And neither did the fallout.
As the engine turned over and the heat slowly filled the car, Becca pulled out of the driveway, heading toward the shop—toward the rumors, the stares, the damage control.
Toward whatever Izzy had started.
And whatever—or whoever—was quietly watching from the edges of her life now.
By the time Becca pulled up to the shop, the street was already alive with movement.
Workers from neighboring stores were outside, shovels scraping against pavement, breath fogging in the cold. A few of them looked up as she parked.
She recognized their faces immediately.
Men who once sat in her chair for hours.
Women who laughed with her, cried with her, trusted her hands with their skin.
Now they stared.
Some didn’t bother hiding it—heads shaking, whispers traded over the scrape of metal against snow. One man scoffed softly, turning his back as if she carried something contagious.
Like she was a plague.
Becca’s jaw tightened.
She looked around once, instinctively—then stopped herself.
And kept walking.
Because that’s what she knew how to do.
She unlocked the gate, metal clanking louder than usual in the quiet street, and moved toward the front door. That’s when she saw it.
A piece of paper, taped crookedly at eye level.
Her stomach dropped as she read it.
“Sluts don’t belong in our town.
Go back to the city where you belong.”
Her fingers curled around the paper, crumpling it into a tight ball. Anger flared hot in her chest—but she didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. Didn’t give it the satisfaction.
She shoved it into her pocket and unlocked the door.
Inside, the shop was cold and dark—but familiar.
She turned on the lights one by one, the soft hum filling the space. Setting out her supplies. Wiped down her station. Routine grounding her when nothing else could.
When she opened her laptop, she braced herself.
Then paused.
A couple of bookings stared back at her.
Out-of-towners.
Her lips parted slightly in surprise—and then, relief.
