“Who’s Jessie?”
“She’s like me. Her body keeps rejecting the treatments. So she’s been in and out for months. She was trapped in a house fire. Arson. Her father. He’s in jail. Mom’s getting counseling. At first, Jessie was a wreck. Now she says the burns were the price of getting her and her mom free of the asshole. She’s fifteen, by the way. Older, though. The stuff she’s been through ages you.”
“I guess so.”
“This center only handles burns covering up to thirty percent of the body. More, and they get sent somewhere else, usually San Antonio. Jessie’s just under the limit. Her arm, the side of her face, part of her torso. She’s great. You’ll like her.”
They’d reached the playroom, a large, glassed-in open area with toys designed mostly for toddlers. There was an easel with a pad of large drawing paper, like the kind used in corporate meetings. A tall, slim girl stood there in hospital scrubs sketching, her dark curly hair pinned up—except for the red, raw area of her scalp where no hair grew.
From where she stood, Beverly could see the violent scarring on her neck that presumably descended beneath the scrub shirt. And when Griffin stepped into the room and she turned, Beverly had to force herself not to flinch in sympathy and sadness. The burns covered a pattern similar to Griffin’s, though more of Jessie’s mouth was impacted. A sad fact that affected her speech, Beverly realized, when the girl turned to Griffin and slurred her cry of, “You’re here!”
“Hey, Jess. I want you to meet my girlfriend, Beverly.”
Jess’s eyes went wide. “I know you! I saw you in Suburban Love Story. You’re amazing!”
Beverly laughed. “Thanks. That’s really nice of you to say.” She nodded at the drawing—a portrait of Jessie, but without the burns. “I’d say you’re pretty amazing, too. That’s an incredible drawing.”
“Too bad life really doesn’t imitate art, huh?”
“You’re still pretty, Jess,” Griffin said. “Don’t let it beat you down.”
She rolled her eyes. “Pretty on the inside, you mean.”
“And the outside. I mean, hell. Who decided what pretty was? I say we make up our own definition.”
Jess shot a glance toward Beverly. “He’s so freaking Pollyanna,” she said, and Beverly had to hold her tongue as she shot Griff a questioning look. He was saying to Jess the things she said to him.
Griffin, probably wisely, averted his eyes.
It quickly became clear that the two knew each other well and they caught up on the news of her treatments, her mother’s adjustment, and what was in store next. Soon Beverly joined in and they moved on to fashion and movies and boys.
“I got into the Devinger protocol,” Jessie said to Griffin after they’d been chatting for a while. “Thanks for writing the letter.”
“No problem. You need anything else?”
“Just luck. Another skin graft scheduled for tomorrow. They’re hoping it’ll take better. My boob,” she added to Beverly with an eyeball roll, and Beverly was once again amazed by the kid’s attitude.
“Sending you lots of that,” Beverly said. “I’m glad to have met you, Jessie.”
“Yeah, me too. And thanks in advance for the picture and the DVD. You won’t forget? And you’ll sign them?”
“I won’t forget,” she promised, then held her smile until they were out of the room and safely in the elevator.
Then she stopped fighting and let the tears flow. “She’s got such a great attitude,” she said, when she could force words past the lump in her throat.
“She does,” Griffin agreed. “Now, anyway. When I met her five months ago, she hardly talked.”
Beverly paused, staying on the elevator despite the now-open door. “That’s because of you. You told her all the right things.”
“I wanted to help.”
“You told her the truth, you know,” she said gently. “I mean, one day maybe you should take a mirror with you.”
“Beverly…”
She shrugged and said no more. But she’d planted the seed. Because deep inside, he obviously realized that the way to really move forward was to quit hiding. He just needed to practice what he preached.
“Any chance there’s ice cream in our future?” he asked. “There’s an Amy’s Ice Cream not too far away.”
“I’m always down for Mexican Vanilla,” she said as her phone chimed to signal a text. She pulled it out of her purse and glanced at it as they walked, then came to a dead stop.
“It’s from Evelyn,” she told him. “She says, Sorry. And there’s an attachment.”
Their eyes met.
“Open it,” he said.
She hesitated, then did as he asked.
And there it was, a screenshot from Twitter. The image of her and Griffin on the sidewalk near the Paramount. And underneath it, the words: Martin’s Mystery Man Identified: Griffin Blaize. Podcaster. Screenwriter. Fourth-degree Burn Survivor.