Page 54 of False Start
Her nostrils flare when she yells out in frustration at being wet and then runs to the bathroom.
Venice looks between the two of us with wide eyes and then awkwardly finds the next person walking by to take her away from the staredown K and I seem to be locked in.
“You can’t control her.” I don’t know why I say it, but the words come out of my mouth anyway.
“I’m looking out for her.” K crosses their arms, annoyed that I’m suggesting otherwise.
“Sure, but someone like Nia doesn’t respond well to having her choices taken away from her.” I take a drink of my own beer.
“Oh, suddenly you know a lot about Nia, do you?” They suck something through their teeth and push away from the wall, walking past me and heading out the door.
I guess that’s as long as they can bear to socialize.
I won’t apologize. They can’t force her to make the right decision. They can’t take her choice away.
I don’t check to see if K’s actually left for good. Instead, I hover in front of the bathroom door, unsure if I should knock, if I should go in, or if I should just leave herthe fuck alone. She’s said nothing to me, barely a thank you after I gave her car a jump the other night.
Nia Da Silva is officially the hardest puzzle I’ve tried to solve. I’m starting to think she has no idea what she looks like when she’s whole, so how the hell is she supposed to put herself back together?
After ten minutes pass and she’s still in the bathroom, I rap my knuckles lightly against the door.
“What?”
I don’t answer for a bit. I don’t know what to say, and I’m not quite sure what I’m doing. “It’s me.”
There’s no response for a solid minute, but then I hear the click of the door unlock. Nothing else, no call to come inside, no sign from her on the other end. I open the door anyway to see her there, sitting on the closed toilet.
Her shirt is drenched in beer, her eyes red, her war paint from Slam Night streaking down her cheeks. There’s a hundred things I could ask her; she looks miserable, in pain, and not just physically. Instead, I opt for skimming the surface.
“Dry shirt?” I offer.
She doesn’t look up, but she nods and then lifts her arms, almost childlike, as she waits for me to help take hers off. It makes me wonder how she’s getting by at home, if K is helping her, if she’s hurting herself to get her basic needs taken care of. I raise the shirt and toss it into my hamper before pulling my own off and then sliding it over her head. She closes her eyes, shimming into the oversized thing and inhaling hard as it comes down.
“You look like shit.” I immediately regret my choice of words, the hurt on her face like barbed wire in my throat. “I just mean, it doesn’t look like anyone has been helping you. With anything.”
She scratches at the side of her arm, and it lasts too long for me to think it’s just nerves. “I just don’t like to be a burden.”
“You need help.” She knows I mean more than just with the wrist.
“No shit,” she whispers.
“You’re a mess. You need order, systems, routines. Your type can’t function without it.” She’s offended now, and it’s obvious on her face
Nia laughs, but it’s not from amusement. “My type?” She looks like she’s about ready to go a round with me.
“Yeah. Forgetful. Impulsive. Dopamine seeking.” She backs down once I name all her most apparent qualities. “I know because it’s my type too.”
“You seem pretty fucking together.” Her arms cross over her chest.
“It’s that or get swallowed by the chaos. We can figure out what works for you,” I tell her.
Her sigh is exhausted. “Nothing works for me.”
I lean closer and crouch down in front of her. “Stay the night.” It’s the closest I’ve ever come to begging in my entire life.
“You’re asking?” She’s finally looking at my face now.
“I’m telling.” My hands are at the tops of her thighs again, just like earlier tonight. I give the same gentle squeeze with my thumbs, and her breath hitches.
