Page 84 of The Truth of Us

Everyone kept saying that lately. My father, Oliver, and now Margot. Like they had a group chat with catch phrases to say to me. As if pieces of me had been scattered somewhere, and everyone was relieved when one showed up.

I looked away first. “I have work.”

“No, you have avoidance disguised as productivity.”

My eyes snapped back to hers, and she smiled like she already knew this would go her way.

“Come with me,” she said. “Let me have this day with you. I have been dreaming of taking you shopping and feeding you champagne since you were seventeen and too busy pretending you hated dresses.”

“I did hate dresses.” I laughed because there was a very angry teenage Harper who would rather hide than stand out.

I closed the file in my lap, asking, “What exactly did you book?”

Her smile turned victorious. “A salon, lunch, shopping, and then maybe a little dinner.”

“Margot.”

“With Oliver.”

I froze, and she pretended not to notice.

“Oliver?” I repeated.

“He has to eat.” She said with a shrug.

“I’m aware of how human bodies work,” I said, tucking my legs up into the oversized sweater.

“And he asked about you.” She said with what I assume was a sly smile. “We missed you.”

The words cut through my attempt at deflection so neatly that I forgot what I was going to say. Margot sat beside me on the sofa and took my hand. The gesture was so maternal and familiar that my throat tightened immediately.

“I know coming home is complicated, I know this house holds beautiful and terrible things. But you were loved here, Harper. You still are.”

I looked down at our joined hands. Her nails were painted a deep burgundy. Mine were nude. Because that was safe and forgettable.

“I don’t know how to be me anymore,” I admitted.

Margot squeezed my hand. “Then we start small.”

“With a salon?”

“With nail polish,” she said, motioning to the nails I was just staring at.

I laughed despite myself.

She smiled, “That’s my girl.”

And because I was tired of being difficult for the sake of seeming in control, I went upstairs, changed, and let Margot Hastings kidnap me. The day she had planned was excessive; Margot did not do moderation. The salon was in the city, tucked behind a discreet black door with no visible signage and enough security to suggest politicians, actresses, and socialites came there to cry into cappuccinos while someone fixed their hair. Margot had closed it down. I stared at her when we walked in.

“You closed the salon?”

“Only for a few hours.” She quipped, like it was no big deal.

“Margot.” I huffed.

“What? I know your privacy matters to you, and what matters to you matters to me.”

Something in her voice softened at the end.