Page 145 of Nutmeg + Mistletoe
I throw my arm over my face, start rocking back and forth myself and mutter, “Yeah, Huck. Same!”
Grant’s voice is careful, almost tiptoeing. “So… I feel like maybe I should go and let you deal with this.”
I pin him with a glare sharp enough to kill a lesser man. “Give me my scissors, hand me my wine glass, and get out.”
His brows lift. “I just said I’d leave—”
“Don’tcorrect mein my own damn house!” My voice cracks with embarrassment. “I know what I said!”
For half a second, his mouth twitches—like he’s fighting a laugh—but I’m too wound up to care.
“Eslin, I’m really sorry,” he rushes. “If there’s anything I can do—find you a different stylist, buy you the fanciest wig, whatever you need—just—”
“Get. Out!” I snap, each word its own bullet.
He raises both hands in surrender and backs toward the door. “Okay, okay—I’m going.”
The moment it shuts behindhim, the fight drains out of me. My chest caves. Tears spill.
Not because of the hair—though the hair is a real problem. No, I cry because tonight I caught a glimpse of what it could be like to just…relax. To let myself be. To be seen in all my unguarded ridiculousness—my head half-undone, braids in a bag at my feet, my hair sticking in every possible direction—and not be met with disgust.
Grant saw all of that.
He saw me.
And the ache in my chest—I can’t decide if it’s humiliation… or relief.
Relief that someone saw me stripped of polish and pretense—messy, awkward, undone—and didn’t flinch. Didn’t mock. Didn’t bolt for the door until I made him leave. Relief that for once, I didn’t have to hide the parts of myself I usually keep locked away. He saw every imperfect strand, every sharp edge, every uncurated piece—and he stayed.
He didn’t send me back.
Didn’t make me feel like too much.
If anything, the only one who couldn’t bear the sight of me in this moment…was me.
Chapter forty-three
Secrets & Sofas
Eslin
Isit down on the soft leather couch, already nervous before she even opens her mouth. The space is cozy but intentional—warm lamps, abstract art, a small fountain trickling in the corner like it’s supposed to trick me into feeling calm. It doesn’t. Not when my chest is this tight.
This was the only appointment she had available, so despite the scarf tied over my head and the fact that I look like the second coming of a crackhead, I still show up. Of all days, it has to be today—the day of the masquerade ball—when my bald spot is begging for divine intervention and a stylist’s miracle. Thankfully, her office isn’t too far from my building.
Dr. Mikari, as her profile said everyone calls her, greets me with the kind of calm that makes me want to unravel right there. Andwhen she leans forward with that classic therapist question—what brings you here?—I don’t just answer. I spill.
“Here’s the thing, Dr. Mikari,” I blurt, words tripping over each other. “I am new in town, with a new job, and I’ve met these wonderful people who have become like family, but I’m also keepinga lotof secrets from them. Including my best friend. And my boss. Because if I tell her I have very real feelings for her father, it could ruin everything! But I’m also keeping a secretabout herfrom her father and—”
She lifts a hand, calm but firm. “How about you take a breath?”
I clamp my mouth shut, embarrassed, and grab the glass of water she gave me when I first arrived. One long sip, a shaky exhale. “I’m sorry,” I mutter, pressing the glass to my knee. “I think I’ve just been waiting for the opportunity to—”
“Unburden yourself?” she offers, one brow arched.
I’m not discriminatory about who I let guide me from a therapist’s perspective. Help is help. But there’s something about sitting across from someone who looks like you, who may have walked through similar fires—or at the very least has the empathy to understand them—that hits differently. It settles into you in a way that feels less clinical and more… safe. Comforting in a way I didn’t know I needed.
“Yes.” I nod furiously, my locs bouncing. “Yes, exactly.”
