Page 39 of Marrying My Professor

"You're sure?" the stylist asks for the third time, holding up a section that reaches halfway down my back. "This is a lot to take off."

"I'm sure," I tell her, and I am. The weight of my hair has started to feel like the weight of everything else—Brandon, the Veritas, Alexander, the secrets I'm carrying. Cutting it feels like shedding something I don't need anymore.

Georgia sits in the chair next to me, foils in her hair, scrolling through her phone. "You're going to look like a completely different person."

"Good," I say. "Maybe I want to be a different person."

The scissors make their first cut, and I watch in the mirror as years of growth fall away. The stylist works with careful precision, creating layers that frame my face, shaping the back into a bob that hits just above my shoulders. When she's done cutting, she moves to the highlights, freshening the blonde streaks that have faded over the last few months.

"What made you want to go shorter?" she asks as she paints bleach onto sections of hair.

I think about Brandon. About the girl I was when he was alive—the one who wore her hair long because he said it reminded him of our mother. The one who moved through the world with the certainty that she had someone who would always have her back.

That girl is gone.

"Just felt like time for a change," I say instead.

By the time we leave the salon, I look like someone else. The bob swings when I move, lighter and freer, the blonde highlights catching the late afternoon sun. Georgia links her arm through mine as we walk down the street, bags from three different stores bumping against our legs.

"See?" she says. "Doesn't this feel better than wallowing?"

"I wasn't wallowing."

"You were absolutely wallowing. You've been wallowing since you got here. Which is fair, considering..." She trails off, and I know she's thinking about Brandon. "But you needed this. We both did."

We duck into a coffee shop, ordering drinks that are more sugar than caffeine, and claim a table by the window. Georgia immediately pulls out her phone to take a selfie, angling it so the light hits us just right.

"Smile," she commands, and I do, surprised by how genuine it feels.

She posts it immediately—because of course she does—with a caption about retail therapy and best friends and the healing power of new hair. Within seconds, the likes start rolling in.

"Your hair looks amazing, by the way," she says, setting her phone down. "Like, 'I just got a personality transplant and I'm thriving' amazing."

"Is that a compliment?"

"The highest." She takes a sip of her latte, leaving a perfect pink lipstick mark on the lid. "So. Are you going to tell me what's really going on?"

My stomach tightens. "What do you mean?"

"Elara." She levels me with a look that's far too perceptive for someone who just failed a statistics midterm. "You've been weird for weeks. Distracted. You disappear at random times, you're always on your phone, and earlier, I heard you on the phone with someone's mother. So either you're conducting some kind of elaborate research project, or something's going on."

I wrap my hands around my cup, feeling the heat seep into my palms. "It's complicated."

"Everything with you is complicated." She leans forward, lowering her voice. "Is this about Wesley? Because if he did something⁠—"

"No," I interrupt quickly. "Wesley's... fine. This isn't about him."

"Then what?"

I look at her—really look at her. At the concern in her eyes and the way she's sitting forward like she's ready to fight whatever battle I need her to. And for a moment, I want to tell her everything. About Brandon and the Veritas and the investigation I'm conducting that could get me killed.

But I can't. Because the less she knows, the safer she is.

"Just school stuff," I say finally. "Trying to figure out what I'm doing with my life, you know?"

She studies me for a long moment, and I can see her deciding whether to push. Finally, she sits back. "Okay. But when you're ready to talk about it—really talk about it—I'm here. You know that, right?"

"I know."