Page 28 of Brash for It
“I feed,” he shares without looking up.“Big difference.”
I set the bags on the chair, the new tote on the table.He turns, takes me in as if tallying.His eyes catch on the sneakers.He nods once.“Good choice.”
“I bought… some things.”My voice sounds shy around the edges, like I’m at a school show-and-tell.“And a jacket.And a notebook.”
“The notebook’s important.”He points with the wooden spoon at my tote.“Write it down or forget it the next minute.”
I grin despite the day.“I didNext Thingswith caps.”I tell him proudly or foolishly.
“Good.”He twists the burner to low and wipes his hands, then gestures toward the table.“Eat.Then we talk about what you want in this life.”
The bowl he sets in front of me is pasta with red sauce that tastes sweet and savory like he cooked it all day and I know he didn’t.I want to cry because it is the opposite of everything I used to eat with a man who critiqued plate presentation.
I don’t cry.
No, I let the aroma hit my belly and I eat.
Across from me, Kellum does the same, and for a little while the only sound is forks and the hum of the fridge and the biggest moth outside throwing itself against the porch light like it believes it can marry the glow if it just tries hard enough.
When the plates are empty and the world has narrowed to us as the quiet settles deep, he tips his chin at my notebook.“All right, Kristen,” he begins gently.“What do you want?”
The question lands like thunder with no storm attached.I look down at the black cover of the notebook, then back up at his face.He doesn’t look like a man who will laugh if I say something stupid.He looks like a man who will sit there until I say something true.
“I don’t know,” I share, my voice is small.
“Then work backwards, start with what you don’t want.”
That’s easier.The list unfurls before my mouth even decides to move.“I don’t want to be… owned.I don’t want to be a fixture in a house.I don’t want to wake up wondering if I’m going to get punished for asking a question.I don’t want my entire identity to be someone else’s reflection.I don’t want to be quiet just because it makes a room look nicer.”
“Good,” he encourages, like I gave the right answer on a test only I knew I was taking.“What else?”
I blow out a breath.“I don’t want to owe anyone so much that they think they can pull the floor out from under me.I don’t want mirrors everywhere.”The last one slips out and we both smile, because it’s absurd and exactly right.
“Okay.”He points at the notebook again.“Put those down.”
I do, scribbling, my handwriting messier now that the engine is running.The pen digs grooves where the words feel like they need to be carved deep to make them stick.When I’m done, I sit back.The page looks like a map of dangers marked in red.
“What do you want?”he asks again, like we didn’t just go through this already.
I stare at the ceiling, at the hairline crack that runs toward the corner.“I want…” The words gather like birds in a cage trying to find their opening.“I want something I can be good at.Not decorative, not a presentation, not to be an armpiece.Useful.Purpose driven.I want to matter.I want friends.The kind who’d tow my car if I asked, not because they’re being paid, but because I needed help.I want a front door where the code doesn’t change without me.I want the ocean when I want it, not when someone else’s calendar says we’re free to experience it.”
He doesn’t interrupt.He’s still in a chair.The kind that gives you permission to keep going.
“I want to wake up and not be afraid I said the wrong sentence yesterday.”I laugh once, a small, ugly sound.“I want to learn how to fix something, with my hands, even if it’s just a shelf.I want to wear sneakers without feeling like I failed an invisible test.I want my phone number to be mine.I want to go to work and earn a living for myself.”
“Not bad,” he says, and there’s approval in it that doesn’t feel like a leash.“Any of that can happen.”
“How?”The word cracks with something that tastes like hope and terror in equal parts.
“Same as anything.”He taps the cover of the notebook with one finger while reading over my notes.“Steps.Next thing.You’ve got a phone.You’ve got shoes.Clothes.Those are good first pieces.Tomorrow we get you a PO box.That’s an address that can’t lock you out.We’ll hit the DMV when you’re ready and change whatever needs changing with a new address.Bank—if you’ve got your own accounts, move what you can.If you don’t, we make some.Not ideal, but doable.”
I nod, writing as he talks.The pen scratches the paper loudly.A thought hits me, and I scribble it down.Resume?
The word makes me sigh.“I don’t have a resume.”
“You’ve done things,” he says.“Maybe not on paper.You make lists.You show up.You learn.Those count more than men in ties like to admit.Meanwhile, if you need a job to stop your brain from chewing your own tail, the shop always needs help for Pami at the front desk that isn’t scared of phones or people.I’ll warn you.It’s loud.It smells like oil.People will try to talk down to you and you’ll have to learn how to shut that shit down, even from the guys.You’ll be safe.Brothers won’t let anyone put hands on you or talk too much shit.And you’ll leave and be able to leave work at work.Occasionally, you will help Maritza at the mini storage office if she’s got to step out but it’s not often.”
My head jerks up.“Are you offering me a job?”
