Page 68 of The Wright Man

Let's.

Like I was the one who yelled. Like I shoved past him in the hallway. Like I hadn't stood there silently while he made me feel like dirt on his shoe.

I didn't know whether to laugh or scream.

And I was already too damn tired to do the math on how much of his apology was real.

I clicked on my tea kettle as I passed it, the familiar hum grounding me in a way my thoughts wouldn't. I let my hand trail along the countertop as I moved to the fridge, half on autopilot, my mind already organizing the day ahead like muscle memory could save me.

Then my phone buzzed on the table, a frantic string of texts lighting up the screen.

Kia ??: Boss lady I'm so sorry but my sitter canceled and Nasir is wheezing again and I can't bring him in there like this.

Kia ??: I promise I'm gonna owe you forever

Kia ??: I already called and rescheduled everybody I could but I had to move up that wedding party to this morning and you got the whole front half now.

Kia ??: I'm so sorry G!

I stared at the screen, exhaled through my nose, and resisted the urge to scream into a pillow.

It was fine. I could handle it. I always did.

I turned off the kettle, now that I didn't have time for tea anymore, shuffled into the bathroom, and flipped on the light.

My reflection stared back at me—tired eyes, puffier than usual, braids frizzy around the edges, yesterday's gloss still clinging to the corners of my mouth. I looked like a woman halfway between grief and survival.

Dana wouldn't let me walk out the door like this.

She used to say, "Even if your life is falling apart, Angie girl, your lip gloss doesn't have to."

So I pulled it together.

I peeled off the dress I'd slept in, and stepped into the shower. Let the hot water pelt my back and steam up the mirrors. Washed the night off me.

Just the night. The day could linger.

I wanted it to. I needed it to. Maleek's voice in my ear. His eyes on mine. The way his smile had tugged at something buried in me I thought was long gone.

I dressed quickly—black crop top, wide-leg jeans, gold hoops—and pulled my braids into a ponytail. By the time I was putting on my sneakers, I felt human again. Not whole. But held.

Ms. Dana had taught me how to make myself feel beautiful, even when the world felt ugly. And that was enough.

My keys jingled when I grabbed them off the hook by the door. I ignored the roses on the counter. Left the apology card unopened.

I walked out into the morning, locking the door behind me.

Time to go to the only place in the world that made me feel like I still belonged to myself.

* * *

The shop was humming. Literally.

Blow dryers droned like background music, blending with the rhythmic squeak of shampoo chairs, the bubbling cackle of gossip, and the pop of acrylics tapping through Instagram reels. Dana's Chair on a Saturday morning wasn't for the weak.

And I loved it here.

The smells alone could lift my mood—flat iron heat, Doo Gro, antiseptic, and shea butter all twirling together in the air like a familiar song. It smelled like transformation. Like care. Like home.