Page 83 of Married to Number 22
“Do you have a minute?” she asks after waving me to a stop.
I nod. “Of course. What’s up?”
“It’s Bri.”
Damn. After what happened at Kathy’s and Matt’s, I didn’t have a chance to catch up with her—by the time I got here, she was gone and she hasn’t been in since. “Right,” I say. “How can I help?”
“She finally came back in today, and she doesn’t look good,” Marissa murmurs. “She’s covered in bruises and if she had a full meal in the last two weeks, I’d be shocked.”
Less damn and moreshit. “Is she talking to anyone?”
A shake of her head. “No,” Marissa says on a sigh. “She just clams up every time someone asks—just gets her food, gets her shower and a few nights of good sleep, and then, she’s gone again.”
I exhale. “Right,” I whisper. “I’ll try to talk to her.”
“She can have a permanent bed here if she wants. And there’s an opening at the bakery—it’s just for sales during the morning shift, but if she has an interest in something in particular, we can work toward making that happen,” Marissa tells me, and God, this is why I love this place. We do our best to change things, to make good happen.
“Right,” I say. “I’ll see if she’s open to any of that.”
“Thanks, Luna.”
I nod and exchange my goodbyes then head through the double doors that lead to the youth center.
Bri’s in her usual corner, curled in on herself as she reads a book.
And the sight of the bruise on her cheekbone makes me want to commit murder—here I am worried about rich people problems of inheritance and company control, and she’s living a nightmare.
I push down the guilt, the fury, and pause near an open chair next to her. “Cool if I sit here?”
She jumps, eyes flicking up from the book for only a second before they go right back to the page—and Christ, the bruise is bad. So bad it starts my rage boiling again.
“Whatever,” she says after a long moment.
Not exactly a ringing endorsement, but I take the empty chair, pick up the book I started the last time Bri and I sat here, exactly like this, words few and far between—but still more with me than anyone else—and begin reading.
The book is a good one, a young adult novel featuring a broody hero, a sassy heroine, and there’s plenty of magic, yearning and angst, and kickass fight scenes.
So even though it takes a full chapter for Bri to break, I’m not impatient.
“You don’t have to do this, you know?” she mutters.
I keep my place on the page with a fingertip and glance over at Bri. “Clue me in on what exactly it is that I’m doing?”
“Trying to make sure I’m okay.” She lifts one bony shoulder then drops it. “I’m fine.”
“Aside from the fact that you have a bruise the size of a grapefruit on your cheek?”
Her shoulders hitch up and she scowls. “It’s nothing.”
“It’ssomething,” I tell her. “But, as always, you don’t have to share anything you don’t want to.” Those shoulders relax slightly and she exhales in relief. “There’s a bed here that can be yours permanently, and a job in the bakery if you want it.”
Something flickers through her eyes and I think, for a second, that I’m actually getting through to her.
Then she shrugs, says, “I’m fine.”
I stifle a sigh, but know that little flicker in her eyes is a chip in the thick shield around her, that I’m slowly getting through, that eventually we’ll get somewhere.
Eventually.
