I wouldn’t normally snoop but a splash of red catches my eye, and I pull the front envelope down to reveal an overdue notice stamp. The franking is from Thursday and my throat pulls tightas I move to the door, listening to hear how long Mum’s got to go; her voice changes throughout an appointment, a better read than any casual glance.
A few minutes. Maybe five.
I move back to the mail, lifting out the notice and gulping at the numbers. It’s not a secret she’s struggled to source new clients, but I had no idea it was this bad.
Even if Mum could quit her lease right now, she’ll be thousands in debt. Any fees—and there will be fees—will go straight on top.
This isn’t just about losing the salon. At this rate, in a month or two we could lose our home.
The guilt eats at me. This is my fault. My mother could happily have spent the rest of her working life in Auckland, running her bustling business, turning excess customers away at the door.
“It’s a mistake,” my mother says, moving behind me on her cat feet. She snatches the bill from my hand, stuffing it back inside the envelope.
“A mistake?” The word holds an uncomfortable resonance. Putting that aside, the evidence to the contrary is compellingly red and bold.
“Yes, and even if it weren’t—which it is—this isn’t your concern.” She returns it to the pile, giving me a stern glance. “Attending school and winning accolades for your art is the only thing you need to worry about.”
She pulls me close, dropping a kiss on my forehead, then hustles out the door, an appointment calendar in her hand.
I give the mail one final glance as I hear the customer leaving, then walk back into the shop to help my mum clean the salon before we head to the bus stop.
When I arrive homefrom school on Monday afternoon, I grab a handful of celery sticks from the fridge and the jar of crunchy peanut butter from the cupboard. With a sigh of pleasure, I lounge on the sofa, gorging on my health-adjacent snack.
Something feels odd, and I take a minute to connect the dots. For the first time since the party, it isn’t the topmost thought in my head the moment I’m alone.
Relief comes at the thought I’m healing.
Inevitably, at that exact moment, images flood in to fill the gap, but the few minutes of breathing space is still progress. And the flashbacks that do come are different. Not the party but the corridor at school on Friday. The hands aren’t Zane pinning me down but helping me to my feet.
My relief turns to utter confusion as I consider the kiss in the hallway on Friday. The more I think about it, the less I understand what was happening in Zane’s head.
Following our confrontation on Monday, he hadn’t come near me and thank goodness. I promised to keep quiet, and that was it. Done.
I can even rationalise his treatment of the boy with the phone. Zane stars in the videos he uploaded. It could reflect badly if he allowed a student to treat me cruelly because of it. After all, they’re not meant to know it’s all fake.
But the kiss?
It was like he couldn’t help himself.
And yes, it took me time to stop my own natural response, to lift my fingers from where they curled around his neck, to shove him away as I should have done from the start.
He’s attractive. He’d just aggressively defended me against a bully. He smelled so good my mouth waters from the memory of his scent.
But Zane could have almost any girl he wants with a snap of his fingers. It doesn’t make sense for him to kiss me. A thought that triggers a static buzz at the memory of his lips against mine, blood pulsing with a completely inappropriate attraction.
I can’t figure him out and instead of leaving myself open to further torment, I douse everything with a cool shower. As I towel myself dry, my fingertips find the bruise he left in my shoulder, the imprint of his bite mostly faded but still visible in the bathroom mirror.
With a shake, I finish dressing then turn on the television, setting it at an uncomfortable volume to drown out the divisive questioning inside my head.
A few minutes later, my mother bursts through the door, bubbling with excitement.
“Guess what?” she shouts, not giving me a chance to as she adds, “An influencer posted about my salon today and my client list has exploded! I made so many appointments, I’m fully booked for the next month.”
“That’s incredible!” I hug her, both of us bouncing. “Can I see the post?”
“Sure.” She hands across her phone then claps her hands together with glee. “There are so many specialised treatments on the books, I’m going to make bank. I put a notice on the local employment website. Hopefully, I can get an assistant soon. If not, I’ll seriously have to increase my prices.”
“You should do that, anyway.”
