Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 103754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
I turn my head to catch his gaze. “Good night.”
He kisses me gently and replies, “Good night.”
When I turn back, my eyes are wide open. I lie there staring at the bathroom and listening to the quiet, which is notably different from the silence in my room. Here, comfort is found not only in his arms but also in the air. It’s not thick with tension permeating every inch of the house by people who don’t seem to care about me, only what I can do for them. Here, I’m free from the regret I so often feel when I lay my head on my pillow at night. With Keats, I’m me, and that’s good enough.
“Sweet dreams, Poet.”
“Sweet dreams, Spark.” I hear the smile in his voice, loving that he feels the same way.
I fell asleep without warning.
The bed is so comfortable, like a pillow in heaven, floating on a cloud, and hearing the breathing of the man behind me has me feeling peaceful inside. But I need to pee, so I slip out of bed and use the bathroom. After washing my hands, I catch my reflection in the mirror. There’s only enough light from the little tree in the other room stretching in here, but my eyes adjust quickly.
I had washed my face, but the usual dark circles aren’t as noticeable. We’ve only gotten a few hours of rest, but I almost look refreshed. The makeshift ribbon wrapped around my hair has slipped to the ends. As I refasten it, I drag my hands over the blond hair. I don’t even recognize myself anymore. Not because I’m wearing a ponytail, which is something I rarely do. It’s because this color isn’t for me. It was for Gregory, just like growing my hair long was for my mother. I was told I looked prettier with long hair, a lighter color, and less makeup, but apparently, more makeup was needed to appear more natural. It doesn’t matter what I do or how I contort into the box they want me to dive into. I will never win their approval.
Releasing the exasperation that had clustered in my throat, I stare at myself, realizing they only think I’m pretty when I don’t resemble myself. It’s such a mind-twister to live for everyone else and still always come up short.
“Short . . .” I look at the ponytail hanging over my shoulder, knowing what needs to happen next. Can it wait until morning? Sure. But why wait when I’ve never felt surer about something I want? I pad back into the bedroom and crawl into bed to hover over Keats, who is still soundly sleeping and still gorgeous as ever, even sleeping. “Keats?” I whisper and kiss his cheek. When he doesn’t move, I touch his shoulder, prodding him not as gently as I should. “Keats, wake up.”
My hand is caught like he’s a ninja with incredible reflexes, and his eyes lock on me. His grip instantly eases, folding his fingers with mine, and the easiest smile relaxes on his face. I grin. “Guess I’m safe with you around.”
“I might be a little out of sorts. As I said, I don’t have guests over. Until you.” He scrubs his hand over his face, then props up on his elbow. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say, keeping my voice low out of respect for the hour. Just after three in the morning. “But I need you to do something for me.”
A yawn takes hold of him briefly before he nods. “Okay. What is it?”
I sweep my ponytail to the front in a presentation. “Will you cut my hair?”
“What? Why?” He sits and leans over to check the clock on the nightstand behind me. “What’s going on, Sosie?”
“I don’t want to be a Stansbury anymore.”
The sigh isn’t loud, but I recognize the reaction. He understands me. Reaching up to massage my shoulder, he says, “You don’t have to cut your hair or erase your name. You can just take ownership of it.”
“This is taking ownership. I want my hair the way I like it, not how they want it. Please, Keats. For me?”
It’s not like I’m leaving him any room to react differently, but it means everything to me that he doesn’t hesitate. “If that will make you happy—”
“It will.”
He rolls over to get out of bed. “Then I’ll get the scissors.”
Not five minutes later, Keats is behind me, our gazes connecting in the reflection of the mirror under unforgiving bright lights, blinding us. When he sees me blinking, he moves to the switch and dims the light. I laugh out loud. “I thought you were some bathroom psycho killer with lights so bright.”
He chuckles. “Glad I put your mind at ease.” He tries to hand me the handle end of the scissors, but I don’t accept.