When I lean down to take a closer look at the array of brass knobs and handles that have been organized in a tray, my hair falls over my shoulder, and I brush it back behind my ear.I wish I had a hair tie, I think, followed by a disappointed,I wish I could just chop it all off.
The thought makes me stop in my tracks. Whycan’tI just chop it all off? I don’t have Joel around anymore to guilt trip me out of a haircut by telling me how I “look so much better with long hair.” It’s been years since I’ve gotten more than a trim for that reason—it wasn’t worth the fight before. But there will be no fight now.
“Hey, Ambrose?”
“Yes?”
“Do you have a pair of scissors I can use?”
His eyebrows knit together in confusion, but he doesn’t ask questions. “Yes, if you turn around there should be a pair hanging on the wall to your left.”
I search the wall until I spot the scissors hanging there. Standing on my tiptoes, I reach up and snag them. My back is to Ambrose now, and I can feel his eyes on me, but I pay no attention to his gaze as I set the scissors on the counter and use my fingers to part my hair down the middle. I pull each half to the side over my shoulder and take a deep breath.
Why am I so nervous all of the sudden? It’s just hair. It grows back, and it’s not exactly like I have anyone to impress.
I should probably at least brush it first, but I have to do this now or I’ll chicken out.
Grabbing the first chunk of hair in the fist of my left hand, I pick up the scissors with my right. The snipping sound cuts through the silence of the garage as I cut just above where my hair meets my shoulder. Thick, brown locks slip through my fingers and fall to the concrete floor, and once every piece of hair on that side has been cut, I repeat the process on the other side.
With each snip of the scissors, it feels like I’m cutting away a part of my old self. Maybe it’s cliche that a haircut feels symbolic of my newfound freedom and identity, but I don’t care. I finally have the power to be the woman I choose to be.
I don’t even realize tears are rolling down my cheeks until I look down to see the pile of hair at my feet and a teardrop drips off the tip of my nose.
Then, I smile, shifting my head side to side in appreciation of how light everything feels.
It’s then that the full weight of Ambrose’s gaze boringinto my back hits me again. Oops. He probably thinks I’m having some kind of breakdown.
I turn to face him, fully expecting judgment (or at least a sarcastic quip), but I find none of that. Curiosity, sure, but beyond that is a softer expression—one of understanding.
I flash him a weak smile and wipe away the remaining tears. “I think I needed that.”
He nods. “I get that.”
“Do you like it?” I don’t know why I ask; it’s not like I need his approval. Maybe there’s still a small, lingering part of me afraid of getting in trouble for doing something so brash to my appearance, even though I know I’m not in that environment anymore. I’m learning that it takes a long time to heal from abuse, and even the smallest things are still enough to send me reeling. The body reacts long after the threat is over, hardwired to protect itself after learning the patterns of what might become dangerous.
“I do. It suits you,” he answers with an affectionate grin. He nods toward the scissors. “Bring those over here.”
I do as he requests, wondering where he’s going with this, though I secretly hope he doesn’t try to cut his own hair in some weird show of solidarity. I’ve become partial to the way his dark hair frames his face, falling over his forehead and curling slightly.
Ambrose stands and gestures for me to sit on the stool, and I realize what he’s doing.
Gently, he runs his fingers through my hair in an attempt to comb it down, though the touch sends shivers down my spine. His fingernails graze my scalp with each stroke, and my stomach flip-flops. I would let him do this forever, it feels so good.
Even though he takes much more time than he needs to brushing his fingers through my hair, it still feels like toosoon when he stops. I feel his fingers grip a small strand of hair, followed by the sound of the scissors snipping away at the ends.
I’m not sure why this feels so intimate, but it does. I just had a weird sort of epiphany and chopped off most of my waist-length hair, and his only reaction is to calmly help me fix the uneven ends.
His hands brush across my neck, raising goosebumps on my skin and making me all too aware of every simple movement, and I close my eyes. There’s a heavy silence between us, loaded with everything we’re feeling and not saying.
When he finally finishes, he steps back and sets the scissors on his work table with a dull thud. I stay seated, the weight of the moment still heavy on my heart. Ambrose’s steps echo against the concrete as he walks around me and stops at my front. The heat of his body radiates from where he stands only inches before me, and I stare up into his dark eyes.
“Brielle,” he whispers, just before he leans down and kisses me with burning, desperate intensity.
I melt into his touch as he wraps his arms around my waist, knowing it’s impossible to fight this pull between us any longer.
CHAPTER 37
His lips are demanding as he puts every word unspoken into the kiss, and the wall I’ve fought so hard to keep up around my heart crumbles to dust. I’ve been fighting a losing battle, trying to convince myself that I don’t want him, that I haven’t been falling for him for months now. He’s broken that wall down piece-by-piece, and now, whatever remains of it has shattered.
