Chapter 5: Ashes in her mouth

Skylar appeared around noon looking way too awake for someone who hadn't even had coffee yet. She kicked the door open with one boot, tossed a duffel bag onto the nearest chair, and grinned like she hadn't spent the last week sleeping with one eye open.

"Jesus, Rae, you look like a zombie that lost a fight with a lawnmower."

Reagan gave her a flat stare, wiping down the counter with slow, mechanical movements, ignoring the tight ache in her shoulders.

Skylar leaned on the bar, chin propped in her hand, smirking. "No offense. Or full offense, actually, because girl—you look like you need an exorcism."

Reagan snorted despite herself. The smallest sound, but it was there—a hairline crack in the walls she'd thrown up around herself.

Skylar caught it. Her grin widened like she'd won a prize. "There she is! I knew you were still in there somewhere, hiding behind all that broody badass energy."

Reagan shook her head, muttering, "You're an idiot," but her mouth twitched—the barest hint of a smile.

Skylar clapped her hands once, brightly. "Right! That's it. Boots on. We're going out. You and me. Girl's day. Survival style. No arguments."

Reagan narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "Out where?"

Skylar wiggled her eyebrows. "Somewhere therapeutic for your broken soul and my shopping addiction. And before you ask, no, it's not gun shopping—I'm trying to be responsible here."

Reagan raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"Spa first, shopping after. I already booked us in for the works—hot stone massage, facial, all that fancy shit you pretend to hate but secretly love."

Reagan opened her mouth to say no, but the words didn't come out. Truth was, the thought of laying still under warm stones and not having to think for an hour sounded dangerously close to peace.

Skylar saw the hesitation and pounced. "I'm taking that silence as consent," she declared triumphantly, grabbing Reagan's hoodie from behind the bar and tossing it at her. "C'mon, Rae. Let someone else fix you up for once before you murder the next customer who asks for a fancy cocktail we don't know how to make."

Reagan caught the hoodie, shaking her head with a low mutter about being kidnapped. But for the first time that day—maybe even that week—something in her chest loosened just a little.

The spa smelled like lavender and regret.

Reagan stood frozen by the front desk, clutching her battered black hoodie like a shield against the polished floors, soft ambient music, and the wall of overwhelming scents that crashed over her the moment they walked in. Behind the counter, a woman with a syrupy smile chirped at them in a voice too high, too bright, handing over two fluffy white robes like this was normal. Like Reagan didn't feel like her skin was three sizes too small.

Skylar snatched her robe with a grin, already halfway down the hall, hips swinging like she owned the place. Reagan stumbled after her, catching her foot on the edge of a rug and nearly face-planting into a potted plant. She hissed a curse and scowled at the pristine tiles like it was their fault.

Inside the changing room, Reagan wrestled the robe over her head. The sleeves flapped uselessly around her hands like wings she didn't know how to use. She nearly tripped over her own boots, cursing under her breath.

Skylar snorted from across the room, trying and failing to suppress a laugh. It broke free anyway—a bright, unfiltered sound that made Reagan's ears burn.

"Jesus, Rae, you look like a raccoon that broke into a luxury spa."

Reagan yanked the robe tighter. "Shut up," she muttered, but there was no venom in her voice.

Skylar clutched her stomach, wiping tears from her eyes. "No, no, I love it. Don't ever change. You're beautiful and feral and I'm honored to be seen with you."

She bowed dramatically like she was presenting royalty. Reagan rolled her eyes, but the traitorous twitch at the corner of her mouth gave her away.

They moved through a dim hallway, candles flickering along the walls. Soft instrumental music played—something meant to be calming, but it only made Reagan's pulse hammer harder. Her palms were slick inside the oversized sleeves of the robe. Every step forward felt like she was walking deeper into enemy territory.

The massage room was the final betrayal—low golden lights, plush tables covered in white linens, the air thick with lavender oil and something sweet that made Reagan's stomach turn.

Skylar hopped up on her table with the ease of someone who belonged everywhere. Reagan hovered awkwardly by hers, trying to figure out where to put her hands, whether to sit or stand or lie down.

