Chapter Six
Eliana
Zoya hadn’t spoken, not yet, but she had started to communicate more in other ways.
She talked to me through color and shape, through the soft scratch of crayons and pencils across paper.
Her drawings told me the stories she couldn’t or wouldn’t say out loud, not yet.
And damn if they didn’t break my heart a little bit every time she handed me one with that adorable, pride-filled smile.
This afternoon, we sat side by side at the kitchen table with the late sun spilling over our sketchpads.
Zoya was focused with her tongue pressed between her teeth as she filled the page with shades of blue, orange, and pink.
When she finished, she nudged it towards me with a shy smile.
It was two figures, a kid and an adult with dark, curly hair.
It was me and Zoya, wearing huge smiles as the sun beamed down over us.
All around us was green grass for as far as the eye could see and too many butterflies to count. It was… stunningly beautiful.
I swallowed around the giant lump of emotion that had formed in my throat. “You drew us?”
Zoya nodded, pigtails swinging.
“Wow,” I said softly. “You made us look so happy.” I wasn’t even sure I’d been that happy in a long, long time.
Her mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close enough that I considered it a win. Her reluctant smiles reminded me so much of her grumpy father that it made me smile. She might not be communicating with her words, but she modeled him in enough ways that she was becoming easier to read.
But the thing that kept me up at night, the thing that wouldn’t let my brain have a moment of peace was the why.
Selective mutism was a trauma response, yet Sledge seemed to have no idea what happened to Zoya.
I wanted to use my research skills to figure it out, but I also didn’t want to pry into details that he hadn’t shared with me yet.
The man had his reasons, even if I disagreed with them.
The other part was that I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know the details of what his biker buddies had gotten up to that made Zoya lose her voice. I wondered again about her mom. Sledge had never talked about her. It really wasn’t my business, but I needed answers if I was going to help her.
And I was.
No matter what her grumpy but hot father thought.
Zoya watched me carefully as if she was looking for any signs that I wasn’t being honest with her.
I offered up another smile and tried a different tactic. “Your eyes are the exact same shade of hazel as your dad’s, have you noticed?”
She didn’t answer but I had her attention.
“I got my brown eyes from my mami, though my dad calls them golden brown because that makes them sound prettier, I guess. To me they’ve always been just brown.
But I got these wild curls that no hair product on the planet can tame, from him.
” I hoped sharing the details would encourage Zoya to share because I craved the details that would let me help this sweet little girl.
She flipped the page and started drawing again, so I did the same, focusing this time on Zoya as she drew. She was such a study in contrast, so light and delicate on the outside, but something dark lurked inside and it was a heavy burden she felt forced to carry.
We drew in silence for a long time, but my curiosity got the best of me, and I almost wished it hadn’t.
Zoya’s new artwork wasn’t colorful like the others, but it was still full of life, but the dark and dirty side of life.
The scene was gray and red and black, the lines were jagged and rushed, as if she couldn’t get the image out of her mind fast enough.
When she finished, she slid the pad over again, but she didn’t look at me this time.
The image was shocking. A stick-thin woman with long, stringy blonde hair stood alone in the middle of the page.
Her arms and legs were too thin underneath her cut-off shorts and black tank top.
Her blue eyes were filled in with deep, angry slashes of red.
Above her head, in shaky block letters was just one word, ‘Mommy’.
Behind the woman was a figure I couldn’t quite make out.
It was almost like a man made of smoke. It wasn’t clear what it was supposed to be, but every instinct in me said it wasn’t good.
I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, so I kept my voice light. “Is this your mom?” I asked in a gentle tone.
Zoya nodded, her grip on the black crayon so hard her little knuckles had turned white.
Poor thing was a ball of stress. I flipped the pages of my sketchpad until I found what I was looking for.
“This is my mami,” I said, showing her a drawing of my mother laughing.
“This is her laughing at something one of my ridiculous brothers said or did. I have four brothers in total but one is no longer with us, and they’re always doing silly things. ”
She couldn’t look away, so interested in every detail it practically vibrated off her delicate shoulders.
