“Chop it off,” I say to my stylist, Autumn, who has been cutting my hair since I was sixteen.

She shakes her head. “You can’t be serious.”

Like I said, Autumn has been styling my hair for a long time. I go to her salon exactly two times a year for a trim. Though I would never admit it aloud, I was damn proud of my hair, not that I could take any credit for it. It was full and thick, the auburn color reminiscent of burnt caramel. The natural wave gave my mane body, so I had to do little more than run my fingers through it in the morning. On days when I was feeling especially elegant, I’d flat iron it, allowing the smooth strands to frame my face. I loved my hair. The problem was, Jesse did, too.

I find Autumn’s gaze in the mirror. Her eyes are wide with shock; my own are narrowed and stern. “Serious as a heart attack.”

“Ooookay.” She draws the word out and begins to weave a loose braid at the nape of my neck. “How short are we talkin’?”

“Above the shoulders.” I nod my head slightly and the braid pulls.

I watch her reflection, watch as her eyes widen once more, but she simply nods before holding the braid out to the side. “I have to measure to be sure, but I think there’s enough length to donate to Locks of Love…if you’re interested.”

I nod, glad something positive will come from Mission Hair Chop.

She secures an elastic band around the tail end of the braid and pulls a shiny, sharp pair of scissors from her apron pocket. They hover at the nape of my neck. “Are you sure?”

I don’t hesitate. “Do it.”

The pressure from the blade, the slice of it, reverberates in my ears. And as I watch the loose locks fall free around my face, I stare at the person reflected back at me. I don’t even know this girl.

It’s like the old me is dead. Gone. The person who has emerged is new, different, jaded. She has sharp edges that need to be approached with caution. This budding relationship cannot be rushed. She needs time to figure out who she is, where she fits in.

Autumn measures the braid, a frown pulling down the corners of her lips. “It isn’t long enough to donate. Sorry.” Her foot pumps the pedal on the round trashcan. She drops the tangle of hair in the trash and the lid bangs closed.

The gesture feels oddly symbolic of my relationship with Jesse. We came close but not quite close enough. We could not be salvaged, the whole thing scrapped in one swift move. I squeeze my eyes shut to stop the slow flow of tears.

Autumn squeezes my shoulder. “Change is good.” Her smile is warm as she says it. “Let’s get you to the sink. It’s gonna be great.”

I manage a smile but say nothing because I really don’t think anything will ever be great again.

* * *

The following week I receive an email notifying me of a meeting that is scheduled that afternoon with Mr. Lewg and Lauren. Oh, shit, I think. I knew it was too good to be true. Maybe he had to fill out some paperwork with the HR department before he could actually fire me—employee discrimination and all that jazz.

After lunch, I trudge down the long hallway to Conference Room C. Lauren and Mr. Lewg are already seated along one side of the table and my eyes dart to the clock to double check that I’m not late. Twelve forty-eight. I breathe a sigh of relief; the email definitely said one o’clock.

Mr. Lewg stands as I enter. Lauren doesn’t move at first, but pushes herself out of her chair a moment too late, and it’s awkward. Mr. Lewg extends his hand. “Ms. Jones, good to see you again.”

“Nice to see you.” I grasp his hand lightly and then turn to Lauren and nod my greeting. “Lauren.”

Mr. Lewg cuts right to the chase. “I asked Lauren to arrange this meeting because,” I hold my breath awaiting the blow, “I think your talents are being underused.”

The breath whooshes out of me. “What?”

He raises his eyebrows quizzically, but Lauren narrows her eyes on me.

“Yes,” he continues. “According to your file, you have a Bachelor of Arts degree from Lennox, right? Concentration in Interior Design?”

Dumbfounded, I ask, “You read my file?”

He pauses, closes the folder and sets it on the table. “Don’t seem so surprised, Ms. Jones. I read all my employees’ files.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean,” I say, flustered. “I just thought—”

“Mr. Lewg has reviewed the sample portfolio you submitted when you applied,” Lauren interjects, voice clipped. What? When? “He feels like you’d be a good fit for the Parker Condominium Project.”

“Holy shit,” I gasp.

“Riley, your language,” Lauren scolds. “Honestly.”

“Sorry.” I place both hands on the table to stop them from shaking. Is this really happening? The Parker Condominium Project is huge. Every stager and realtor at the firm has been vying for a chance to present their ideas to Lauren, and ultimately Mr. Lewg, but only a select few were chosen. “I’m sorry,” I repeat. “I don’t know what to say.”

“The pitch meeting is scheduled for this Friday. I know it’s not a lot of time…” He places one hand on top of the file folder in front of him. “…but I’m sure you’ll be able to come up with something.”

“Yes,” I say, at the same time as I nod my head. “Yes, I can definitely come up with something.”

When I’ve made no attempt to move, Lauren nods her head in dismissal. “That’s all, Ms. Jones.”

“Right.” I push myself to stand and gather my pen and pad. Lauren’s head is bent over her notebook, but as Mr. Lewg stands, I catch his eye and say, “Thank you.”

He winks. “No problem. I’m looking forward to seeing your designs, Ms. Jones.”

Yeah. Me, too.