Chapter Two
Jo
I really didn't like my hair.
It was a silly thing to be harping on so much, but in between tasks all day at work, it was what I defaulted back to.
See, I had done it.
The thing we all say—when we are of sound mind and strong of heart—we will never do again.
I'd been tiptoeing that not-so-healthy mental line for a while, and after I subjected myself to a movie about a woman who "found herself" after taking off to a foreign country and falling in love, I had taken my wine-tipsy self to the bathroom with a pair of somewhat sharp shears and the belief that a new hairstyle would somehow shake me out of the funk I'd been in for months now.
I'd loved it as I stood there right after, adrenaline—and let's not forget the aforementioned wine—still coursing through my system.
But after a halfway decent night of sleep, a shower, and some fresh eyes, I had different feelings. Namely, ones that almost made me late for work because I was frantically trying to find a way to wear it that I liked.
You didn't exactly have a lot of options when you took your once waist-length blonde hair and cut it into a long bob that just barely brushed your shoulders.
I'd once heard that shorter hair made you look older, but it somehow had an adverse reaction for me. I felt like I looked like a child. Which was not what I was going for during my first month at my new job where everyone was already struggling to get to know me and gauge my skills.
I had this particularly tough head nurse who, for some reason or another, decided on sight that she wasn't my biggest fan. All I could think of as I made my way to work that day was her giving me that now legendary side-eye that managed to make me feel very small for any little infraction.
She'd already shown massive displeasure in my tendency to hum a little bit to myself while filling out charts. She also thought I was a pen thief (I am not). And I'd heard her talking to one of the other nurses complaining that I'd brought a magazine with me to flip through during my break instead of socializing.
It took a lot of self-control not to turn the corner and inform her that if maybe she were more welcoming, I would have happily spent my break talking to some of them.
As it was, I felt like an outsider.
So even changing my hair felt like it was bringing unnecessary attention to me that was getting me more hard looks whenever it was mentioned.
I was never so glad to be done with a shift as I gathered my things, wondering if I had enough time to stop off at the store to grab some hair accessories that might help me tame this much shorter hair into some sort of style, so it wasn't such a reminder of my stupid mistake as I let it grow back in.
That was what was on my mind as I walked out of the hospital.
There was a bite in the air that shook off the lingering exhaustion that started to cling to me on my third twelve-hour shift in a row. I liked to stack them when I could, giving me a longer span off in between. I always found I decompressed better when I had time and space for it. So a day off in the middle of long shifts usually left me feeling frazzled and irritable.
I had one more shift in me this week, though. Someone else had called out, and after moving to a new area, a whole new state, in fact, I felt like I couldn't turn down the money from an extra shift after I'd used most of my savings to cover the move.
But then I was free for a few days. I had grand plans in store, let me tell you. Like re-grouting my bathtub and painting my moldings. Maybe squeezing in a trip to Ikea for some cute, but budget-friendly, pieces of furniture to add to my very bare space.
You see, when you break up with someone in a blind rage and storm out of the house you shared for three years, you didn't think to tell him that you'd be back for the eight-hundred-dollar couch you bought or all the various knick-knacks that he never even noticed existed.
I don't know about you, but I had always had too much pride to go back after a full-on rage-out like that.
I'd used cuss words that would make my mother embarrassed to claim me as her own. If she were still alive. As it was, she was probably ranting and raving in the afterlife about how she raised me better.
And she had.
I was raised by a mother who put a full face of makeup on the morning after her husband let her know that he'd been diddling the secretary for a year and a half, she was pregnant, and he had to "do the right thing" by her. A mother who bit her lip to save her face. A mother who once cut the tip of her middle finger off while chopping vegetables for Thanksgiving dinner and let out a very tame "Oh, fudge!" that she then apologized for.
I didn't know where my potty mouth came from, but I knew what got it flapping with reckless abandon.
Shitty men.
Shitty men doing shitty things.
Especially when those shitty men did shitty things to good women.
Oh, sure, I was no saint, but I had my heart in the right place, I did my best, I pulled my weight, I abided by the laws—both criminal and common decency.
So I felt I was justified in cussing out the man who sat me down to inform me that he needed to "keep his options open" after three years of monogamy, that he had to know if there was more out there for him.
More out there for him.
More than me out there for him.
Now, I'd loved the man—or thought I had at the time—so I'd overlooked a great many things about him while we dated. Like the fact that he always waited until the server walked away, then passed the check to me before sliding it back to himself to hand to the server when he returned.
Or that he worked a very part-time job because he was "working on his side-hustle" that seemed to involve playing a hell of a lot of video games and no actual hustling.
I never mentioned his complete disregard for our home that he refused to ever help me clean.
I didn't lose my ever-loving mind when he brought clippers with him and cut his nails in bed, leaving little toenail shrapnel all around.
Did I freak out when Valentine's went by and he "forgot?" No.
Did I speak up when I'd spent months researching, tracking down, and purchasing the perfect present for his mother for her birthday only to have him claim it as his own?
Nope.
Didn't do that either.
But he thought he could do better than me?
Let's just say, I was very aware during my rant that followed his declaration that I hadn't truly been in love with him at all. Because there was no pain over losing him. Just anger. Just a bone-deep resentment. And a little bit of fear at the idea of being single again, starting over again, having no one in the whole world again.
That was why I moved states. I figured it would feel a little less sad to start over and be alone in a place that wasn't filled with memories of a time I spent with someone who never appreciated me.
If it weren't for my terrible hair choice and my stern superior, I would say things were going pretty well.
I had a place in a decent area.
I had a steady job with a good income.
I got to start decorating from scratch again.
And I was pretty sure I was finally ready to take the plunge and get myself a pet. Something that didn't mind being alone while I did long shifts. A cat or maybe even a set of bunnies so they could keep each other company while I was out.
Things were really starting to look up.