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Heather gathers my hair behind the chair and closes one hand around it at the nape of my neck, positioning my head before she starts at the ends.
No apology. I don’t know why some part of me expected one.
The first knot pulls enough to make me wince, and her grip shifts immediately, holding the hair above it while she works the brush through.
I don’t say anything. Neither does she.
The brush moves through my hair in long, slow strokes once the knots are gone. My shoulders loosen despite how determined I am to stay angry with her, and that only gives me something else to be angry about.
She should have done this last night. She should have come to me first this morning. Instead, she was with him.
I look at her reflection while she brushes. She looks exactly the same as she did yesterday. There isn’t anything on her face to tell me what happened in the room down the hall or what she thinks of him now that he’s actually here.
I want to know if he fought with her. I want to know if she punished him. I want to know what he’s wearing and whether she picked it. I want to know if she touched him while she dressed him.
I look away from the mirror. Heather keeps brushing.
If I ask, she’ll know I care. She already knows I didn’t want him here. She doesn’t need to know I’ve spent the morning listening through the wall while she gave him the attention that used to be mine.
The brush passes through my hair again.
“He’s awake?”
Heather meets my eyes in the mirror. “Yes.”
I wait for her to say more.
She doesn’t.
I look down at my hands. “Did he freak out?”
“No.”
My face heats. I bet the prim bastard didn’t throw things or even test the door.
Heather draws the brush through my hair again.
I look at myself instead of her. “So he’s being good.”
“He’s being careful.”
“He’s not as much trouble as me.”
Heather stops brushing. “If I replace you,” she says, “it won’t be with Oliver.”
My fork stops above my plate. Heather takes the brush through my hair again. That wasn’t what I wanted her to say.
“Do you like him?”
The brush slows once.
“I chose him.”
I look away. “He sounds perfect.”
“No.”
I look at her again.
