Free Hard by Eve Jagger Page A

skills on full display, somehow
talked the receptionist at Willow, her hair salon, into squeezing me
in for a color and cut while she got her ends trimmed.
    “Oh my God, Cassie. It’s like you’re a fucking
model,” Savannah says now, her jaw literally dropped as she
takes in my new look, standing behind where I sit in the stylist’s
chair. “Case fucking closed.”
    I grin at her reflection in the mirror, combing my fingers through my
new hair—what’s left of it anyway. No more ponytails.
It’s a choppy bob now, cut on a slant so that it brushes my
cheekbones— highlights your facial structure , the stylist
promised—with thick, straight bangs that swoop to one side. I
kind of can’t quit staring at myself, but it’s not
entirely out of vanity. It’s because, for the first time in
twenty-six years, I feel like a grown up.
    For the last couple of years, I’ve kept my hair long, because
I’ve just always had it long, and even blonder than my natural
dark blond, because Sebastian liked it that way. Like an angel ,
he’d say. My angel.
    But somehow this chocolatey brown is me. The real me. I never was an
angel, and I’m not his anymore. No more being someone I’m
not just because it’s the path of least resistance, and
definitely not just because it’s the path someone else prefers.
    It’s like, sitting in this hair salon in the middle of a summer
Saturday afternoon, I’m seeing myself for the first time.
    And I look good. Damn good.
    Savannah runs her hands up the back of my head, gives my hair a tug.
“What are you doing?” I say, laughing.
    “Just checking,” she says. She leans over my shoulder,
and in the mirror, her curly blond hair makes my dark, straight style
even more dramatic. “Good. It’s short and sexy, but still
long enough to be pulled from behind.”
    “Is that in the single girl handbook?” I say.
    “If it’s not,” she says, “it really should
be.”
     
    ***
     
    Even though I slept til noon today, by the time the sun goes down
around eight, I’m totally knackered. Though I guess in America,
I’d just say I’m exhausted. Obviously they speak English
in England, but one thing I did really enjoy about living there was
the little twists on language that we don’t have here— bollocks instead of B.S., fancy instead of like , cheers for bye or thanks . Maybe I’ll keep
some in my vocabulary, like souvenirs that remind me of the good part
of my journey.
    I’m cleaning up the kitchen, locking the new side door, and
considering a nine o’clock bedtime on a Saturday night (is this
in the single girl handbook?) when my mom calls.
    “Hi, honey,” she says. “I can’t believe I’m
finally talking to you in the same time zone.”
    “I know, me neither. It’s been a while.”
    “Usually I’m calling before I’ve even had dinner
and you’re headed to bed,” she says.
    I chuckle as I walk up the stairs. “Well, I imagine you’ve
already had dinner, but actually, I am headed to bed.”
    “Really?” she says. “I thought for sure Jamie would
be showing you off to his friends on a Saturday night. His
world-traveler sister.”
    Jamie. My mom saying his name stops me cold in the doorway of
my bedroom.
    She doesn’t know he’s gone. But then again, why would
she? When you get into some money trouble with an underground
fighting ring, I guess you don’t usually run to tell your
mommy.
    “Are y’all getting to spend some time together and catch
up?” she says.
    “Yeah,” I say, my voice a scratchy whisper. “We
are.” I clear my throat like I’m trying to expel the lie,
but I can’t expel Ryder’s question from scrolling through
my head again, like a ticker tape: I think you should consider
whether he’d do all this for you.
    Ryder’s admonishment isn’t quite right. Jamie would lie
for me. He’d negotiate on my behalf. He’d definitely wait
tables to bail me out of debt. Free drinks, Cass!
    But he would never have to. I would never try to give away our