CHAPTER 12 | Dallas
?CHAPTER 12
Dallas
T he oven beeps to let me know it’s preheated. There’s a muffled cry down the hall as I pull the pizza out of the freezer. I pause, making sure I’m hearing correctly. Another sobbing moan and I can tell it’s coming from the bathroom. Abby. She’s been through absolute hell in just two days.
Another cry and I’m transported back to the day after we found out my brother Cole died. Rose was in the bathroom doing the same thing. I hid my head under my pillow like a child as Mom tried to comfort her through the locked bathroom door. Eventually, she unlocked it, allowing Mom to just sit with her in the sadness. They cried together, and I cried on my bed, listening to the faint sniffles and whines. Dad tried to comfort me, but I pushed him away. I wanted to be alone. To cry alone. And honestly, punch my pillows as hard as I could, secretly wishing they were both something harder and maybe even Cole himself. Maybe that’s part of the reason Dad’s been so distant because I kept pushing him away. No. He should have been there. He should have tried harder. And he should be here now. He’s supposed to be the adult in this relationship.
I wonder if Abby would rather be alone right now, or if I should go check on her. Earlier she wanted my company, but maybe she wants solitude right now. I sigh, contemplating my next move. I place the frozen pizza on the stovetop and move to the bathroom door. I raise my knuckles to knock but hesitate. I need to at least offer to help, whatever that may look like.
I knock softly on the bathroom door, and follow it with a soft “Abby?” She doesn’t answer but I hear the sobbing pause for a second before it continues. “Abby, are you okay?” Stupid question, dumbass. She’s in there crying. But to my surprise, she answers me.
Through her sobs she responds with a simple “No,” but it sounds like a plea for help.
Going against everything I’ve been taught, I turn the handle, letting myself into the dense fog of the bathroom. The light above the shower reveals her silhouette sitting on the floor of the tub through the frosty curtain.
Before I realize what I’m doing, I turn the water off and wrap a towel around her. She hugs her legs, her forehead resting on her knees. She’s shaking, her back occasionally rising with quick sudden bursts to fill her lungs. Small moans escape her lips as deep guttural cries rip from her chest.
I sit on the edge of the tub, resting a hand on her back. Her black hair has already soaked the back of the towel, so I quickly run to grab a new one and encourage her to get out of the tub. She’s still in the same spot when I return so I hold a hand out, waiting for her to take hold. She stands up with the soaked towel wrapped around her torso. She hesitates before gripping my hand tightly and steps out of the tub. I offer the new towel to replace the wet one and turn around, giving her some space.
Her hand wraps around my stomach to grab a fist full of my shirt, which forces me to spin around. Her head meets my chest as the sobs continue. Her damp hair seeps into the fibers of my shirt. Instinctively, I wrap my arms around her, pulling her tight to me, letting her cry for as long as she needs. Minutes pass before she pulls away, but the redness of her face tells me just how much pain she’s in. She looks at the mirror across from her, staring at her reflection. She searches for me in the reflection, meets my eyes, and holds them. Hers show how deep her sorrow goes, and at the same time, they beg for help.
As much as I don’t want to leave her alone in here, I interrupt the silence. “Why don’t you get dressed? I haven’t put the pizza in yet, so I’ll go do that real quick. I can wait outside the door until you’re done.”
“Okay.” She lets go with a long breath.
Closing the door behind me feels like the hardest thing I’ve done all day. I quickly place the pizza in the oven, set a timer on my phone, and move back to the bathroom. I lean my back against the wall next to the door. Hearing her moving around eases my mind a little, knowing she’s not still staring in the mirror. When she reappears, she’s dressed in a pair of black flowy shorts and a black band tee. Her hair remains messy and tangled, but the makeup that was running down her face has been wiped away.
“Where’s your brush?” I ask calmly.
“In my bag.” She tips her head toward my room.
“I’ll be right back.” She nods and watches me disappear to grab it. When I return with the black hairbrush in hand, she’s in the same spot where I left her. I offer a hand, and she takes it graciously. I lead her to the living room and encourage her to sit on the ottoman.
Without questioning it, she takes a seat in the middle of the gray cushion sitting crisscross. I place myself behind her on the couch and begin brushing her hair, working from the ends to the roots. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s calming, sedative almost, as the repeated motions seem to soothe her racing pulse. Her breathing evens out. She even stops picking at her fingers and chooses to sit on her hands instead. I’ll take that as a win.
