9
Skye
Irace through the hallway leading to the fellowship hall, my boots echoing with every step. Breath catches in my throat, and my lungs burn. Jesus holds his hands in prayer for me as I pass. Prayers won’t help me.
I reach the closed double doors and push them open. They crash into the wall, freezing everyone in place. All eyes turn to me, and my cheeks flush with heat.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Mr. Andrews as I take a seat beside that weird dude who gave me a ride home. He gives me a dirty look and I curl my lip at him. I actually tried to make it on time tonight.
I slip my backpack off my shoulders and drop it to the ground. It makes a sound like a brick colliding with concrete. Worse, everyone is still staring at me.
Once the echoing sounds trail off, Mr. Andrews continues his session. He clears his throat. “Well, Skye, do you want to share what happened to you this week?”
Hard no. I shake my head and drop my gaze.
“Well, can you take your sunglasses off, at least? It’s winter, nighttime, and we’re inside.”
“I would prefer to leave them on,” I tell him with a fake smile.
Mr. Andrews opens his mouth to push harder, but the dude beside me sits up taller and clears his throat.
“I’ll say what happened to me this week,” he says.
“Well, Kevin, I’d love to hear.” Mr. Andrews inclines his head toward him with a smile.
Kevin. That’s his name.
He hesitates. “I don’t really know what to say. The only thing I can think of is that I didn’t bring my flask with me this time.” He spreads his jacket. “So that’s a thing, I guess.”
“That’s really great, Kevin. Why do you think you didn’t bring it?”
“Because I drank enough before I came here,” Kevin says with a chuckle.
Mr. Andrews exhales. A hint of a laugh almost tempts my lips to spread. It’s not lost on me that he only did this to draw Mr. Andrews’ attention away from me.
“Real funny, Mr. Marino.” He swivels his head. “Anyone else?”
One kid joined a methadone program. Another got a job. Me? I cut myself more than ever and got my face busted up. What a productive week.
The session finally ends, and I pick up my backpack as everyone else gets up to leave. I catch Mr. Andrews’ eyes, and he motions me toward him. I walk over, dragging my feet against the ground. As everyone files through the double doors to freedom, anxiety floods me.
“Is everything okay? You seem disjointed. More disconnected than last week.”
I squint my eyes at him, but he probably can’t see them through my large, dark sunglasses. “I’m fine.”
“Will you take off your glasses?”
“No.”
A look of sympathy washes across his face, and his lips draw into a frown. He knows. He clearly knows. He’s not stupid. Despite that, he doesn’t push it. Instead, he makes a note in my folder.
I swing my backpack over my shoulder and give him a quick wave before slipping into the hallway. I walk straight into the broad chest of that guy, Kevin.
“Stalker much?” I say.
He recoils from my words. “Don’t be a dick. I just wanted to see if you’d like a ride home again.”
I peer through the glass doors. Snow pounds against the windows, the flakes melting against their heat. “I guess.”
I follow him to the car, climb into the passenger seat, and put my backpack between my legs. A shiver crawls through me as the fans send icy air across my skin. Kevin rubs his hands together as the car begins to warm up. I try to fasten my seatbelt, but it stops short. No matter how much I tug, I can’t get it around me.
“It’s janky sometimes,” he says as he leans over me and fumbles with it. He tugs at it the same way I did, yanking it back and forth and side to side.
His breath rolls over mine, smelling like spearmint and alcohol. His biceps flex with the effort, his strength apparent in each quiver of his muscles. In his violent tugging, he knocks my face with his elbow, sending my glasses into the dark abyss of the backseat.
No. No. No.
I reach back and feel around behind me while tactfully covering the left side of my face with my hair. He finally gets the seat belt to unlock and hands it to me.
His mouth drops open, and I shield my face with my hand. He grabs my wrist and pulls it away. I know what he sees—yellowish purple bruises beneath my eye, spreading nearly to the bridge of my nose. He flips on the overhead light, grabs my chin, and turns my face to him. I try to pull out of his grasp. I don’t like being touched.
“Who did this to you?”
“No one.” I push his hand away.
“Someone did. Who?” His tone is firmer this time.
“I said no one. I hit my face on my dresser.” I lift my chin with confidence. I’m not necessarily lying. This particular bruise wasn’t from me, but I’ve spent a good portion of my life injuring myself.
Kevin deflects my response. “Is it a boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Is it someone in your family?”
He must have noticed the slight tremble in my lower lip as I cut my eyes, because he shakes his head. Kevin puts the car in reverse and leaves the parking lot, turning right instead of left.
“Dude, my house is that way,” I say, pointing in the other direction.
“I know.”
Panic tightens around my empty stomach. “This is kidnapping, you know.”
“I know. I just want to get a look at you, and I can’t in this car.”
He isn’t going to get a look at any part of me.
* * *