Page 26 of Brash for It
“You can and you will.I didn’t ask if you wanted it, I gave it to you.Darlin’ don’t ever turn away a gift in life, no matter what it is.”His eyes cut to mine, sharp enough to pin me in place.“Don’t get it twisted.I ain’t your man.I’m not buyin’ your time.You’re a human who needs shit.I’m giving you a head start.Take it.”
I swallow hard, chest tight.He says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world.Like survival is just a checklist.
“And tonight,” he adds, voice softer, “we’ll talk about what you want from life.I got shit to do.I’ll grab something for dinner and we’ll talk when I get home.Try to be back around five.If you’re gonna be late, that’s fine shoot me a text and I’ll stay at work or find shit to do ‘til you got time for me.”
The tears I’ve been holding back slip free, hot against my cheeks.I look at him, this man who should terrify me but doesn’t.He looks steady.Grounded.Like if I reach for him, he won’t let me fall.He anchors me when the waves are crashing in every direction.
I nod slowly.“Okay.
Swallowing back all the emotions, I get myself together.I don’t cry anymore.I push it back because crying seems like a luxury and I’ve spent enough energy on the wrong things.
“Go on, get dressed if you can’t eat,” Kellum states like he didn’t open the door to some unknown kingdom and turned me loose.“Keys are on the hook by the back door.Black fob with a red plastic wrap around it.”
I look toward the back door and spot the small wall-mounted board with three hooks.A house key.Two bike keys with angry little skull fobs.One black plastic car fob wrapped in red.
The stack of bills on the table stares at me like a dare.I can’t make my hand move toward it.
Kellum sighs, pushes his chair back, and flicks the wad with his finger so it slides closer across the laminate top.“Take it, Kristen.You can feel weird later.Right now we’re doing the next thing.”
“I’ll pay you back,” I blurt, because some pride is still rattling around in the corners of me.“I’m gonna get a job and I’ll pay you back for everything.”
“Okay.Or not.You do you.Whatever you need to do.It makes you feel better than sure, you need it for something later, then don’t sweat it.I’m not.”He doesn’t smile.He doesn’t soften it.Just,okay.The agreement lands like a plank over a gap.
I pick up my purse and tuck the money into the small inner pocket of my bag that used to hold a black card.The zipper feels louder than it should.I pick up the phone again and thumb the screen.His number stares up at me, labeledKellum — Cell,Kellum — Office.Kellum — ShopNo hearts.No silly emoji.Just clear, concise, and direct.
“Shit gets hard, reach out.Text me if you land somewhere,” he begins, halfway to the sink with our plates.“If your hands are shaking and you can’t type, send me a period.I’ll call.”
My laugh is a tiny hitch.“A period?”
“Simple.Universal.I’ll know you’re head’s fucked and I’ll talk you through it.”
I nod unsure what to say.He turns on the tap.I slip on my shoes—yesterday’s expensive cruelty—and wobble, then catch myself.I hate them.I hate the way they make me walk like I’m someone and need attention.
When did I become that woman?
He notices.He always seems to notice the little things.“On the list,” he states without looking at me directly.“Sensible shoes.”
The words are so hilariously unsexy that I bark out a laugh.It shakes something loose; not grief, but something that tightens up inside me.“Copy that.”I head to his room where I change into the few things I was able to get from Brian’s.I don’t think it would be acceptable for me to wear his shirt and boxers out to a store.Even if they are truly better than a snuggly blanket in comforting me in this chaos.
“Yeah, darlin’.”He glances over his shoulder at the bedroom door, “headin’ out.You forget how to get here just tap home on the navigation screen in the Tahoe.”
The SUV is not new, not spotless, and yet, it feels perfect.It smells faintly like gasoline and pine, the floor mat on the driver’s side worn shiny under the pedals.The seat is set for someone broader than me; I scoot it forward until my knees are a comfortable bend.When the engine catches, the radio murmurs low.Not a curated playlist, just local FM station.The DJ’s accent is eastern Carolina twang laced in sweet honey and sunshine.It feels casual.I like casual, I’ve missed it.
I drive.
The town looks different from this height, in this car that no one looks at.In the Porsche, the world parted for me—respectful, resentful.In the SUV, I’m one more body moving from point A to point B, and invisibility slides over me like shade.I didn’t know I missed it until now.
I point myself toward places that sell the most obvious things: underwear, socks, jeans, T-shirts.Department store or big box?The thought hovers.Brian loved high-end; he wanted me to match the home, the car, the life.Twice a year we took a trip to Dubai just to make sure he was dressed in the best possible threads and I had to match even if I always felt like this was all over my head.The labels in my closet said too much about the entitlement I was living and being away from it, I feel like a damn fool.
There’s a weird kind of freedom in turning away from the mall that smells like perfume and hair products and stepping instead into the fluorescent lights of a Target.
The automatic doors whoosh.The air is too cold.The store whispers: everything you need is here, if you can stand up and keep making decisions.
I start with a basket.It’s symbolic—less daunting than a cart—and within five minutes it’s silly because the basket is cutting into my elbow as I juggle cotton briefs and sports bras and a three-pack of plain white tees.
Eventually, I swap for a cart and keep moving.Leggings, soft denim that doesn’t scream, a gray hoodie, a black one, two tank tops, a pajama set with tiny stars because the idea of having something of my own to sleep in that isn’t borrowed makes my ribs expand.Plus, how do I know Kellum doesn’t miss his shirt?It might be one of his favorites and I’m hogging it.On a middle aisle, a display of sneakers promises comfort.I try on a pair and almost cry at the simple, stupid mercy of walking without pain.
Toiletries next.The list grows itself: shampoo that smells like vanilla, conditioner to match, a box of bar soaps because they are cheaper, some tampons, pantyliners, a brush, plain hair ties, a good face wash that doesn’t require an instruction manual, moisturizer, mascara, and a cheap tinted lip balm.
