26. Sadie
Twenty-Six
Sadie
There's a cool breeze out tonight, I always love the feeling of Fall coming. I should have brought a jacket or something to keep myself a little warm.
The walk back is slow; Miles set the pace.
He must notice that I’m cold, because I see him removing his jacket.
He stops in front of me. “I don’t need my girl getting cold on me.
” He holds out the jacket for me, and I slip my arms in and smile.
I’ve never had someone do anything like this for me, I know it’s only a small thing, but Miles is the first person to care for me and I like it.
“Thank you.”
The campus is quiet at this hour, the path between the restaurant and the residential buildings are mostly empty, and it’s really nice just having the evening for us.
“So, tell me about your brother.” I stop mid-step and he turns to face me taking a step closer. He pulls me closer, moves some of my hair out of my face, leans down and gives me a small kiss. “From today, I promise you’re not alone anymore.”
"He called me every time," I say and can hear the shake in my voice.
"For three years. Every time something got hard or expensive, or complicated he called me and I fixed it because I'm his sister and he’s the only family I have.
" I pause. "But looking after him meant I stopped thinking of myself as someone who was allowed to need things. "
"What things?" he asks.
"Just, things. Help. Someone to call when it gets hard." I look at the path ahead. "I've been the person on the other end of the phone for so long I forgot there was another end for me."
"And now?"
"Now he's figured some of it out himself." I pause. "And I don't know what to do with not being needed in that specific way anymore."
Miles is quiet for a moment. "You've been running at someone else's pace for three years, but I have a feeling you’ve been doing it a lot longer, longer than a kid should have to," he says. "It makes sense that your own pace feels unfamiliar."
I look at him. "That's… yeah." I pause. "That's exactly it actually."
"What do you want?" he asks. It’s simple, direct, and the Miles Crawford version of a question, there’s no softening, no scaffolding, just the thing itself.
"I don't know yet," I say honestly. "I'm figuring it out."
“Well, I’m here to help you figure it out.”
I look at his profile in the amber streetlight, at the bruising that's fading now, and the cut along his cheekbone which has healed to almost nothing.
It's strange, I think, how natural this feels. Talking to him like this. The Dan conversation has been sitting in me for years and I've given pieces of it to Juno, to Maya, to the girls in the way you give things to friends. This is different. This feels comfortable, and safe.
I think about Ghost saying you carry too much and I think about Miles asking what do you want and I think about how they’re the same person asking the same question in different ways.
"It's nice," I say. "Talking about him to someone who just… listens."
"You don't have to stop," he says.
"I know." I smile at the path. "That's the nice part."
He slows slightly; I notice it before I understand it. His head moves in a way that isn't part of the conversation, a small scan of the path ahead and the space to our left.
"Miles."
"Keep walking," he says. His voice hasn't changed. "Keep the same pace."
My stomach drops.
"What's…"
"Stay close to me." He reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out his phone. He types something fast, not looking at the screen, his eyes still on the path. "Get to my location." A pause. "Four, I think."
He pockets the phone. As far as I can see the path ahead is empty. The streetlight twenty meters ahead has gone out, it’s not flickering, it’s just out, which doesn’t help me calm down.
"Miles…"
They come from the left.
They’re not running, but they’re moving fast, purposeful, from the gap between the two buildings where the path narrows. There are three of them, maybe four. Are people trying to kill Miles? These men look like they’ve done this more than once.
Everything happens at once. Miles moves in front of me. One step, fast, and puts his body between me and them before I know what's happening.
The first one reaches him.
"Stop!" My voice comes out before I've decided to use it. It’s loud, and raw. "Stop it, stop…"
Nobody stops.
The first one swings, Miles ducks under it, barely, the movement so fast I almost miss it and comes up with his elbow into the man's jaw. The crack of it reaches me from three meters away. The man staggers.
The second one hits Miles from the side.
"Miles!" I scream his name and my hands fly up to my mouth and I can't move. I'm completely frozen on the path, my feet planted like someone has bolted them to the ground. "Stop it, please, STOP!"
The third one moves toward me. He’s fast, direct. His hand reaches out, Miles turns.
