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“how short do you want it cutting?” the hairdresser asks, separating her hair into sections. renee stares at herself in the mirror, forces herself to meet her eyes. these were the last eyes many people ever saw.
“renee, honey?” stephanie prompts, leaning forward. her lips part, and she finds herself saying,
“shoulders.”
stephanie and the hairdresser exchange looks, but nobody says anything. and when renee looks at the hair on the floor, she twists her hands in her sleeves and hopes that it’s a metaphor for her sin.
*
“renee,” neil says quietly, nodding at her. it’s an invitation, and she leaves jean with a quick excuse before following him. she’s not sure why he wants to talk now, at matt and dan’s wedding of all places, but she isn’t going to ask. neil is unsettled by her, even after all these years, and that’s understandable. even if it hurts a little.
andrew, from his spot by the bar, glances over to see where neil is going, and raises a single eyebrow at renee. she laughs, because there is no world in which andrew is not watching neil.
he leads her aside, to a quiet corner where there’s considerably less drunk people and it’s easier to hear.
“renee,” he starts, fiddling with the cuff of his sleeve. he looks handsome, which probably means andrew picked his whole outfit for him, since neil has the fashion sense of a stock photo. “i just- we’re friends, right? we’re okay?”
and renee practically beams, because this is what she’s always wanted. she touches his arm slowly, considerately, and tones down the wattage of her grin a little
“of course we are,” she says, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she talks. “what else would we be?”
neil josten, the boy who made andrew beat her while sparring for the first time out of frustration and lose control on a bus to baltimore, looks up at her and gives her the smallest, most fleeting slip of a smile.
they walk back over to where andrew is still draining the bar - he’s on his third round of shots, and has barely slowed - and he greets them with a scowl and an appreciative glance at neil’s ass.
“walker,” he acknowledges. it’s the best she’ll get, so she gives him a smile out of the corner of her mouth.
“hello, andrew,” she hums. “how are you?”
“disgustingly sober and intent on murdering nicky,” andrew mutters darkly, dismounting the barstool. “are you done having a heart to heart?”
“yes,” she laughs. “i’ll leave you to it, then.”
allison, sipping champagne and half-heartedly placing bets with nicky, eyes her from across the room. renee jogs across to her, and allison smiles, radiant as the sun.
“they’re going to slink off and make out now,” allison comments drily, draining her glass. “poor matt. he should’ve known this would’ve happened when he invited them.”
“let them have their fun,” nicky says, fanning himself with one hand and checking his phone with the other. “this is the closest we’re ever going to get to actually seeing them commit pda.”
“that is such a lie,” allison scoffs, flouncing her hair. “do you know how many times i’ve walked in on them? i don’t even view knives as a weapon anymore now that andrew’s thrown so many at my head.”
“it’s not public if they don't expect you to see,” renee chips in, and nicky gives her an approving nod.
“exactly. see, this is why renee’s my favourite.”
“shut up, we all see you staring at neil and kevin,” allison teases, taking another glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “you’re too gay to function.”
“did you just quote mean girls at me?” nicky asks, looking offended. “allison, you’re the worst.”
“oh, i know,” allison admits, tipping her head back to drink from her new glass. the condensation drips from the side, and renee watches the slick movement of her throat, silvery in the comparative darkness of the venue. her lips are painted rose red, and they stain the glass with residue. renee looks and looks until allison puts the champagne flute back down, half-empty.
oh.
*
“i win,” renee says unnecessarily, helping andrew up. from this angle, she can see the neat line of hickeys assembled down the column of his throat and across his collarbones.
“barely,” andrew replies, sounding utterly disinterested. his knuckles are slightly split, a light dusting of red staining them.
“do you want to go again?” she offers, pushing up the sleeves of her oversized jersey. andrew’s face is a blank slate, but she knows he’s considering her offer. he brushes off his knees, and fixes her with a look.
