Release Me

mouth, grappling for something to say. “Because he has some truly fucked-up control issues. Does that sound familiar?”
    She stands up, her movements slow and practiced the way she always moves when she’s angry. A lady doesn’t show emotion. A lady doesn’t spout off. “You little fool,” she says, calmly and coldly. “You always were too smart for your own good. Only Nichole knew best. Only Nichole knew what to do.”
    “For Nichole, yeah, Mother, that’s right. Only Nichole knows what Nichole wants.”
    Her face is pinched so tight I can see where her makeup is caking and cracking. “You are spoiled and ungrateful. I can’t believe I took time out of my schedule to fly out here and see you. I am going to go back to my hotel, and you think aboutyour life. About what you want and where you’re going and what you’re throwing away. And when you can talk calmly and rationally, I’ll come back.”
    And then she turns on her heel and marches to the door and leaves. She doesn’t even slam it.
    I sit there, numb. I know I should move, but I can’t. I just sit and stare and feel like I’m floating out of myself.
    I don’t know if it’s been fifteen minutes or fifteen hours when my leg starts to cramp and I have to move. I glance down and realize my hand is still in a fist. I open it slowly and see the indentations from my fingernails, some so deep they’ve almost drawn blood.
    I stare at my hand as I get up. I don’t realize I’m doing it as I walk into the kitchen. We have a knife block, and I take out a paring knife. I turn on the gas burner, because even in my haze I know I should sterilize the blade, and there’s no alcohol in the kitchen and I can’t leave the kitchen because then I won’t have the courage.
    I wave the knife through the flame and then wait for it to cool. I press the blade against the soft flesh of my inner arm. A new place for a new pain. I start to slice—and then I violently hurl the knife across the room. It crashes into the wall, leaving a dent in the drywall.
    Everything is blurry now, and I realize I’m crying. I stand up and turn a circle in the kitchen. I’m lost—so fucking lost—and despite everything it’s Damien that I want right now. Damien’s arms around me, holding and comforting me.
    No, no, goddammit, no!
    I snatch the kitchen scissors off the drainboard, then retreat to the corner by the dishwasher. I slide down to the floor and without thinking, I take a chunk of hair and cut it off. Then another. Then another until there is a pile of hair around me.
    I look at it, run my fingers through it. That hair my mother loves so much. That hair that Damien loves, too.
    I pull my knees up to my chest and hug them tight. Then I put my head down and I sob.
    I don’t remember going to my room. I don’t remember getting in bed. But when I open my eyes, Damien is beside me, his eyes sad and soft.
    “Hey,” he says.
    Damien
. My heart seems to swell and the blackness that’s been clinging to me dissipates.
    He reaches out and strokes my hair.
    I sit up, remembering.
My hair
.
    “It could use some cleaning up,” he says gently. “But I think it looks cute short.”
    “Why are you here? How did you know?”
    “Jamie,” he says. “I’ve been calling her for days, checking on you. I thought you needed space. But then this, with your mother …”
    I nod, vaguely remembering Jamie tucking me into bed and me telling her that my mother had come by. I can’t repress my shiver at the thought of seeing her again. “She’s still here,” I say. “In town, I mean.”
    “No,” he says. “She’s not.”
    I look at him.
    “I went to her hotel. I told her she needed to leave. And then I sent her home on the jet.” Amusement lights his eyes. “Grayson’s been dying to take her out for a long flight, so this was just the ticket. And your mother seemed thrilled by the prospect of a private jet.”
    I stare at him with awed amazement. “Thank you.”
    “Whatever you need, baby. I told you.”
    I shake my head. “No. Damien, I’m sorry. I—we can’t.”
    He stands, and though I expect anger on his face, all I see is concern. “Because of Sara?”
    I don’t meet his eyes.
    “Oh, hell,” he says, then sits back down on the side of the bed. He hooks a finger under my chin and makes me look at him. “Do you really believe I killed her?”
    “No.” The word comes out quickly and firmly and it’s completely true. A tear rolls down my cheek. “Damien,