She finally tried to perch herself on the edge of the table, but the damn thing was slick and her socked feet slid out from under her, sending her sprawling sideways in a spectacular heap.

Skylar shrieked with laughter, doubling over on her own table, gasping for breath.

Reagan lay there, tangled in the stupid robe, debating whether she could just stay down and die of shame.

The masseuse entered at that exact moment, pausing at the door with a practiced neutrality that said she had definitely seen worse.

Reagan groaned and scrambled upright, brushing imaginary dust off the robe.

"Oh my god, Rae," Skylar wheezed, still laughing. "You're a menace. You're gonna get us banned from the fancy people places."

Reagan growled something unintelligible, but the heat in her cheeks betrayed her. The ghost of a smile finally broke free as she climbed awkwardly onto the table—this time, successfully.

The masseuse pretended not to notice the chaos. Her touch was gentle, professional, and Reagan let herself melt under it.

For a few blessed minutes, she wasn't thinking about locks or blood or shadows.

For the first time in weeks, she just existed.

The drive back into the city was quiet. Not heavy—just full.

Skylar hummed tunelessly, tapping her fingers against the steering wheel. Reagan stared out the window, watching the city blur past. Her body felt loose and heavy, like her bones had turned to syrup.

Skylar tossed her a glance. "You didn't die. See? Told you—fancy people can't hurt you."

Reagan grunted, but there was a tiny smile twitching at her mouth. Skylar saw it. Of course she did. She saw everything.

They pulled into the parking lot of a strip mall. Neon signs buzzed. Discount stores sandwiched between overpriced boutiques.

Skylar cracked her back like she'd just come out of battle. "Alright, soldier. Phase two commence." She yanked Reagan's door open before she could protest.

Reagan followed, dragging her feet, hoodie up like armor. The crowd made her chest tighten—the low buzz of noise scratching under her skin.

Inside the first store, Reagan hovered awkwardly while Skylar dove into a rack of jackets.

"What about this one? It screams 'I have trauma, but make it fashion.'"

Reagan rolled her eyes. Her hands were deep in her pockets. Her posture screamed discomfort. She edged away from a group of loud teenagers and promptly knocked over a mannequin.

The crash echoed. Plastic limbs everywhere. Half the store turned to look.

Skylar howled with laughter, collapsing against a rack.

Reagan's face flushed fire. She mumbled an apology to the clerk and bolted to the back of the store.

Skylar caught up, still grinning, and tossed a hoodie at her.

"Here. Emotional support hoodie. You earned it."

Reagan caught it—barely. "I hate you," she muttered.

Skylar beamed. "Love you too, boo."

They hit store after store. Skylar made a game out of it. Reagan mostly trailed behind, trying not to break anything else.

Her answers to clerks were limited to nods and one-word grunts. She hated small talk. Hated the way everyone expected ease.

But Skylar filled the silence, cracked jokes, made faces behind snobby shoppers' backs.

And eventually, Reagan laughed.

In one shop, Skylar convinced Reagan to try on a sequined crop top. Reagan emerged from the dressing room looking like she'd been personally attacked by glitter. "This is a war crime," she declared.

Skylar clapped like she'd won a prize. "You look like trauma Barbie on a revenge tour. I'm obsessed."

Reagan deadpanned, "I hope the sequins stab me in my sleep."

They got hot pretzels from a cart outside, grease soaking through the paper sleeves, and Reagan burned her tongue because she was too impatient to wait. Skylar laughed and handed her an ice-cold soda from a nearby vending machine without saying a word. Just handed it over like it was the most normal thing in the world.

They collapsed into a booth at a greasy diner, bags piled around them. Menus stuck to the table.

Skylar propped her chin on her hand. "You survived. I'm proud. It's like watching a baby giraffe take its first steps, but with more property damage."

Reagan groaned and dropped her forehead onto the sticky table. "Next time, just shoot me."

Skylar cackled loud enough to earn glares. "Not a chance. This is way more entertaining."

And despite everything—the noise, the fear, the lingering edges of panic—Reagan smiled into the cracked plastic of the table.

Maybe she was a disaster.

Maybe she always would be.

But for the first time in a long time, it didn't feel like the end of the world.