At the sharp hair.
The stronger posture.
The girl who is still hurting but done being prey.
“Tell them,” I say slowly, “there’s a new bitch in town when I get back.”
Susan snorts. Irene cackles. One of the stylists gasps, hand over her mouth.
Shani laughs like she’s been waiting years for this moment.
“Oh, I am ABSOLUTELY telling them that.”
I hang up.
It hits me in a wave?—
anger, hurt, humiliation, determination.
All layered over each other, messy and hot.
Irene sees all of it.
She doesn’t comment.
She just hands me a tissue and presses a kiss to the top of my head.
“Let’s finish the transformation,” she says.
We leave the salon and hit the shops.
Susan hands me an envelope of cash.
“Part of the treat,” she says. “New wardrobing to go with the new look.”
I protest for about thirty seconds before giving up.
Everything I’m drawn to is black.
Black sweaters.
Black skirts.
Black trousers.
Black bodysuits.
Black boots.
But then?—
Then I see it.
Hanging in the corner of a consignment boutique like a treasure someone left behind.
A black leather jacket.
Real leather.
