𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭

chapter 12

"I want to cut my hair," you blurted out. It was dumb..nonsensical; and yet, a primal instinct spun the words into a damning lie, Yates's hand hovering over the pastel wrapping paper of the bag. You could practically feel the phone burning a hole inside of the bag, begging to drop into his hands and have your entire (idiotic) plan revealed in seconds. It was almost as if he could read your mind, swiping objects from your grasp at the last second and catching you right when you're about to fall.

You took another deep breath, tugging at a lock of loose hair. "Yeah. I..I don't know, the paparazzi stuff just got to me, I guess. Maybe I need a fresh start? Nothing like a new haircut, right?"

His attention diverted, Yates set the bag aside, looking at you with crinkled eyes. "What's the matter?"

You shrugged. "It's dumb, I know."

He held a hand up. "No, of course it's not! Those fucking bastards..I promise I'll get to them."

You walk over to the bag and pick up. "I know you will," you murmured. "So, can I cut my hair?"

He frowned. "Since when do you ask me for permission?"

"Right. Well, I wanted help? Do you have like..hair cutting scissors?"

Yates chuckled. "I mean, I have a haircutting kit in the attic somewhere but I really doubt you want a fade, babe."

"Yeah, maybe not. Bangs?"

He screwed up his lips and tilted his head as he observed your features, eyes wandering. "I don't think so. How about a trim? Something easy?"

"You know what, I'll come back to you. I'll find something." You left the room, still holding the plastic handles of the bag with an iron grip, heart hammering in your chest like a gong to metal.

The white hallways made you shrink as you paused for a moment, trying to orient yourself. Yates's house was disgustingly white- like it had been bleached and stripped to the bone. It was the whitest of white too, like the light of heaven was poring into your eyes. A few walls were pockmarked- small pinpricks that indicated paintings or pictures that had been taken down. It was like he detested anything relating to his family. When you were researching him, in every single picture, he covered his face while next to his parents and bum looking older brother, as if to shield himself from them. You never asked to meet his parents since you doubted they'd be ecstatic to meet you, and you didn't quite want to meet his mom either.

You thought of your own mother, the polar opposite of your boyfriend. She was obsessed with cataloguing every single moment of your life. You could still feel the dusty leather of old picture books under your fingers, and the plasticky sound of the pages as you leafed through, finding a rosy cheeked girl with a gummy smile in every single one. It made sense; what else could your mother keep but her memories? With move after move, you had nothing to cling onto but her. She was what made home feel like home, perfuming the room with the scent of roasted garlic and the warmth of her embrace as you thanked her for making dinner. Yates's domesticity was stuffy, with none of the comfortable ease your mother gave off. This quiet was harsher as your feet slapped against the hardwood floor.

You tried to shake off the feeling of unease and made your way to your bedroom. The bathroom door was open, displayed a long row of cabinets, a sink absolutely too gaudy for its own good, and the other bathroom necessities, although a bench in the shower did count as a luxury. Was it called a bench? Bathroom terminology aside, you were immensely grateful for the storage space.

You shut your bedroom door, the lock clicking into place. And then you shut the bathroom door, locking that one too. The AC hummed as you knelt to the ground with the bag. You reached in, feeling around for the cold metal of your new phone. Pulling it out, you opened the cabinet door, hit with a mouthful of stale air. A pipe curled from under the sink, and a few toiletries were set up in front- sparkly pink soldiers, their badges written in flourishing and fluffy cursive. You pushed aside the first regiment, a set of perfume bottles, and set the phone behind them. Half of these weren't even yours.