When my phone alarm goes off, I curse myself for giving me a reason to leave this serene moment. But I can’t let the pizza burn. So, I set the brush down next to her and go get the pizza out of the oven. She breaks the silence as I set the pan on a hot pad.
“Where did you learn to brush long hair? Or hair in general, I guess,” she asks, watching me intently.
“My sister. She used to have really long hair. When my brother died, I used to help her in situations like this. Her depression got so bad that getting out of bed at the time was an accomplishment, so I would offer to brush her hair to keep it from getting too tangled.” I can feel her eyes staring at me, but I can’t bring myself to meet hers.
“Oh,” she pauses, and she looks deep in thought as I approach her again. “I’m so sorry.”
“No, it’s okay. It’s been a year. I’ve had some time to process,” I say as I slide back in behind her.
“How did he die?” she asks. She shifts on the ottoman, letting her feet hang off the edge, her toes barely touching the floor. She keeps her eyes forward, staring at the blank wall ahead of her. “Only if you want to answer. You don’t have to.”
I guide the brush gently through her hair again as I put the words together. “It was a uh ...” I start but hesitate as the words I haven’t spoken in almost a year stall on my tongue. “He was drunk, and driving, and hit a light pole at an absurdly high rate of speed.” I pause to take a deep breath. Abby doesn’t speak but she takes a deep breath with me. “Some say it was suicide, others say it was an accident. I don’t know which one I believe, but I haven’t had an ounce of alcohol in almost a year.”
“Were you close?”
“Yeah. Cole, Rose, and I are only a year apart. We grew up very close. We used to go to parties together all the time even though we were all underage. I used to be a huge partier, but when Cole died it changed our whole family. So now I’m a sober bartending college kid.” I smile at my own joke.
I hear a chuckle from her and it eases my nerves. Running the brush through her damp hair a few more times, I pull it back to settle behind her shoulders. “Thanks,” she says when I hand the brush back to her.
“Of course.” I stand to go cut the pizza and grab us a few pieces. She takes her plate and moves to sit next to me on the couch, scooting closer until a feathery touch of her thigh next to mine paired with that smile forces my pulse into next year. I cover my lap with my plate, the sweats I’m wearing not providing me any help. Not the time, dude. “You want to watch anything in particular?” I ask, grabbing the TV remote in hopes of distracting myself.
“I’m good with anything though bad reality TV is my guilty pleasure.” She laughs through a mouth full of pizza.
“Really?” I ask, a bit surprised, but hearing her laugh, even a small one, makes my heart jump. It’s the best sound I’ve heard from her all weekend. I turn the TV on and search for something to watch, landing on a show about a bunch of people living together on a beach. “How’s this?”
“Perfect.”
As the night grows darker, we finish our pizza and sink further into the couch. She shifted to lying her head on my lap, her legs now tucked into her stomach, hugging the knitted blanket that covers everything but her head.
Abby relaxes with each passing hour. There is nothing I’d rather be doing than this, my hand tangled in her hair, her giggles at the people arguing on TV. Is this what true butterflies are supposed to feel like? Like you’re floating? Like you can’t release the energy radiating from your stomach?
“Can I stay here?” Abby asks suddenly, looking up at me. God, those eyes do something to my head.
“As in, move in?” I clarify, my heart leaping from my chest.
“Yeah, I need somewhere to stay. I can’t stay at my apartment. The thought of going back there terrifies me,” she says, playing with a frayed edge of the blanket.
“Absolutely. I’ve been hoping you’d say yes, but I didn’t want to be too pushy. I don’t think Logan will mind. You’ll be safe here. You can take the spare room, decorate it however you like, and we can even pound nails into the walls if you want.” When she lets out a small laugh, I ease a little knowing it was my doing. Logan might mind, but I’m not giving him a choice. “We’ll get some things for your room this week.” I can’t help the obnoxious smile on my face and force my heart to settle.
“Okay,” is all she says, before she focuses back on the TV and I force myself to do the same, not wanting to think too much into it.
Her breathing evens out after a while. It grows shallow as she drifts off to sleep. I run a hand through her hair in an attempt to soothe any remaining thoughts she might be battling. I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and lean my head against the back of the couch.
It felt good to open up to someone other than Rose and Logan. They’ve heard me talk about Cole more times than I can count. I know Rose would never get tired of talking about him, but I don’t know about Logan. He may be my best friend, but he can’t be the only other person I vent to. His life feels perfect in my eyes since the only things he complains about are school, his parents, and sometimes girls. The vulnerability tonight is all new to me, from both ends.
