Daryl's Angel: Saviour (Book Two)

Chapter 20: Outsiders

"Hope's hiding something from me."

Carol's eyebrows lift, glancing sideways at Daryl as they walk. Rick walks ahead of them, decked out in his brown constable uniform.

"Oh?" she asks.

Daryl purses his lips. "She's easy to read. Can usually guess what's going on, but..."

"Not this time."

"Yeah."

She adjusts her blouse—today, it's a white knitted number covered in roses. It's even more ridiculous than her last outfit, but she's got a part to play, and he won't tell her how to do it.

"That scares you, doesn't it?" she asks.

He keeps his mouth shut. Scared isn't the right word, although he can't think of another one. He knows that he hasn't been the most attentive husband as of late. He knows, but everything's felt so dark, and he doesn't want to drag her into that darkness with him.

But, she's not happy. She looks at him with so much pain in those hazel eyes, and it's driving him nuts because he just can't bring himself to talk to her about it. He's told her not to worry about him, but she's not very good at listening when it comes to that.

"Have you talked to her?" Carol asks.

He shrugs. "What is there to talk about?"

She gives him a parental look, raising one eyebrow. "Ask her if there's something she needs to tell you," she says, each word deliberate. "Come on, you don't need me to tell you that."

He frowns a little. She's right, but somehow the idea of trying to talk to Hope about whatever's going on makes him squirm. Hope has to realize that the sooner she moves on and enjoys her life without him dragging her down, the better, right? Why does talking always have to be the solution?

"Did she talk to you? She must've told you something," he says.

She doesn't so much as glance at him. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

He scoffs. "Okay. Sure." He adjusts his bow on his shoulder as the gate comes back into view. "I'm going hunting."

He turns and disappears into the woods. At least out there, he doesn't feel so out of place.

----------

Good news is, I made it to Jessie's house and successfully stumbled through apologizing and also asking her to try and cut my hair. Now, I'm sitting in her kitchen, a towel over my shoulders as she runs a comb through my damp hair, a hand mirror in my lap.

"Anyone ever told you that you've got really thick hair?" Jessie asks. I feel the comb snag on a knot, but she gets it out with minimal pain. Honestly, after everything I've been through, a tiny tug on my hair feels like nothing.

I smile a little. "Every hairdresser I've ever gone to."

She laughs, and I feel the comb again, tugging my hair. "Like, the strands are very fine, but there are so many of them. I'd kill to have volume like this."

"Is that a threat?" I hear her breath intake, and I wince. "No, no, I'm sorry. I'm joking. I promise I'm joking."

I glance at her reflection in the mirror just as she fixes a sweet smile back on her face. "Of course. Sorry," she says. She focuses back on my hair. "So, how short are we going?"

I hold up the mirror. "Chin length, maybe? My hair grows pretty fast."

She adjusts a few face-framing pieces, pinching them between her fingers. She drags her fingers down the strands to my chin, then goes an inch down from there. "So I'll cut about here?"