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“What did you want me to do with her hair?” the stylist asks, freeing the little girl’s locks from a ponytail holder. Her dry brown hair springs right out, expanding swiftly, inch by inch, until it’s fanning out on every side of her head.
“I don’t know.Something.” The mother throws her hands up. A line of frustration carves into her pale forehead. She slants a frigid look at the child’s hair. “I can’t do anything with it.”
“Okay…” The stylist looks unsure. She glances at Island as if seeking some kind of guidance.
Island sets the comb down on the counter. It thuds against the marble. Slapping a hand on her hip, she cocks her head in frustration. Her hair skids over one shoulder, making one side look more voluminous than the other.
I lean forward in my chair. My heart is beating fast as if I sense danger.
And I’m not the only one having a reaction.
Everyone—from the woman under the hair dryer to the one with her head stuck in the sink, turns tense. And though no one can probably name why they feel uncomfortable, there’s a shared sense of defensiveness mounting in the air.
The stylist, seeing that Island won’t bail her out of this, tries to calm the mother down. “Ma’am, if you tell me what style you’d like, I can do it for you. I just need to know what you’re thinking. Is it braids? Chunky twists? Cornrows?”
“Just make it less crazy.” The woman waves her hands at the girl as if she’s trying to shoo away a mosquito. “Because it’s so tough and unmanageable, I can’t even comb it.”
The stylist looks shocked. “Have you bought the right hair products?”
“I bought a brush and a comb like everyone does,” the woman hisses. “But her hair is so nappy and course that she keeps breaking every brush.” The mother glares at her child as if she’s personally responsible for every broken tool. “And this one cries if I so much as touch her head.”
My fingers tighten on the chair handle. I know what a mother at the end of her rope sounds like becausemymother used to complain about how thick or coarse our hair was. But this is different. Lingering just beneath the mother’s frustration is an unmistakable distaste for the little girl’s hair texture. It causes something inside me to burn.
“Aw, hell no,” Island mutters under her breath. I see a blur and, when I glance up, Island is storming across the room. “Excuse me, who the hell are you to talk that way about her hair?”
The mother’s eyes get wide.
The child looks up, trembling and frightened.
Island notices the kid’s response and immediately switches tones. She crouches in front of the little girl’s chair. “Hi, baby. My friend here—” she nods at the other stylist—“is going to do your hair really pretty. In the meantime, I’m going to talk to your mom. Outside.”
“She’s not my mom,” the little girl says.
Island flinches.
“My mommy is in heaven.”
At her words, my mind snaps into focus and a light bulb goes off.
The picture in Clay Bolton’s office.
I stare at the kid with new eyes.
She’s Clay Bolton’s daughter.
CHAPTER16
THE ART OF LETTING GO
ADAM
“Did she get there safely?Does she seem upset? Is she eating?”
“Which one of those do you want me to answer first?” Dejonae says through the phone. I hear the teasing note in her voice.
I shift the cell to my other ear, wondering what’s so funny. There is nothing remotely humorous about losing Nova. Since I left her apartment, a restless tension has been building in my body.
Maybe it’s Nova withdrawal. Like an addict trying to quit smoking cold turkey, I’m finding it harder than not to block her from my mind.