The front door clicks and Logan walks in, carrying a duffle bag and his backpack. The absolute confusion on his face when he sees Abby lying on me could have been humorous if the past two days hadn’t been as crazy as they were. Before he says anything, I shush him with a finger to my lips and hold up that same finger, telling him to wait a minute. I carefully move the pillow under Abby’s head to rest on the couch. After successfully keeping her asleep, I follow Logan into his room where he starts unpacking.
“Okay ... um ...” He clasps his hands together. “Who?” His eyes scrunch as he waits for me to explain.
“Well, first of all, welcome home,” I start but he quickly cuts me off.
“No, no, no. Nice try, but we’re not going to just ignore the fact that you had a girl asleep on your lap out there,” he says, pointing towards the living room. “You’ve never brought someone back here. Not even Aubrey. So, I say again, who?”
I take a deep breath, preparing for the coming story. “So, you remember that girl we helped at the party?” He cocks his head giving me a knowing look. “Yeah, she’s still here. Her name is Abby.” I go on to tell Logan about the last couple of days and the abundance of information that follows has him in disbelief. He doesn’t stop me to ask questions. He simply listens, taking it all in.
When I finish, he sighs, shakes his head a bit, and takes a moment to process. His brows furrow. “I told you on Friday, and I’ll tell you again, I still don’t like this. But at the same time, you’re telling me, the asshole that beat her, and the asshole that broke into her apartment are still walking around as free men?”
“Unfortunately. If it were up to me, they wouldn’t be able to walk anymore. But Abby begged me not to call the cops. She’s terrified. Of everything. She doesn’t want to go back to her apartment. I don’t want her to either. She doesn’t even want to be alone here. She tagged along with me at work this morning.” I shrug, but honestly, I’m terrified for her. “I can protect her. I have to. I don’t know what’s gotten into me, but everything in my being is telling me to protect this girl.”
Logan runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck, dude. That’s a lot to deal with in two days.”
“I’m just glad she’s sleeping right now. I don’t think she’s gotten much sleep the last two nights. Or maybe she’s sleeping better than she ever has because she’s so exhausted. Either way, she needs the rest.”
He starts to put the rest of his things away, tossing his dirty clothes into the ever-growing pile in the corner of his room. The chair the pile balances on might collapse at any moment. “She’s okay, though?” he asks, pausing for my answer.
“She’s got a bruise on her cheek from her ex. I saw a few other bruises on her wrists, too. I’m assuming those are also from him.”
“What the fuck, man. How in the actual hell does anyone think that’s okay?” He tosses his empty duffel bag into his closet before sitting on his bed; a creak from the springs sounds underneath him.
“I don’t know. But I can tell you one thing. That fucker ever comes anywhere near her ever again, Abby won't be the one getting beaten.”
“Ooh, can I help?” Logan asks, jumping up and down like a child getting a new toy.
I laugh but shush him, glancing at the closed door where Abby is hopefully still sleeping on the other side. “Gladly.” I smile, standing up to leave. “It’s late. I should get Abby into bed.” I turn to leave but catch Logan’s mischievous smile from the corner of my eye.
“Get your mind out of the gutter. We’re not sleeping in the same bed. I’ve been sleeping on the floor or the couch. Oh, and by the way, she’s moving into the spare bedroom.” I step out of the room before he can say anything. He peaks his head around the corner, holding his hands out in confusion. He shoots me a brash eye roll before disappearing back into his bedroom.
Thankfully, Abby is still sleeping, hugging the pillow tightly though she looks a little cold. I kneel in front of her, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Hey,” I whisper, continuing when she wakes a little, “do you want to sleep here or in bed?”
“Mmm, probably bed.” As we wander to the bedroom, she pauses in front of the door. “Did you lock the front door?”
“I did. I’ll check it again before I fall asleep. By the way, Logan is home. He’s in his room. I’ll introduce you two tomorrow. It’s late. You should get some sleep.” She looks behind her at the door one more time before continuing into the bedroom.
Once she’s comfortable under the covers, the couch calls my name, so I strip down to just my sweats. I check the front door one more time to feel the resistance on the deadbolt and confirm it’s locked. I sleep with my head facing the front door, and once I’m satisfied I can keep her safe, I drift off to sleep. I hope her dreams are a sweet escape from reality.