“Because I haven’t been here an hour and you’re already crying.” She downs what is left in her wine glass.
I grab the bottle and pour more in for us both.
“This time was worse than all the times before,” I say. “But it started years ago. I hid it. For him. His career and reputation. For my own career, and my own shame.”
“How did you hide it so well? I mean, your body is your business. How did nobody see?”
“The bruises, you mean? He was careful. In the beginning, when things first turned physical, he’d make sure anything he did to me wouldn’t show. Shoving things into my mouth, forinstance. Knocking the back of my head against the wall. Maybe that would leave a knot that I could explain away to whatever stylist might notice, but it wouldn’t be obvious. Eventually, he tracked my schedule, knew what types of shoots I had coming up. I think he even took notice at where I bruised easiest and the spots that healed quickest. If he hit me square in the stomach, I’d tend not to bruise there. So, it was a favorite of his.”
“Oh my God,” she cries softly, swiping at her own tears.
“By the end, he didn’t care about all of that, as much. I got a few concerned looks from MUA’s, but they all valued their careers as much as I did mine. You’d be surprised how many people are willing to keep the secrets of the people who keep them employed.”
“I hate that,” she says, lying back and staring at the clouds that dance past. “What a fucked-up world this is.”
“It’s not all bad,” I tell her after I hum a little agreement. “It’s nice here.”
“In Stowaway?” Her face scrunches up in disgust.
“You grew up here; you’re supposed to hate it.” I laugh, and she smiles back.
“True, true. At least you have a nice neighbor.”
“Grady’s been great,” I agree, feeling her gaze on me.
“I didn’t know you blushed,” she teases.
“I don’t,” I say, playfully tossing an olive at her, which she swats away into the sand. “It’s not like that, anyway. He’s kind. I’m not used to it.”
“It could be like that. There wouldn’t be anything wrong with you having a harmless fling.”
“The thing is, I don’t know how to tell if it’s harmless or not.”
Juliet reaches over to take my hand in hers. That unfamiliar human touch I’ve craved so much. You don’t realize how much you need something until you’re deprived of it. Touch. Tenderness. Kindness. Love.
There’s a lot I missed out on as a child. These were some of those things. It’s possible that’s partly why I didn’t recognize the problem when Pierre started pulling them away from me, too.
For now, I’ll enjoy my friend’s fingers entwined with my own. The sense of comfort and security it brings. Much like when Grady held me, it makes me less alone in the world. Even if for a short time. If I learn nothing else from this, at least I’ll know how to savor the small moments.
“I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me too,” Juliet says. “I’m also glad that you are. You look good in her house.”
“Will you tell me about her?”
“God, she was the greatest,” Juliet says, rolling to her side to see me better. “My mom was a teenager when she got pregnant with me. My father was some tourist kid, here on a weekend away with his parents. When I was about two, she ran off with some other random guy. Left me with Irma, who never blinked twice about raising another child.”
“I never knew why you grew up with your grandmother,” I say.
“We both kept some secrets,” she says, squeezing my hand. “She let me be me. There was structure but not so many rules. She encouraged me to try everything. Violin, dance, volleyball, pottery, anything and everything that was offered. But she nevergave me a hard time if I didn’t enjoy it and wanted to quit. She always told me I’d recognize what was mine when I found it.”
“I like that.”
“Me too. I’ve tried to live by that, you know? Letting go of things that don’t feel right, even when it’s been hard. I’m not always successful, but I like to think she’s proud of me for figuring it out when I do.”
“Of course, she’s proud of you. You’re wildly successful, smart, independent, and kind.”
“You forgot gorgeous,” she teases.
