Total pages in book: 215
Estimated words: 199344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 997(@200wpm)___ 797(@250wpm)___ 664(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 199344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 997(@200wpm)___ 797(@250wpm)___ 664(@300wpm)
“No, no, no, no,” she chants as my heart breaks for her. She reaches up again, grabbing at her hair as if she can’t believe what she’s seeing, and sure enough, more clumps of hair come free in her hands.
Fat tears roll down her cheeks, and I take her face, forcing her to look at me as she starts to panic. “It’s okay, Zo. We knew this could happen. It’s just hair. It will grow back.”
She shoves at me, her face falling into her hands. “You’re a guy. You don’t get it.”
“Try me.”
“It’s . . . It’s my hair,” she cries. “To a girl, her hair is part of her identity. Without it . . . it’s just another part of myself I’m losing to this stupid disease.”
She scrambles off her bed before allowing me a chance to argue, and I watch as she presses a hand to the wall, steadying herself as she makes her way into the private bathroom. The door only closes halfway, leaving it cracked just enough for me to see as she stands in front of the mirror with tears rolling down her sunken cheeks.
She pulls at her hair, and thick chunks fall into the basin. When she can’t take it any longer, she collapses against the sink.
Striding into the bathroom, I step in behind her before taking her hips and gently turning her until she crumbles against my chest. My arms lock around her, holding her tight as she cries, the devastation pouring through both of us for two very different reasons.
My hand roams up and down her back, and I hold her there as Allie cries from the bed, wondering what’s wrong with her new momma, too small to risk jumping down on her own.
We stand here for almost an hour as she cries it out, and when she finally pulls out of my arms and wipes her eyes, she turns around, facing the mirror once more. Reaching up to the overhead cabinet above the sink, her hand curls around a box containing hair clippers, and she pulls it down before briefly meeting my questioning gaze through the mirror. “I found it here during my first round of chemo,” she tells me. “I just didn’t think I’d ever have to use it.”
She turns back to me and presses it into my hand, but I take her chin, raising it until she meets my stare. “Are you sure? We don’t have to do this today. You can sit with it until you’re ready.”
“So I can get around looking like Angelica’s doll from Rugrats? No thanks. I’d prefer to just get it over and done with.”
“Okay,” I tell her, placing the shaver down on the edge of the sink. “I’ll get you a chair.”
She nods and turns back to the mirror, those watery eyes tearing me to shreds. Walking out of the bathroom, I grab the chair from beside her bed before stopping and scooping up Allie in my other hand and making my way back.
I find Zoey in the middle of plugging the cable into the outlet and trying to figure out how the shaver works, and I set the chair behind her. She doesn’t hesitate to drop into the seat, and a part of me wonders if it’s because she’s already been on her feet for so long.
She takes Allie and snuggles her in her lap as I take the shaver and switch it on, only I pause as my hand hovers by the top of her head. I meet her gaze through the mirror. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
She shakes her head. “Not even a little bit, but just do it,” she says, a brokenness dulling her green eyes.
My thumb stretches around the shaver to switch it on, and with a heavy breath, I push it back over her scalp, her long chestnut locks falling to the ground at my feet. Zoey cries, holding Allie up to her face and breathing her in as though the tiny little kitten is somehow able to give her the strength that I can’t.
I do it quickly, not wanting her to have to endure this for long, and when I’m done, I lift the shaver to my own head, pushing it through my dark hair before she gets a chance to stop me. Her eyes widen as her jaw slackens. “NOAH!” she screeches. “What the hell are you doing?”
“If you get to be a sexy little baldie, then why the hell can’t I?” I say, really driving home the point that it’s just hair. She’s still fucking gorgeous to me whether her hair is on her head or covering the bathroom floor. It’s not a big deal. Once she’s better and her body has a chance to recover from the chemotherapy, her hair will grow back, and when it does, I’m sure it’s going to be just as beautiful as it once was.