“i have two junkies to chauffeur,” he remarks flatly, and renee remembers neil and kevin’s night practices. “i’ll see you later.”
while andrew cleans up and leaves, renee continues to practice. by the end, her hair is sticking to her face with sweat, and her muscles ache, but her fingers still itch for something. she knows what it is - the hilt of a knife, cool and reassuring to the touch - but renee is supposed to be over this. she is supposed to be done with knives and violence.
with a last jab, throwing all her weight behind the action, the punching bag swings backwards with such a force that, for a terrible moment, renee fears it will swing clean off. everything hurts. she’s not even angry, not passionate, not feeling. is this, she wonders, what andrew feels, what he felt the night he beat four men within inches of death or attacked allison or wrapped his hands around kevin’s neck and whispered “where is he?” as he squeezed tight?
but that’s the difference between her and andrew, she thinks. she has learned that kindness is the better option. andrew has learned the opposite and, well, she cannot blame him for that. in another time, another place, she cut a man open with nothing but a kitchen knife and a vendetta, and she is a hypocrite if she dares to forget it.
she forms a loose fist, and her fingers feel raw. renee sits down, and prays.
*
there’s blood on her jeans, she realises. her thoughts are sluggish, the movements of a crippled opponent. natalie presses a finger to the tattoo on her hipbone, and looks up.
“listen,” the police officer spits. “you will go to jail if you don’t help us.”
natalie has never believed in a god. she can feel the edge of one of her knives cutting into her skin. if she were a braver person, she would slit her wrists before giving up anything.
“i want to go home,” she says instead. the other officer, the kind one with the cross looped over her neck and soft eyes, gives her a look of pity.
“natalie,” she says softly, leaning forwards. “there is another way.”
the knife bites at her. traitor.
“what is it?” she asks.
*
“do you like sports?” stephanie asks her. everything about stephanie is kind, from the look in her eyes to the way she drapes a blanket over renee’s shoulder. “church has youth soccer club.”
church. church is a new thing for renee. she’s not entirely sure if she believes yet, but she likes the idea of being saved. it’s hopeful. she hasn’t had hope in a while.
“i don’t like soccer,” she finds herself saying. she’s only played soccer once, but she doesn’t think she can handle it again.
“lacrosse then?” stephanie asks. “hockey? or what about exy?”
“what’s exy?” renee asks, frowning. stephanie smiles invitingly.
“i’ll pick up a leaflet,” she says. “i think you’ll enjoy it.”
*
renee sits next to neil on the night of andrew’s first professional game. they’re the only foxes there, although renee is fairly sure kevin will be overanalysing every single block andrew makes from his apartment with thea.
“it’s good to see you, renee,” neil says when they meet up, and she gives him the loosest of hugs, fully aware that casual touch is still a little weird for him.
“you too,” she says, utterly sincere. renee does like neil, even if she sometimes worries it is not reciprocated.
they settle back to watch. as usual, andrew is lightning when he wants to be - he blocks some difficult shots, and lets other, easier ones past. neil is almost visibly bouncing, frustrated and proud at the same time. renee laughs during the second half, when andrew is subbed back on and immediately lets a lazy shot slide before blocking one that should’ve been impossible. he keeps eye contact with neil during the whole thing, and for the first time in a while, renee itches for an exy racquet. in a way, she sort of understands why exy is what makes kevin tick, what animates neil to the point where he’s practically jumping out of his seat.
in the end, andrew’s team win, 9-7. it’s more down to andrew in goal than any remarkable talent on the strikers’ part. while the rest of his team are celebrating, andrew takes off his helmet, scowls the grin on neil’s face and flips him off. neil laughs, loud and light, and renee, not for the first time, gets how perfectly they work.
*
“faster, natalie, faster,” a senior member of the gang barks, and natalie’s lungs ache as she judo-flips a man much larger than her to the ground and slits his throat. she is so tired.
*
“you’re fucking reynolds,” andrew states. it isn’t a question.
“yes,” renee admits. “how did you find out?”
“a lucky guess,” he says, rolling his eyes in a way that could be borderline dramatic if there was anything displayed on his features other than mild boredom. “do you really think i didn’t notice her jacket?”
renee rolls her eyes back at him, and pulls her hair out of her face.
“it’s very new,” she warns him, her way of saying don’t break her. andrew scoffs, bored again.
“every relationship starts as very new, walker,” he points out, as they walk out of the airport. she didn’t fly out specifically to see him, but he insisted on picking her up anyway. she feels almost proud.
“i’m happy with her,” renee says, adjusting her bag strap. it’s true. she likes sitting at home, listening to allison complain about her asshole bosses and bitch about the uppity models she works with. she likes getting up early to go to church on sunday and allison complaining that she’s cold and trying to get her to stay.
