Page 81 of Ruthless Chaos

These days, only Cassidy and the Council give me flak for my appearance.

Just yesterday, Liz threatened to shave my head if I didn’t do something about my “unkempt” curls. So this morning, I woke up an hour early to straighten my hair.

I hate it, but there’s nothing I can do.

When I get to the door, I open it with my key.

At first, it doesn’t look like Tara’s here.

When I walk over to my bed to set my books down, I see a slumped figure in her bed covered with sheets from head-to-toe. I pause, watching the lump. The linen rises and falls slightly after a long minute, so whoever’s under there is at least breathing.

“Tara?” I ask, cautiously taking a step toward her bed.

No response.

I hold on to the edge of the covers and lift them, trepidation bundled in my chest.

There lies my roommate, curled in a fetal position with her hair a mess and a face wet from tears. Her eyes snap shut, and she recoils, using her hands to cover her face. She turns her back to me with a grumble.

This is the first time I’ve seen Tara like this.

I can’t remember a time when she didn’t have a smile on her face or a scathing remark to pass. She’s a shell of that person.

I put a hand on her shoulder. She shrugs it off.

“Tara, what’s wrong?” I’m not expecting an answer.

I sit on the edge of her bed, reaching over to stroke her hair.

My fingers hit a snag.

Something isdefinitelywrong.

Tara cares too much about her appearance for her hair to be knotted like this. It’s one of the very first things she taught me during our first trip into town. She was adamant that self-care solves any problem you could have.

“Talk to me, please,” I say, sliding closer to her.

I lean over her torso, trying to get a look at her face. She twists her head away from me with a grunt. But, she finally says something.

“Allie, just leave me alone.” Her voice is gravelly and weak.

Oh, how the tables have turned.

“You know I can’t do that,” I say.

I get off her bed and walk to her bathroom.

Even though I don’t know what’s bothering Tara, from the looks of it I’ve felt emotional pain with the same intensity. So, I decide to do what I think will help, what I would want someone to do for me if I was in her situation.

* * *

It takes nearly halfan hour to coax Tara into the clawfoot tub.

I ran her a hot bath—well, it’s probably lukewarm by now—lit some jasmine-scented candles, closed the shades, and even put on some classical music to give the room a spa-like feel.

While she soaks, I use my wide tooth comb to get the snags out of her hair.

Tara’s tresses aren’t as curly as mine, but I still use a healthy portion of conditioner to detangle them. We sit in silence for a while. Her tears have stopped at last and she leans her head back in a way that makes me think that this is relaxing her.