“It’s gonna be okay,” I assured her, my hand drifting up her spine to gently rub the back of her neck. She nodded against me as her face turned into my neck. There was a small catch in her breath, then a sniffle.
My hand drifted up into her hair, lightly massaging her scalp as I felt a hot tear on my skin.
“You’re alright,” I murmured, turning my face toward her. “I’ve got you,” I said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
Her arms tightened, like maybe if she held on tightly enough, she wouldn’t feel like she was breaking apart.
“It’s okay,” I told her, pulling her against me more tightly. “We’ve got this now.” Then, because I knew she was more likely to respond to some levity, I added, “We’ll take care of him. Strung up by the testicles, at least.”
That got the snort out of her I was looking for.
“They’d rip right off,” she told me, pulling back.
“That’s probably right,” I agreed, reaching out with both hands to wipe the tears from her cheeks. “What’s better then? From the ankles?”
“A classic,” she said, sniffling.
“Then that’s what we’ll do,” I said, reaching around her for the hoodie and helping her put it on. “Ready to take a ride?” I asked, turning my back toward her.
“I haven’t had a piggyback ride… ever.”
Yeah, I was pretty sure her old man was a dick, if I was remembering the history right.
“I’m an old pro at it. Charlotte was insistent on it growing up. Arms around my neck, legs tight around my stomach. Even just the one leg should be good enough.”
With that, I lowered down.
Her movements were tentative, but a half-surprised, half-delighted squeal escaped her as I jumped to my feet the way I always did with my niece, making her cling more tightly and let out a laugh.
I was just disappointed that I couldn’t see her smile.
I paused in the living room to awkwardly leash the dog before we moved out onto the steps as a unit.
And I tried to ignore the way her arms and legs tightened around me, how her face turned into my neck.
And how right it felt.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Alara
I didn’t cry.
Almost as a rule.
I was stubborn about it, even when I knew there would be a catharsis to just let it out, I fought back the tears.
It had to come from my childhood. From watching my parents get extorted. And when they couldn’t pay, no matter how empty our fridge was, how many luxuries and essentials we went without, seeing my father bloodied and bruised.
Then, worse, when he was gone, and the threats turned to my mother. Until my sister sacrificed herself in marriage to one of the monsters, believing his word that he would leave us alone to run the stupid laundromat in peace.
Only to go behind her back and continue the threats, the violence.
I don’t think my mother or I ever told Ezmeray the depths of hell those in-laws of hers put us through. Not just the constant financial squeeze. But the threats. The violence—a sharp slap across my face, a bruise to my mother’s eye. And, because I wasn’t a little girl anymore, the lingering gazes, the roaminghands, the whispered propositions in my ear when my mother was out of the room.
“If you meet me back at my place, I can shave off a couple hundred.”All the while his breath was hot on my seventeen-year-old neck, his hand was closing over my boob or slipping between my thighs.
What good were tears in that world?
