Clean slate

By Monday, I was back at work — half days only. Just enough to knock out what needed doing before slipping out like a woman who had better things to do.

Because I did.

My house needed to feel like mine again.

Sure, I’d cleaned between Matteo and Vince. But “wiped down” and “cleansed” aren’t the same thing. So I went in — gloves on, music up, ruthless. By Wednesday, the place smelled like lemon, sandalwood, and a candle with a bougie name I couldn’t pronounce but had adopted like a stray cat. She was mine now.

Next: me.

The haircut wasn’t some dramatic meltdown moment. It was a declaration. I booked it online, picked a stylist with rave reviews and no patience for small talk, and showed up early. She met me at the front with a grin and hot pink nails sharp enough to slice through any fabric.

“What are we doing today?” she asked as I dropped into the chair.

I tossed my pale blonde hair over my shoulder. “I want it gone. All of it. Cut it to here.” I pointed just above my shoulders.

Her brows arched. “You sure?”

“Dead sure.”

She smiled wide, gum snapping. “Because this energy? You’re giving clean break, bitch rising, boss lady energy, and I am so here for it.”

I laughed — not the polite kind. The deep, belly kind that had been stuck under my ribs for weeks.

“No trims,” she said, turning me toward the mirror. “We’re cutting this story off.”

She didn’t ask what triggered it. Didn’t give me some half-hearted “are you okay” look. Just washed my hair with reverence, combed it like a ritual, and lifted the scissors like she was about to knight me.

Seven inches hit the floor.

No curling iron. No layers. Just a hot blow-dry and a sharper frame staring back at me. I looked like a woman who didn’t wait for permission — or apologies.

“You look like the woman people call when their lives fall apart and they want better,” she said.

I left her a fat tip.

Next stop: the nail salon. No soft pinks. No neutrals. No playing small. I picked a blood-red polish so bold it probably violated building codes. The kind of red that makes men sweat and women smirk. It didn’t whisper. It roared. And it said one thing: Try me.

Friday was the massage. Ninety full minutes of silence, steam, and a woman with thumbs blessed by angels and ancient gods. No talking. No distractions. Just pressure and peace. When I walked out, my body felt like it belonged to me again.

That night, Kay FaceTimed me. I answered towel-wrapped, hair damp, tequila on the rocks, legs tucked under me like a painting titled “Don’t Even Ask.”

She blinked, then grinned. “Damn. You look like a woman who just dropped the weight of an entire man.”

“Three,” I said, deadpan, swirling my tequila like I was judging a liquor contest.

Her jaw dropped. “You’re not even denying it?”

I raised a brow.

We caught up. Her toddler was teething (again), and her husband — bless his aimless, well-meaning heart — had bought the wrong wine. Again. Even though she’d texted the name. Twice.

“He brought home the bottle with the cartoon owl on it. I sent him a photo of the label. How do you mess that up?”

“Because men think the cork is just decoration,” I muttered, sipping.

She pointed at the screen. “Exactly!”

Eventually, she leaned back with that look. The one that saw right through me since high school. “You okay?”

“I’m... re-centering.”

“Mmmhmm. That’s cute,” she said. “Try again.”

I tilted my head. “Excuse me?”

She didn’t blink. “You weren’t re-centering. You were coping. You only call Matteo or Vince when your emotional earthquake hits 7.0. You don’t reach for them when you're grounded. You reach when you're cracked wide open. Trust me, Deppgrl, you were cracked open.”

I narrowed my eyes, silent.

She shrugged. “You needed to feel wanted.”

“I was,” I said. “Greedily.”

Kay raised a brow. “That’s not a sin—unless you ask the God...”

I snorted. “I already know I’m going to hell in thigh-highs.”

“Same,” she said, clinking an invisible glass through the screen. “And God still loves us.”

Then she asked what I knew was coming.

“What about Randy?”

My face hardened. “I don’t want him.”

“But?”

“But what he did…” I sucked my teeth. “Bringing his snooping kids over like this was still their little clubhouse? Letting them walk around like I was still ‘Miss Whatever’ to them? Like I hadn’t cried in that goddamn kitchen just weeks ago?”

Kay raised an eyebrow but didn’t interrupt.

“He never once asked how I felt about kids. Not once. Just assumed I’d love his. Assumed I’d want to play stepmom. Assumed I’d pick up where we left off like I hadn’t spent the last year gluing myself back together.”

I paused, heart tightening.

“I love your kid. That’s different.”

Kay’s voice softened. “Yeah. I know you do and you’re his favorite aunt. It is different.”

We let the silence breathe a moment before she added, “You want control.”

I tilted my head. “And is that a crime now?”

“Nope,” she said. “It’s your superpower. You like how you do things. You’re set in your ways — in the best way. You’re focused. Centered. You know what you want. That doesn’t make you cold. That makes you clear.”

I looked down at my nails. Blood red. Sharp. Unapologetic.

“I’m not going back.”

“Good.”

“I’m not ashamed of Matteo or Vince,” I added. “It wasn’t about them. It was about me. I wanted to be touched. Worshipped, even. But not claimed. Not absorbed into someone else’s version of ‘ours.’”

Kay nodded slowly. “You were in control.”

“For once,” I said. “And it felt damn good.”

We smiled at each other across the screen. I heard her front door open.

After we hung up, I stayed on the couch, glass empty, heart quieter. The windows showed me a new reflection — hair lighter, jaw sharper, eyes calmer.

I wasn’t fully healed. But I wasn’t flailing anymore. I was choosing. And for tonight? That was enough. Because no matter what?

I will always be a fucking queen.