Page 4 of His To Erase

Ani

For the first time in weeks, I actually had a night off. And I wasted it saying yes to this date.

Sarah and I were supposed to hang out—vegging on pizza in our sweatpants, watching something stupid on TV. I was looking forward to it. She even promised to bring wine this time, which means I was definitely robbed.

At least we have part of the day.

I’m sitting cross-legged on a bench with a towel around my shoulders and bleach fumes burning my nose while Sarah mixes toner like she’s doing God’s work.

Okay, she is. Bleaching my hair is not for the weak.

She’s wearing an old band shirt, socks pulled halfway up her calves, and her Ipad is balanced on the sink playing The Big Bang Theory.

I’m trying not to gag at the smell.

She’s squinting at the back of my head like it personally offended her. “This section is so thick, I’m pretty sure it just gave me attitude.”

I smile into my coffee. “They’re tired of your abuse.”

She scoffs, parting another piece with the brush. “Please. I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to your scalp.”

I hum. “That’s what my last therapist said, too.”

“Ha. Not me being more consistent than your therapist.”

“Honestly? That tracks.”

She leans closer, brushing toner down to the ends while humming something vaguely threatening while I try not to move.

“I still can’t believe you’re going on this date,” she says, shifting to the other side. “I thought we agreed he gives red flag energy.”

I lift a brow in the mirror. “You agreed. I just nodded because you had foils in.”

She tilts her head so I can’t see her face but I know she’s glaring. “You’re emotionally compromised.”

“Says the girl who’s been flirting with catfish.”

She glares. “He’s not a catfish. He’s keeping the suspense alive. It’s foreplay—with a moral code that definitely includes choking.”

I nearly spit my coffee. “Jesus Christ. You’re going to get baby snatched one day.”

“No way.” she says innocently. “Communication is hot. So is choking. Ideally at the same time.”

I snort, biting the inside of my cheek. “Remind me why I let you near chemicals?”

“Because I don’t trust anyone else not to turn your blonde into a cautionary tale.”

Fair.

She was one of the first people I saw when I moved here—grinning behind the bar with this wild, unbothered energy like nothing could shake her. I hadn’t even said a word yet, and she handed me a shot and told me I looked like I needed it.

Something about us just clicked after that. No weird in-between stage of pretending to be normal. Just full-send chaos and honesty from the start.

We’ve been like this ever since.

You know when you find that one person you can say literally anything to—like there’s no filter, no judgment, just instant understanding? That’s her.

My disaster twin.

“You’re sure you wanna go?” she asks after a pause. “You don’t have to say yes just to prove you’re not still wrecked by what happened.”

She knows me too well sometimes.

“I don’t know,” I admit, quietly. “Maybe I just want to feel something that doesn’t come with a memory attached.”

Sarah sets the brush down and meets my eyes in the mirror. “You’re allowed to feel good without punishing yourself for it.”

God, if only it were that simple.

She moves behind me again, gently massaging toner into the ends.

“Besides,” she smirks, “if he’s a letdown, at least your hair’s out here making up for it.”

I roll my eyes. “Wow. Truly the support I needed.”

“Don’t blame me—your tits showed up dressed for applause.”

“You’re only saying that because I let you bleach me.”

“That, and because I’m not blind.”

I snort, pretending that any part of our conversations are normal. While she rinses the last bit of toner into the sink, she says, “So what’s your plan if the date goes well?”

I blink. “Define ‘well.’”

She shrugs. “Like, you don’t immediately plot his death.”

“Oh. Then yeah, I guess that’d be new.”

Sarah hands me a towel and starts wiping her hands. “You’re allowed to want shit, Ani.”

I glance up at her.

“You know. Mutual obsession, light emotional damage, and a good dicking. The essentials.”

I snort. “That last one was a stretch.”

“I said what I said.”

I love our friendship. I don’t say it out loud, but I think she hears it anyway. Because when I stand up and pull her into a hug, bleach stains and all, she just wraps her arms around me and says, “I’m just saying—if God has favorites, you’re definitely top five. Bare minimum.”

And somehow, that’s exactly what I needed to hear.

Once my hair’s done, we migrate to the kitchen like we always do when we’re avoiding the fact that time is passing, and she throws a pizza in the oven.

“Okay,” she says, cracking open a can of Sprite like we’re about to get serious. “You never actually told me what this man did to earn your attention. Aside from existing and having abs,” she adds, wiggling her eyebrows.

I groan, dragging both hands down my face. “That was taken out of context.”

