I knew she was full of shite.

I knew it.

All week, Mam was going on about how Saturday was “me and you time,” and how we were gonna go car shopping or whatever because apparently if I “want to drive her bloody car like I own it” I should “be putting my own name on the next one.”

Grand, yeah?

I was actually buzzing.

Told the lads. Cleared my plans. Didn’t even go to Rory’s on Friday ‘cause I was trying to be all responsible and shite. Then today rolls around, and guess what?

She’s not at home. She’s not answering her phone. She’s not at Nan’s.

And the car’s gone.

So, where do I go?

Right to the source of my heartbreak—her stupid, stinkin’ salon.

I barge in, already halfway into a rant, the bell above the door jingling like some kind of taunt.

“Mam! You said—you said—today was the day! You promised! D’you know how many shiteboxes I looked at online last night? I had a list! A list, Mam!”

I storm past the display of overpriced shampoos like they personally offended me, scowling at the smell of hairspray and coconut or whatever mystical crap they brew in here.

“And don’t say you forgot,” I snap, whipping toward the reception chair, “’Cause that’d actually make it worse. Like, are you allergic to consistency? Are—”

And that’s when she turns around.

Not Mam.

Not Mam at all.

Instead, it’s her—the girl Rory’s always on about. The one who apparently gave his fella the best fade he’s ever had with a fifteen-quid trimmer and a YouTube tutorial.

And she’s sitting there like she owns the place, legs kicked up on the counter, chewing gum and spinning a comb between her fingers like a fidget toy. Cool as a bleeding cucumber.

She blinks at me. Then grins. “Aw, don’t stop on my account. Go on—this is better than telly.”

I blink. “Who the fuck are you?”

She just shrugs. “The poor bastard covering your mam’s shift.”

Shift. Covering her shift.

“You mean she’s not even here?”

“She’s at some supplier’s thing. Asked me to keep the place open. I figured she told you.”

I stare at her. Open. Close. Open again. My brain buffering like dial-up internet. “She ditched me… for conditioner samples?”

The girl tries—fails—to hold in a laugh. It comes out like a snort. “Wow. You must be her son.”

“Why?”

“You’ve got the same dramatic flair. But, like, with more teenage betrayal energy.”

“I am betrayed,” I mutter, rubbing a hand over my face. “Fully. Emotionally abandoned.”

She spins the salon chair toward me, still grinning like she’s watching a romcom where I’m the idiot lead. “So… you gonna cry, or do you want a wash and blowdry to cope?”

I narrow my eyes. “You wash my hair and I’m pressing charges.”

“Relax, Romeo.” She tilts her head. “You actually came in just to whinge at your mam?”

“Well, yeah. What else would I come here for? Highlights?”

She smirks. “Bold of you to assume you wouldn’t rock a caramel balayage.”

I blink again.

She’s kind of funny. In a smartarse, annoying kind of way. Like, the way she leaned back with zero shame when I was clearly mid-meltdown? That takes balls. Or just no fear of me, which is kind of worse.

I huff and flop into the waiting chair like it wronged me. “I hope she gets stuck in traffic behind a tractor. I really do.”

She snorts. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m an injured party.”

“Right,” she says, standing and stretching like she’s been here since sunrise—which she might’ve been, to be fair. “Well, since you’re clearly stranded, you can make yourself useful and pass me those dye bowls. Unless you’re too emotionally fragile.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I don’t take orders from civilians.”

She tosses me a towel. Hits me in the face. “Good thing I’ve got conscription power.”

I don’t say it—but I do laugh.

Just a little.

Maybe.

Possibly.

Shut up.