“i didn’t ask,” andrew grumbles, but his eyes are softer than usual and there’s no heat in his voice. if they were different people, she’d squeeze his hand, tell him how much this means to her. but they are them, and renee puts her bag in a maserati bought with blood money that smells suspiciously of neil’s cologne, and is happy with what she has.
*
“i’m sorry,” she gasps, over and over, standing over the body. she is twelve. “i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m sorry.”
she’s not. she’s not sorry for giving him a piece of her mind, for stopping him from wronging her or anybody else. but she is still natalie, still twelve and hiding a body and washing the blood off her hands.
in middle school, natalie studied macbeth. lady macbeth, in particular; how her own ambition led to her ruin, how she was the catalyst, how she could never scrub the blood off her clothes. her english teacher told her this was a metaphor. now natalie, standing in front of a cold sink and digging the blood out of her fingernails, isn’t so sure.
“well done, natalie,” one of the higher ups tells her, and this is wrong, but she accepts the promotion and buries the guilt in her heart deep down, in a place so hidden even she cannot find it. the next time she kills a man, she cares more about how to pass it off as an accident than how she is damning herself.
*
“what colour this week, sweetie?” the hairdresser asks her. the same one who cut off reams of white hair, the same one who helped her shed natalie and become renee. she considers, touching the blunt tips of her bob.
“blue,” she decides, still fingering the light sea foam she had favoured the month before. it’s a strange fashion choice, she knows, a cardigan and long skirt paired with the cross at her throat and the eye-catching end of her hair, but it is nothing that natalie would wear. natalie is dead and buried, she decides.
“wonderful,” she says enthusiastically, already preparing the colours in a pot. “tell me when to stop lightening.”
renee would never like to stop lightening. she would like to cast out the darkness she still holds close, would like to burn it with the christingles her church makes in december. she knows what her name means, and she is a bundle of second chances, of rebirths, of do overs. not everyone is bad. everyone can be good. but choices don’t mean anything if you don’t pick the right one.
renee sits in that hair salon, and breathes.
*
“jeremy kissed me,” jean says one day, sudden and surprising. renee, who is tidying her dorm room, thinks of andrew when she replies with,
“and you wanted it?”
“yes,” jean whispers, voice hoarse, and renee would like to leech the hurt from him, would like to be in california with him and be there. but she is a fox, and she has already saved him, as he tells her at every opportunity. “yes, i wanted it.”
“then i’m happy for you,” she says earnestly, meaning it. jean deserves a little happiness, a little sunshine after years in the dark. renee knows this more than anyone.
“thanks,” he says, and she thinks of the boy who, with six broken fingers and a concussion and injuries so bad he nearly bled out on the floor, summoned the strength and courage to ask get me out of here. she remembers clotted blood and skittish glances and low muttering and looking the ravens in the eye as she held him up, and hears the strength in those words. jean and neil are too similar in the ways that they should not be, she decides, and the parallels run too deep.
“are you going to date him?” she asks, because her heart still aches for jean moreau. he does not need saving anymore, she reminds herself, but old habits die hard.
“possibly?” he says hesitantly, and renee laughs down the phone, feels warmth spread through her when he laughs back. this is what she does best.
she cannot fix everything, but she can try, and that is what counts.
*
“so i said - hold on. babe?” allison calls down the hallway, turning to look at her. renee waves, and allison turns back. “i have to go. yes, i’ll call back.”
allison smirks at her - sultry, so utterly allison that renee’s heart aches - and leans down to kiss her sloppily on the mouth, something that speaks of being away from each other for a week.
“i missed you,” she singsongs, kissing her again even though renee’s been on a flight for the past eight hours and she probably tastes like bad airport food and stale air. “next time, please take me with you. do you know how fucking annoying management has been?”
renee laughs, feels her body swell with it as allison grabs her by the waist and pulls her along. one of her perfectly manicured hands scrapes down her sides, and renee shivers, feels the movement in her bones.
she’s high off allison, high off her perfume and the way she whispers in her ear and she has never been so undoubtedly renee. there is nothing about this that natalie can touch.
and she puts her head in the space between allison’s collar and her neck, and she smiles.