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“Don’t forget your father gave you a gold card and said you can spend as much as you want,” Feather reminds me on our way into the shopping center after spending half an hour looking for the closest parking spot possible. “I think he’s got the major guilts just like my dad does and thinks buying us stuff will make it all better. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with us taking them up on that and buying a few things, right?”

“Right,” I say, because I know that’s what she wants to hear. Feather was sexually abused by her stepfather when she was younger. Her biological father didn’t come into the picture until Feather developed a drug addiction a few years ago, at age sixteen, and went into a severe depression. Her stepfather went to jail, and her mother moved away. Feather was already in the therapyprogram at Merryfield when I arrived, and we both transitioned to residential status at the same time.

During our stay at Merryfield, Feather and I occasionally went shopping with a few of the other girls. This was part of our treatment program—getting out into the world. Those outings were nothing like my current experience with Feather, who takes it upon herself to bring me to all her favorite stores and pick out outfits for me. Apparently, Feather used to shop a lot before she became a patient at Merryfield.

I let her drag me into each store and choose clothes for me because it seems to make her happy. And she’s good at it. Everything she picks out fits me perfectly. When our hands are filled with shopping bags, she brings me to a salon at the far end of the mall for us to get manicures. Then she talks me into getting my hair dyed a lighter color blond, then cut and styled while she gets her hair fixed. Even though I feel completely overwhelmed and anxious to get back home, I go along with all of it, hoping to feel excited about girl things because it feels like it’s something Ishouldlike, and I want to fit in.

“You look gorgeous, Holly,” Feather says when the stylist finishes with me. I smile at her reflection in the mirror of the stylist’s station and lift my hand to touch my hair, which feels incredibly soft and silky. I never knew hair could feel so soft. As I stare at myself in the mirror, I realize I look like a young version of my mother. I actually look pretty; the hair highlights bring out the color of my eyes in a way I didn’t know was even possible. I look so… normal. Just like the pretty girls on TV. I know that, out here in the real world, the outside of people seems to matter more than the inside. I quickly learned that the illusion of appearance will always outweigh the truth of what’s really inside.

“Thank you,” I reply automatically. “It feels so different. I love it.”

“It was like straw before. You seriously look amazing.” Feather unzips her purse, rummages around, and triumphantly pulls out a small silver tube. “Let’s just give you a little bit of color to polish you off.”

I freeze as she comes at me with the lipstick, the waxy tip bright bloodred.“Be a pretty, bad little girl for me…”

“No…,” I whimper. I pull back and swat her hand, sending the lipstick flying. It lands on the floor and rolls underneath the sinks. “No!” I scream, bursting into tears. “I don’t want to do that anymore!”

Feather and the stylist look at each other and then at me, forced awkward smiles on their faces.

“Holly, what’s wrong?” my roommate asks, glancing around the salon at the other women staring at us.

“No more lipstick,” I whisper, my body shaking. “I don’t want to be a bad girl anymore.”

“Jesus Christ,” Feather mutters, taking a deep breath and tossing her newly styled hair over her shoulder. “Another trigger? I’m so sorry. What the fuck kind of shit did he do to you?”

The stylist hovers behind us, her hand at her throat. “Is everything okay? Can I get you some water?”

“She’s fine, Marcel.” Feather flashes her a friendly smile. “She just had a flashback. Just give her a sec, and we’ll be out of your way.”

Marcel gapes, her eyes wide. “Oh! I thought you looked familiar…” Her tone is hushed but still loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. I feel my cheeks flush with warmth. “You’re the one who was taken years ago, right? My goodness, I’m just remembering all the media coverage from the day you were found… I hadn’t realized… that bastard deserved to die.”

Trigger. Taken. Flashbacks.

I fill my lungs with air and count to ten, avoiding my own reflection in the mirror. When I think about the bad man, I feel conflicted and sick to my stomach. As much as he hurt me, he was the only person to show me any kind of attention or care for eleven long years. He was all I had, other than Poppy and the TV. Of course, I know now that his actions weren’t caring at all and I was merely a toy that he kept alive to play with. But at the time, he was all I knew. I was only a child and neededsomeone. I’d learned to wish for his presence, to stave off the darkness and the never-ending silence while stuck in that dark basement. While my young mind knew he had taken everything away from me, I also knew that he was the only one who could give me anything. It spawned a very confusing love-hate conflict in me that only grew over the years.

When I think of the otherhim, my prince, I feel a sense of calm and safety inside, like I felt that day when he pulled me out of the hole and held me. He was the first person to make me feel something new, feelings so completely different than anything I’d ever felt. Sometimes, if I close my eyes, I can almost feel his strong arms around me, protecting me, saving me. I can still remember the way the blue of his eyes took my breath away, and how his unique ragged voice soothed me. He still infiltrates my dreams and haunts me in my waking hours. I haven’t forgotten him, not for a moment, and I’m still waiting for him.

I’ll never stop waiting and hoping for him.

I often wonder if he even remembers me, and if he ever thinks about me.

He does. I know he does. We just have to wait for the right time.

Feather pats my shoulder, which should be comforting but is not. Not when I’m wishing forhimright now. “Yes,” she says to Marcel, a bit sharply because neither of us wants to be rememberedas the victims we once were. “But she’s fine now. I just scared her by accident.” She squeezes my shoulder, trying to comfort me and sending me a hint to please not embarrass us again. Her eyes meet mine in the mirror. “You’re totally cool now—right, Holly?”

I nod and force my lips into a smile. It’s a mask I have a feeling I’ll be wearing for most of my life. “I’m fine. I’m so sorry. Red just isn’t my color.” I shake my new bouncy hair like she did a few moments ago and boost myself out of the chair. “I’m a total klutz. I’m ready to go.”

Feather and Marcel share a relieved smile that radiates to the other women in the salon, who all go back to talking and texting and burning color onto their hair and flesh. The crisis is over. Nobody had to confront the bad thing in the room.

My heart is still racing as Feather and I walk past the lipstick on the floor and head to the front lobby, where she grabs a few bright pink bottles off a glass shelf. “Let’s get some really nice shampoo and conditioner. We can share it at home. We deserve to have the best after the evil shit we went through,” she says casually. Like nice shampoo and conditioner will somehow remove the “evil shit” that was done to us. Buying things seems to comfort her, but it leaves me a little befuddled. I don’t think any of these people will ever understand me, maybe not even Feather. Dr. Reynolds has told me to accept that and to not hold it against people. It’s just how the world is—people don’t want to get personally involved. They cover things up, bury them, and mask them.

I’m not sure I can live that way. Or if I evenwantto.

I wince at Feather’s words and smile awkwardly at the questioning glance the girl behind the counter flashes at me. She averts her gaze back to her register.

“That would be great,” I reply, using my go-to phrase. It makes everyone happy, puts them at ease even if my delivery is less thangreat. Finally, we leave the salon, and I let Feather take the lead so I can take a break from faking smiles. My face is starting to hurt from forcing myself to look happy when all I want to do is get home and hide in my room for the rest of the night. I can only venture out for so long before I start to feel stressed, and myno more of thismeter is teetering on level ten right now.

On our way back to the mall exit, Feather pulls me into a boutique that sells jewelry, clothes, and home decor made by local craftspeople. I’m in awe of all the beautiful things to choose from, and she helps me pick out a few scarves and a bracelet and necklace made of hand-blown glass beads. I’m so taken by all the pretty things that it almost erases the salon fiasco from my memory.