“I owe you more than that,” I tell him. “You didn’t choose to get involved with us, and yet here you are, helping Annalise. It’s kindness,” I say. “And in our lives, Quentin, we haven’t gotten enough of that. So I guess this is part sorry and part thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he says, lifting his slice to take another bite. But he stops just as it gets to his lips. “He’s in love with you, you know,” he says, nodding across the food court at Jackson. “He’s in love with you—a lot.”
“I know,” I reply quietly.
“You feel the same, right?” he asks. “You’re not just—”
“I definitely do.”
“Good,” Quentin says. “Because that kid’s tenderhearted. He hasn’t gotten enough kindness in his life either. The two of you are the same that way, I guess—not exactly the same, obviously. But it’s probably why you understand each other so well.” He smiles at me. “So don’t let anything fuck that up.”
Quentin orders another slice, and when it’s done, we walk over to join Jackson at a table. I’ve just finished eating when I see Annalise walking toward us with a small bag from the salon. Although at first, I don’t recognize her.
“Holy shit,” Jackson murmurs.
Quentin turns around to see what we’re staring at, then he drops his slice on his plate, stunned silent. Annalise laughs and then looks past him to meet my eyes. She runs her palm over her buzzed red hair, smiling broadly.
I can’t remember seeing her look so happy. Annalise drops down in the seat next to Quentin and bumps his shoulder. He continues to stare at her, jaw hanging open.
“Holy shit,” Jackson repeats more empathically.
Annalise looks around at us without even a hint of insecurity. “You love it, don’t you?”
“Girl,” Quentin says, nodding his head. “Girl, you lookgood. Wow.”
He’s not wrong. Annalise looks fantastic, more alive. She, of course, has perfect bone structure, a perfectly shaped scalp. Herred hair is bright, soft, and fuzzy. She looks like a model who could walk any runway or fashion show. Without so much hair in the way, her scars accentuate her beauty and uniqueness.
“I love it too,” she says. She takes a card out of the salon bag, where she has a handful of samples of shampoo. She slides the appointment card in my direction. “Your turn,” she says.
“Oh,” I say. I hadn’t thought of changing my hair. “What should I get done?” I ask them.
Annalise smiles. “That’s the point, Mena,” she says. “You get to choose whatever you want. How does that feel?”
I think about it for moment, and then I nod. “It feels important,” I reply.
I’ve had the past few months to decide how to look, but I’ve mostly stuck to my original styling. It was, after all, part of my programming. Maybe I do want something different. Besides, changing up our appearances isn’t a terrible idea when people are looking for us.
“No matter what you decide, at least let them wash and style it,” she says. “That hotel shampoo has done you no favors.” I laugh because she’s right; I still have knots that I couldn’t comb out.
“And take your time,” Annalise says, reaching over to pick up Quentin’s pizza to take a bite. “The girls aren’t getting here until nine, and I’m not spending the next twelve hours cleaning cobwebs at Quentin’s cabin.”
“Hey,” he says, turning to her. “I didn’t spin those webs. And,by the way, you’re the one staying there.”
“I’m joking,” Annalise tells him, patting his arm. “But not entirely,” she adds. “I’m really not cleaning.”
I agree to go to the salon with Annalise, and she grins. We all finish eating and when we’re done, we clean off our table and stand up. Annalise and Quentin begin walking toward the food court exit, and I pass Jackson his crutches.
“I’ll run to the store with Quentin to grab anything else we need for the cabin,” Jackson says. “You and Annalise do your thing, and then text Quentin’s phone when you’re ready to get picked up.”
“Sounds good,” I say. “Don’t forget cereal.” I put my hands on his chest, leaning in closer and smiling. His dark eyes search mine, and then he kisses me softly.
“Be careful, okay?” he whispers, his eyes shut.
“Uh, okay. And I mean,” I add, “we’ll be done in about a half hour.”
He opens his eyes, watching me again, and offers a quick nod. “Right,” he says. “I’ll see you then.” He gives me one more kiss, and then he goes off toward the parking lot to meet with Quentin, while I walk toward the salon, looking over my shoulder as Jackson gets inside the car and disappears.
The hair salon is small and mostly empty. There’s a strong scent of bleach in the air, a hint of coconut shampoo and hair spray. My feet hang above the floor as the stylist raises up the chair.
