Page 85 of The Truth of Us

Privacy matters.

I remembered who she had been to my mother. A friend, a sister in all ways that mattered, a woman who had stood beside my family when privacy stopped being something we could assume.

My irritation dissolved as a stylist appeared with champagne. Margot accepted two glasses and handed one to me.

“To small starts,” she said.

I clinked my glass against hers.

“To small starts,” I repeated. Because I could do that. Small decisions that brought me back to myself and who I want to be, what I want my life to be.

We started with nails. I chose pale pink out of habit, and Margot immediately vetoed my choice.

“No.”

“It’s classic.” I retorted.

“It’s boring.” She said, with a scrunched-up nose.

“It’s professional.” I defended.

“You are not in a boardroom.”

“I could be later,” I said, but I was losing steam.

“You are not choosing nail polish for a hypothetical boardroom, Harper Montgomery. You could show up in a glitter cocktail dress, and people would still listen. Small starts, choose something you never normally would.”

I stared at the rows of colours. Deep red, emerald, midnight blue, gold, soft lavender, a sparkly rose shade that looked like something I would have loved when I was fourteen. Then my eyes landed on a blue that looked so familiar, but I couldn't place it.

Margot noticed, and told the esthetician, “That one.”

“No.” I groaned.

“Yes.” She rebutted.

“It’s too much.”

“It’s nail polish, not a blood oath, my darling girl.”

I laughed and then nodded at the woman who looked like she didn’t know which crazy woman to listen to.

When the polish had been meticulously applied, I stared at my hands as if they belonged to someone else. Someone younger, softer, maybe a little playful and flirty. Less afraid of being dismissed.

Margot leaned over. “See?”

I flexed my fingers.

“They’re ridiculous,” I said in a low voice.

“They’re fun.”

I swallowed. “Yeah.”

The word felt almost foreign.

The haircut was not planned, at least not by me. I was sitting in the chair ready for my usual treatment when I caught myself staring at my reflection. The long blonde hair, which has several steps and processes to get to this exact colour. The polished waves, the old-money softness carefully maintained. It was beautiful, and it also felt like armour.

Not all armour was hard; some of it was pretty, and some of it was so familiar you forgot you were wearing it.