Ben shakes his head. “No, I’m it. Her parents still live in a little seaside town in Connecticut. Since there are no substantial jobs for her to go back to in the summer, she stays in the city.”
I’m about to mention that I grew up in a small seaside Connecticut town too and am ready to ask which town when one of his employees pops their head in to ask a question.
Which is my cue to get going. I slip out of the chair, saying hello to the woman, whose name I don’t know, as I walk past her toward the door. Before exiting the office, I turn and wave back to Ben.
“Thanks for your time, Ben. I’ll talk to you later this week about the volunteer event. See you later.”
And as I walk back to my office, with Sutton at the forefront of my mind, thinking about what I learned about her background, I come to a conclusion.
I will pursue this attraction. Assuming Sutton doesn’t slam the door in my face when I ask her out.
17
Sutton
When Ben askedme if I’d be interested in volunteering at Holly’s Hope Place, the shelter for troubled teens, I jumped at the chance. Mainly because I want to help kids who have lost their way—either through their own poor decisions or by circumstances beyond their control.
That may sound like an overconfident and self-important life goal, but it’s why I’m studying social work and applied psychology. Applying what I’ve learned in real life, non-clinical settings, is a rewarding experience. You might say I take after my mother in that way.
She’s been a teacher and volunteer for various charitable and non-profit organizations over the past twenty-years helping those in need. Whether it’s working at a local food bank, reading to young students in a literacy program, or chairing a school supply drive each fall, my mom has always had compassion for others.
And she did the best she could back when Melodie and I were still friends in middle school. She was my rock when our friendship unraveled and dissolved while Mel slowly slipped away, turning into a person I no longer recognized.
There were signs along the way that spoke to the change in Mel, but they were small, and like tiny cracks in the pavement, we didn’t see them at the time or understand what they meant. Looking back at what happened, it seems there had been this giant curtain draped over our life, and over the years since. I have peeled the curtain back, giving me glimpses into what was truly going on.
And with each revelation, it breaks my heart even further.
“Hey, Miss Sutton, here’s the last of the dishes,” calls out Darnessa, the teen girl with a shy smile and the designated kitchen lead. I glance at her as she enters the large industrial kitchen carrying a tub of dirty dinner plates and silverware. “Goddamn, this group is a bunch of pigs and eats a fuck-ton of food.”
Elbow deep in dishwater, I wrinkle my nose at the sixteen-year-old and glare at her from under my lashes. “Ahem. What happened to the no cussing rule in the kitchen?”
She provides me with an apologetic look and an “oops, my bad” and drops the heavy tub on the counter next to me, filled with precisely as she described, a fuck-ton of dirty dishes.
I splash a cloud of bubbles at her, and she laughs a throaty sound. Working together in the kitchen for the past three hours, I’ve gotten to know a little bit about this strong and brave girl.
At fourteen, while her mother was behind bars for drug possession, Darnessa lived with her auntie and uncle, a man who ended up raping her and getting her pregnant. After finding out the baby belonged to her husband, the aunt kicked Darnessa out onto the streets, keeping the little baby boy as her own.
Over the last two years, she’s been in and out of foster homes and facilities, until she finally found Holly’s Hope Place.
Darnessa unloads the larger items and rinses them off as I finish washing the pots and pans used for the dinner we made earlier. I haven’t been this exhausted in ages.
“I think this is the last of them, and then we can take a break. But I’m freakin’ bummed I didn’t get any of that dessert.”
Her shoulders rise and fall in defeat over the fact that while we were working our butts off in here, she missed out on the chocolate cake a large box-store bakery donated.
I bump her shoulder playfully and lean in to whisper. “I may have saved us a slice to share.”
The look of amazement that lights up her beautiful face made my mission of tracking down a piece worth it in my book. A gift for a gift.
“No way! How’d you do that? Dayum, girl. Are you magic or something?”
My laughter rings out over the pile of dishes. “Not magic. I just begged my cousin, Ben, to save a piece for us, knowing it would go fast.”
“Thanks, Miss Sutton. You a’ight.”
A bubbly, effervescent feeling takes flight in my stomach from the compliment and warms my heart to hear the appreciation in her statement.
“It’s the least I could do. You’ve been working so hard in here all afternoon. And you’re right. We definitely deserve a break soon.”