“You called him a walking red flag with dick-slinging energy. Don’t backpedal now.”

“Okay, that one I might’ve said.”

We keep going like that—her poking, me deflecting, and of us pretending we’re not circling the fact that I said yes to a man I probably shouldn’t trust. What I really want is this—cheap comfort and snarky commentary from someone who gets me without needing the full rundown of why I flinch when people touch me too suddenly, or why I don’t talk about my ex.

Luckily, she never pushes. She just... gets it.

We were halfway through a YouTube rabbit hole of worst-date horror stories when her phone dinged.

She glances at it, then immediately shoves it under her thigh.

I raise a brow. “Oh no. That’s your I-did-something-face.”

She stays suspiciously still. “It’s nothing.”

“Sarah.”

She sighs, pulling the phone back out with the guilt of someone who just texted an ex. “Okay. So. You know how I said I blocked Kaleb?”

“No.”

“Well, I did. Emotionally.”

“Jesus Christ.”

She winces. “He just messaged me, saying he was in town.”

“Please tell me you didn’t reply.”

“I didn’t! Yet.” She bites her lip, then mutters, “I may have heart-reacted.”

“Sarah.”

“It was a reflex!”

I try to stop a laugh from coming out, but I can’t. “So let me get this straight. The man who ghosted you for six weeks and then reappeared with a new girlfriend and a motivational podcast is now back in town—and your first instinct is heart emoji?”

She groans, dropping her head into her hands. “I know. I have a disease. It’s called attention whore.”

I try to glare, but she looks genuinely tortured that I mostly just wanted to throw my hairbrush at her. “What does he even want?”

She looks at me. “Dinner.”

“No.”

“I said maybe.”

“Sarah!”

“Okay, god,” she laughs, standing up and grabbing her bag. “You’re right. I’ll cancel. Probably. Eventually. But I do need to get out of here before I cave and text something worse. Then I’ll be late for work.”

I narrow my eyes. “Define worse.”

She smiles sweetly. “A selfie.”

“Oh my god.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t actually do it,” she calls over her shoulder. “Not unless he double-texts.”

She’s already halfway to the door, waving her phone in the air like a white flag of slutty surrender.

She just had to go pick up a shift, so naturally, I said yes to the date. I don’t even know why, I’m capable of sitting at home alone for one night.

Maybe I thought it’d finally shut him up.

I’m just tired of him hovering like he already knew I’d cave eventually. Maybe I wanted to prove—to him or myself, I don’t even know at this point—that he’s not as unshakable as he pretends to be.

Whatever the reason, it was a mistake.

I should be in my sweats, curled up and eating something unhealthy. Not standing in front of my closet trying to figure out how to look like someone not going on a date with a man I already don’t trust.

Eventually, I settle on my usual—black on black. Obviously. I end up in a fitted crop top with a neckline dipping just enough to cause problems, but not enough to be an open invitation.

It says I showed up, not that I’m interested.

I pair that with high-waisted jeans—also black, and ripped—that hug every inch of me like they were personally tailored by the gods of emotional damage and good decisions made late at night.

Not that I’m dressing for him, this is for me. That way I look like I can throw a punch and walk away without smudging my mascara.

It’s a look that says, I could ruin your life, but I don’t feel like it tonight.

I lace up my combat boots, knowing they're still comfortable enough to walk home in if I decide to ghost halfway through this disaster. Which, let’s be honest, is already feeling like a strong possibility.

The Uber’s waiting at the curb, and I’m already questioning every decision that led to this moment.

The ride is quiet, giving my brain time to spiral as the city blurs past in neon streaks and glowing streetlights. The closer we get, the heavier the regret sits in my stomach.

By the time we pull up, I’m already planning my exit. The restaurant doesn’t look like a restaurant, it looks like a threat with marble stairs, and gold-trimmed doors.

Jesus Christ.

I sigh, slipping out of the car before I can talk myself into staying inside. The air is cool against my skin and the sounds of the city are muffled under the weight of too much money and exclusivity.

I spot Frank standing outside the entrance with his hands in his pockets, watching me with that same smug confidence—like he knew I wouldn’t back out.

His suit is dark and effortlessly tailored, the kind of cut that makes expensive look easy. Even under the streetlight, he looks polished—clean-shaven jaw, long hair pushed back like he stepped out of a magazine shoot. He doesn’t belong on a quiet sidewalk.

His eyes find mine, and he holds my gaze. There’s a glint in them that looks like either mischief or arrogance, I’m never quite sure which.