I don't know how he sees it, he's got two people on him, one has him by the t-shirt, the other is trying to get him to the ground, but he turns, and his hand shoots out and catches the third man's wrist before it reaches me. The force of the redirect sends the man sideways into the wall.
Then the two on Miles drag him down.
"No…" The sound that comes out of me isn't a word. It's the sound of watching something terrible happen and being completely unable to stop it. "No, please, MILES…"
He hits the ground, but he doesn't stop moving. That's what I can't stop watching, even on the ground, even with two men on him, he keeps fighting. His elbow finds someone's face. His knee comes up. He twists in a way that shouldn't be possible and gets one arm free and uses it.
He's good. He's frighteningly good. Even outnumbered, even taking hits that make me flinch, there's a precision to how he moves, there’s nothing wasted, every response is calculated.
But there are three of them. The hits land. I hear them. Each one makes something in my chest collapse slightly. His head snaps to the side. Someone's boot connects with his ribs.
"STOP IT." I'm screaming now, properly screaming, my voice tearing out of me with everything I have. "GET OFF HIM, STOP…"
The third man recovers and comes for me again.
I don't run. I don't know why I don't run, every rational thought says run, get away, find someone, but my feet won't move and my eyes won't leave Miles on the ground, and I just stand there screaming.
The third man's hand closes around my arm. It’s cold, and hard.
Then Miles is off the ground. I don't see how. One moment he's down, two men on him, and then he's not, he's up, he's got the man who grabbed me by the collar, and the look on his face is something I’ve never seen before and never want to be on the wrong side of.
He says something. It’s low, and I can't hear the words, but the man releases my arm immediately.
Then Mason and Declan come around the corner at a run.
Mason is first, his jacket gone, and he’s moving so fast as if he’s done this before and is angry about having to do it again. In his hand I see he has a baseball bat. It’s not a plain bat, there’s wire wrapped around the barrel, it’s coiled tight, and catches the amber light as he moves.
I stare at it. Declan is behind him, he’s quieter, and faster than Mason, already targeting the man nearest the wall.
Within thirty seconds, maybe less, it’s controlled violence of people who have a point to make and are making it efficiently. These brothers have done this before and are pros about it too.
Then it's over. The men leave. They’re not running, but just walking, the same way they did before, which is somehow worse than running. It’s like they're not afraid of what comes after. It’s as if they came here to make a point, and they’ve done it.
The path is quiet again and I'm shaking. I look at Miles. He's standing, he's upright, which, considering what I’ve just watched, feels like something he shouldn’t be doing. His t-shirt is torn at the shoulder. His lip is split again, there’s blood on his chin, and the bruising along his cheekbone has been reopened.
His glasses are on the ground; I go to them and pick them up. Then I walk to him on legs that aren't entirely steady and hold them out.
"Put them on," I say. My voice comes out shaking. Miles starts laughing "These aren't prescriptions, are they?" I ask.
I don't know why that's the sentence that comes out, but the way he was moving and fighting without them, they can’t be.
"I don't need them," he says. "I only wear them so girls would stop slapping me for that assholes' mistakes." He points to Mason who’s laughing.
I stare at him. "This is not a time for jokes," I say.
"No," he agrees. Though his mouth is doing something it shouldn't be doing given that his lip is split.
Mason appears beside us, turns to me. "You okay?" he asks.
"I'm…" I stop. "Yes. I'm fine."
He nods, looks back at Miles. "Dad wants to talk. We're going to the house."
He gives Mason a nod, then Mason and Declan walk away, and Miles looks at me, the corner of his lip curls into a smile.
"This might not be what you want, but I’m in with you, if you’re in with me," he asks, putting his hand out for me.
I look at his split lip and his torn jacket and the glasses he wears so girls won't slap him for things that aren't his fault, and I think about Dan, the dinner, the walk and how for the first time I feel like someone is caring for me.
Someone has been caring for me for a while now from a distance, but I want it close and personal from Miles.
I want him to care for me, the way I know he will.
I take his hand, his fingers close around mine.
"In," I say.
***
The Crawford family home is nothing like I expected, to be honest I don't know what I expected exactly. With only being here for less than a minute I can already tell this home is full of love. Something I’ve never felt before.
As we walk towards the kitchen, Lileah hits me before I can even look around the place. Her arms around me, hugging me tight.