I sigh. “She used to braid my hair. I love it when people braid my hair. But I dated a man who thought long hair wasn’t sophisticated. So I cut it, about this length. I didn’t cry that time, but I wanted to. I no longer saw my mom’s reflection when I looked in the mirror.” Grunting a painful laugh, I shake my head. “The asshole guy told me, after it was too late, that I didn’t have the face for short hair. He said it accentuated my big ears and my big eyes. Then he left me two days later for someone younger with smaller eyes and ears.”

Jake presses his lips to the top of my head again, it brings more emotions to my eyes. It makes my heart hurt for so many reasons. It’s tender, not sexual. It’s such a foreign feeling to me.

“Is that why you got fake hair?”

I laugh. “Extensions.”

“Same thing.”

“No.” I giggle some more. “The extensions were real hair. Just not my hair.”

“And that’s not a little creepy to you? Wearing someone else’s hair?”

“I have leather and fur clothing. I’m sure that offends you, but I clearly don’t have issues with any of it.”

“The length of your hair doesn’t define you.”

“Neither does the size of your muscles or the ink on your skin … yet you have both. Did you know there have been comprehensive studies on narcissism, and the results show men are far more narcissistic than women? The stereotypical link between vanity and femininity is just that … a stereotype. Look, he’s strong, powerful, and in shape. He’s stylish and sexy. She, on the other hand, is self-absorbed, vain, materialistic, and fake.”

“Hmm …”

I wait for him to give me more than a contemplative hum. Nope. That’s it.

“Long day. I’m tired.” He eases me out of his lap.

I straighten my hoodie and reach for my hair to smooth it, stopping just shy of actually touching the short ends. Old habits. Jake doesn’t miss it. He mirrors my weak smile.

“Do your thing.” He nods toward the tent. “I’ll put out the fire and lock up the truck.”

“Okay,” I say with crippled confidence—fully clothed yet completely naked.

The next morning I wake up first after a restless night of sleep. I can’t help it that I like beds, air-conditioning, and guys who are transparent. Seriously, I’m traveling with a walking unsolved mystery. Does he hate me? Love me? Lust me? Want to kill me? Want to fuck me? I have absolutely no clue. He had me in tears yesterday for so many reasons.

I’m emotionally ripped into a million pieces at this point. If I had a mirror, I’m certain I wouldn’t recognize the reflection in it.