“She makes the best tortillas, fresh every single day. And she gives the best hugs.” I watched her study the details with her head slightly tilted as if she had a million questions but no way to ask them.
“She’d love to meet you, I’m sure. She’s always hounding my brothers about giving her grandchildren because she loves little kids. Maybe…” I paused, hesitating for only a second. “Maybe we can go to my family restaurant for tacos. You like tacos, don’t you? I mean I think everybody loves tacos.”
Zoya lit up with a real smile that went all the way up to those gorgeous hazel eyes.
“I guess that means it’s a date.” I held up my hand and without hesitation, she smacked my palm with hers.
It was another win that I accepted with an easy smile. In an effort to lighten the mood, I closed my sketchpad. “How would you feel about doing a different type of art?”
She blinked once, slowly.
I accepted that as interest. “Have you ever done fingerpainting before? I used to do it all the time when I was younger, and I loved it because it’s messy and all about colors.”
Zoya thought about it for a long minute before nodding her approval.
I set up easels on the back porch once our clothes were covered with oversized smocks, and we spent more than an hour lost in the spectrum of colors. We ate an early dinner before retiring to her room with a giant picture book that she pretended to read.
She was still there when her father arrived home, gruff, dirty, and still wearing that perpetual frown he wore like armor. I stood at the sink cleaning art supplies, while his boots sounded on the way to Zoya’s room. “Hey,” I said, minutes later when I felt his presence behind me in the kitchen.
“Hey,” he grunted out. “How’d it go today?”
“Zoya had a good day today,” I began, drying my hands as I turned to face him.
I told myself not to poke the bear. Tonight he had that storm cloud energy that said any disturbance in the atmosphere could turn it into a full-blown storm.
I should’ve listened to the alarm bells, but I needed to talk to him about what Zoya drew.
I watched Sledge carefully, noticing the exhaustion that outlined his eyes and mouth. “Is everything okay?”
He nodded, scrubbing one hand over his face as he dropped down into the nearest chair. “Yeah, long day.”
“Do you have a minute to talk?” I asked. I figured he’d be more amenable to conversation if I fed him, so I grabbed the broccoli mac and cheese from the oven and set it in front of him.
“Yeah, I guess,” he said, accepting the fork with a half-smile. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I sighed, taking the seat across from him. “Zoya and I were chatting today about mothers. Mine and hers.”
His brows shot up. “She told you about her?”
I nodded. “A little. Well, she drew her. Blonde. Thin. Red eyes.” I hesitated. “I’m not trying to pry, but I need to know if there’s anything I should be aware of. Something that might upset her if I bring it up.”
“Trish won’t be around,” he snapped, his brows so pinched I thought his face might crack. “So you don’t need to worry about it.”
I bit back the sigh that crawled up my throat.
Sledge was instinctively defensive, his responses sharp and impossible.
“I’m really not trying to get in your business, Sledge.
But something made your daughter stop talking.
I don’t want to stumble into it by accident.
So if you don’t want to tell me details, just tell me if there’s any reason bringing up her mother might upset her? ”
His nostrils flared, I thought he was about to shout, but instead he said quietly. “Let it go.”
I stared at him and he stared back. I don’t know how long we sat there, locked in a stare that refused to free either of us.
I didn’t blink and neither did he. The tension in the room was so tight it was like another presence.
Finally I threw my hands up in frustration.
“Fine. You win, Sledge. See you tomorrow.” I pushed away from the table, said a quick goodbye to Zoya, and grabbed my things before heading out for the night.
As I walked to my car, the night air was crisp and cool, and much calmer than I felt. My shoulders dropped and I let out a long breath.
God that man was so infuriating!
He was stubborn and aloof, but there was no doubt that he loved his daughter.
Even though he tried to hide it from everyone but Zoya, it was clear in the way he looked at her, the warmth in his eyes, and that almost smile that constantly touched his lips when they shared the same space.
He loved her and he was terrified to dig deeper and find out what had caused her to stop talking.
***
I spent most of the drive home thinking about Zoya and her father. Despite his gruffness and perpetual frown there was something about him that I liked.
And not just the fact that he was smoking hot.