Page 21 of Brash for It
“Morning,” I greet, neutral.
“Morning.”Her voice is scratchy.“Did I—did I drool on you?”
I laughed.“Wouldn’t be the worst thing that ever happened in that bed.”
She snorts, surprised, a quick flash of a sound that makes my ribcage feel bigger on the inside.She crosses to the table, fingers skimming the chair back like she’s testing the world for sharp edges before she sits.She looks at the mug like it might bite.“I take…,” then she pauses thinking, “whatever you made, it will be perfect.”
“That works.”I slide the mug toward her.She wraps both hands around it for the heat.She doesn’t drink.She just holds.
“You got people who need to know where you are?”I ask curious about her situation and support system.I keep my tone like I’m asking about the weather.
She shakes her head.“I had… someone.And then I had no one.”The words stumble out but she doesn’t apologize for it.“I didn’t realize how… well how everything was until it wasn’t.I don’t even know if that gate code thing was a mistake or if he—” She swallows rolling her eyes.“No, he did it on purpose.Of course he did.”
“Yeah.”I watch her because watching is sometimes better than talking.“We can go by later in daylight.You don’t want to catch a trespass charge because you got feelings.”
The corner of her mouth twitches.“You say ‘feelings’ like it’s a disease I caught.”
“Might be.”
She sips.Grimaces.“You drink coffee like it owes you money.”
“You want milk?”I nudge the carton toward her with a finger.“Sugar?”
She doctors it until she has completely changed the drink.The color moves asphalt to caramel and only then does she stop adding shit.She takes another sip and nods.“Better.”
“Eat?”I open the cabinet and pull down two packets of oatmeal because it’s what I have, and because when my mother drops off groceries, she buys things that have instructions printed on the side for men who pretend they don’t need them.“Maple or apple.”
“Apple,” she says, like the choice makes her feel human again.
We eat at the table with spoons and quiet.She glances up at the map on the wall.“Where have you been?”she asks, not like a test but like a person imagining a different kind of life.
“Here,” I say, dry, and then add, because she’s earned information, “Coast.Mountains.All over the Carolinas pretty regularly.Down to Georgia steady enough.Been to every state except Alaska, Hawaii, Nebraska, and Oregon.Road trips are the thing that calms me.Rooms with bad art are cheap and I don’t ever stay long enough to care about anything other than a bed and a shower.”
She studies my face like she’s trying to memorize a version of me that isn’t a rumor.“Do you ever get lonely?Or do you travel with the Hellions always?”
“Sometimes I’m with them.”I don’t sugar it.“Sometimes I’m alone.I don’t mind being alone.You?”
She barks a laugh that has something sharp under it.“Always.Isn’t that funny?House full of things, bank account that never said no, and I was… alone.You don’t see it until you’re standing on the curb watching a truck carry off your car because someone changed a code you didn’t even know you needed to ask for.”
I nod once like I’m agreeing with a sermon I didn’t expect to like.“Yeah.”
She pushes the empty bowl back, hands folding in her lap like a woman ready to take a verdict.“What happens now?”
“Now we go get your stuff,” I say.“You need clothes.Phone.Papers.Whatever you can carry that’s not going to put you in handcuffs.You pack it in a bag.If we have to talk to someone, I talk.You don’t.You keep your hands visible and your chin up.”
“Are we… is that legal?”
“Depends on the lock and how you want to define legal.”I meet her eyes so she sees I’m not joking about the important part.“We don’t break in.We don’t break anything.You push the call button until somebody answers, and you ask to come get your belongings.If they say no, we call a cop and ask them to walk you through it.They don’t like us but they like paperwork less.They’ll do it if it gets them home sooner.”
Her shoulders loosen by increments.The plan gives her something to lean on.
Good.
Plans are bridges to walk over panic.
I stand and clear bowls.She starts to stand too.
“Sit,” I say.“I’ll get your dress from last night.It’s dry.”
