I clear my throat and try to remember. What appointment? Doctor’s? No. I don’t need them lecturing me on drinking or gently insisting I up my meds again.
“Um…” I transfer my phone to my other ear. “Sorry, I can’t seem to recall…”
On the other end of the phone is heavy, angry silence, and I drop the act and blurt out, “Sorry, but who’s calling?”
A sigh. “Luxe Beauty?” I know the name. I went there weeks ago. “You made a hair appointment for today? Fortwenty minutesago?”
I hate the woman’s bitchy tone, but I hate even more that my fingers start to tremble.
“I didn’t make a hair appointment for today,” I say, confused. “I don’t need anything done to my hair.”
And I fucking don’t. I got caramel highlights put in last month for that Keeping It Weird with Whitney blog.
“You called yesterday, Mrs. Slade,” the woman icily insists. “You wanted a haircut. It’s right here on the books.”
No. No, I didn’t. I’m up to my arse in renovations, arguments with Joe, and the usual bland misery of my clients. At no point did I think,You know what I need? A haircut.
“Look, I didn’t call you yesterday, okay?” I snap. “Bye.”
I end the call and shove my phone into my pocket. My hands shake, and my forehead is prickly with sweat.
You called yesterday, Mrs. Slade.
I bloody didn’t! But Ihavebeen to Luxe Beauty before. Who else could’ve known where I get my hair done?
I freeze.
Everyone. That’s who.
Last month, I documented the trip on Instagram. I even posed with the stylist, who flashed a peace sign for some reason.
Fuck.
I scroll through my Insta posts. There it is. I’m sitting in the black leather swivel chair, my new caramel highlights framing my smug face. The stylist, whose name I don’t remember, crouches beside me, smiling, her index and middle fingers in a V.
Had such a great time with the gorgeous girls at Luxe Beauty! I’m LIVING for these caramel highlights. Use my code SARAH10 to get a discount on all hair and styling products. Don’t miss out!
Oh, shit. I forgot they gave me a promo code. Quickly, I reach into my pocket for my phone and call them back.Please pick up,I mouth over and over.I’m sorry,I’ll humbly say.I’ve been under a lot of stress. I forgot I made the appointment. Please don’t tell anyone I’m losing it.
“Luxe Beauty?”
Thank God. “Hi! Yes, it’s me again. Sarah. Slade.” I’m so anxious, I fumble all my words. “Sorry about before. I—”
Click.
My heart plummets. “Hello?”
Silence.
They hung up on me. Shit. I grip my phone so tight I nearly shatter the glass. That was so stupid of me. I’ve gotten exactly zero sponsorships since I bought Black Wood. I’m starting to sound desperate on my Insta posts, like I’m begging for scraps from anybody who’ll give me a discount code. And now I’ve probably gone and lost one of the only sponsorships I did have.
Why do I feel like I’m losing control of everything? Like I’m failing over and over again?
I stare silently at the floor, thinking. I can fix all this. Icanand Iwill.I’m going to renovate this house, shove the pictures all over my shiny socials, get my greedy hands on more sponsorships, and I’m going to find out what the hell happened to Amanda. I tuck my phone into my pocket and reach for the floorboards.
—
I lean back on my knees, wipe the sweat from my jaw. My cream slacks are stained with cobwebs, and my nose and eyes itch from the dust. I’ve checked over every inch of the walls and baseboards. I peeled back one of the broken floorboards, and I swear the house yelped in pain, like I was yanking its teeth out. I quickly dropped it back into place, feeling like I should apologize or something.
