staying?” he asked, voice syrupy with venom.
I moved fast, too fast. My hands pressed against the couch, ready to vault over it and shove him against the wall. But Amira’s hand shot out, firm on my wrist.
“Not worth it,” she said, eyes locked on him like she could burn holes straight through. “Seriously, don’t.”
Dare didn’t wait for a response. He just turned and walked out, music still pounding, pretending he hadn’t just said something designed to taint the air in the room.
When he was gone, I dropped back onto the couch, fists clenched.
“The fuck is his problem?” Amira muttered. “He’s like, emotionally constipated. Or maybe just a dick.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you dare apologize for him,” she snapped. “This isn’t on you.”
She set the popcorn down and leaned in. “Don’t let him get to you, Tru. You know what they say, the best revenge is a life well lived.”
I stared at the wall hoping the answer was written there in the brush strokes.
“Do it,” she said. “Stop hiding. Embrace yourself. Live out loud.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means flirt. Date. Dress how you want. Paint your nails. Say yes to the things that make you feel likeyou.You’ve been living in the shadows of that boy for too long. Stop letting people like Darien Carter get the last word.”
I swallowed hard. “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “Just start with who you want to be.”
The nail salon smelled of acetone and lavender, a weird combination of chemicals and calm that wasn’t doing much to relieve my anxiety. I almost turned around twice in the parking lot. First, when I opened the car door. And again, when I touched the glass handle of the shop. My hand trembled just a little.
Amira dragged me in by the sleeve as if I were a reluctant toddler at the pediatrician.
“They’re not gonna bite,” she whispered as we stepped inside. “They’re just gonna paint your nails. Relax.”
Easy for her to say. She walked into rooms like she belonged in them. I walked in like I was already rehearsing an apology.
We took a seat at the row of manicure stations, and a technician with silver glasses and kind eyes asked, “What color?”
I swallowed hard.
Amira nudged me. “Pick something dark and dramatic. Channel your inner villain.”
I scanned the little display rack filled with neon greens, pastel pinks, and glitter explosions, but the one that caught my eye was simple. Glossy black, the color of ink or spilled secrets. It felt honest and a little powerful.
“That one,” I said, pointing.
The tech nodded and gently took my hand. My fingers twitched instinctively. I wasn’t used to people touching me like this—soft, careful—like I wasn’t something avoidable or shameful.
The first swipe of polish was cool against my skin. My breath stuttered in my chest.
“You’re doing fine,” the tech murmured, not unkindly.
I watched as my nails transformed from bare and plain to sharp and intentional. Putting on armor, painted one finger at a time. A little boy, maybe seven or eight, walked by on his way to the hair station. He looked at me, and I stiffened.
He grinned. “Cool color.”
With my next breath, a knot loosened in my chest.
