“Yeah…”
He hands me his phone, and I put my number in it, texting myself so I have his number too, just in case.
“I’ll walk out with you. I’m sure the girls want to come back in, and I need to grab some coffee.”
* * *
The liquor store lot is almost empty, five minutes ‘til close. My hands grip the wheel, like that might keep me from going in.
The door is right there. I could walk in, pull something small off the shelf, and be done thinking for the rest of the night. Nobody would know. I could call it taking the edge off. I could call it anything I want.
I stare and watch as each person enters alone and exits with someone to keep them company for the night. Jealous. Tempted to do the same. Bring a friend home in the form of a switch, one that would easily turn off the emotions that are making me feel sick to my stomach right now.
I thought this desire was gone. I thought it was fully taken away for a while after I stopped, like I didn’t even crave the burn before the quiet anymore. Yet it keeps sneaking up recently.
I try to mentally walk myself through it all, why I’m feeling this way. It’s gotta be my sister…right? But I think it’s more than that, obviously. It’sher.It’s not just the memories she pulls me back to. It’s just…her. The pull to her, the sympathy towards her—that I doubt a girl like her even wants—it’s the feelings I get around her. I know they aren’t simple; I know they aren’t normal feelings for a stranger; I know I don’t want them…and I knowwhyI don’t want them.
I said before that my heart was softening to be able to care about more people again, open myself up, allow people in, not be so afraid of what that meant, the possible hurt. But someone like her? As bad as it sounds…she’strouble. She’s a big warning sign, plain as day—
IF YOU CARE ABOUT ME, IT WILL COST YOU. YOU WILL GET HURT.
Not a possibility, a promise.
The real question is, why am I starting to care about someone I don’t even know? Is it the savior complex? Is it me treating her like the girl I wasn’t able to save before, and now I somehow can? Do I think she’s some do-over?
No. She’s not that.
Idosee my own struggles in her, though. I see my sister’s pain, too. I see…I seeher, and I just see the pain, I guess. I want to know what caused it. Is it the family she lost? Is it more than that? How much has she been through to end up here?
I see more than the pain, too. I don’t think the pain is what actually draws me to her. I think it’s what’s under that. It’s something at her core that still shines through the darkest parts. It radiates off her like it’s calling me in. That voice telling you to look deeper. If you can just look deeper, you’ll see the treasure hiding.
My fear with caring is obviously experiencing the same hurt that I felt with losing my sister, with almost losing my mom, too. With Lydia…shewantsto go. She doesn’t want to be here. She doesn’t think there’s anything worth being here for. Caring about someone like that is the biggest setup for pain.
I’m slowly starting to learn…that some people are worth that risk, worth that pain. Some people might be worth the bruises they give you by accident. Worth the prayers that sound more like pleas.
My phone buzzes in the seat beside me.
Sandro:They’re moving her to step-down. No changes. Gonna be a long night and probably couple of days. Simone insists on staying here, but I’m gonna take my sister back to my place with me. Are you around anywhere still?
Bash: Thanks for the update. Yeah, I’m actually not far. I’ll swing back now
Sandro: Thanks, man
I stare back at the store as a guy pulls down the cage over the door, closing for the night. I throw my head back against the headrest—relieved…and scared.
54
Simone
I always hated being an only child. When I was little, I begged my mom for a sister the way other kids begged for a puppy, with both hands under my chin, theatrics and everything. She’d laugh and point at me with the wooden spoon. “Baby, I can barely handle you,” she’d say. “Two of you? Absolutely not. The house would go up in flames.”
That’s the answer she gave me my entire childhood, every time I would ask. It wasn’t until later in high school that she told me the truth—how my birth almost took her with it, how she almost died bringing me into this world, how the doctors did what they had to do to save her, which meant performing a hysterectomy. She told me she wanted more than anything to give me siblings growing up, but it was impossible. Adoption was never an option with their finances, so she just played along with the excuse that I was too much to handle on my own. She was always very playful about it, never wanted me to feel bad, never wanted me to know that she couldn’t give me the one thing I wanted most as a kid.
I guess I became exactly that—big voice, big laugh, bigger style. My parents were my first best friends and, for a long time, myonlyfriends. I’ve always been closer to my mom. I’m most like her, plus my dad is super quiet but still tries to show me love how he knows how to. They spoiled me with time more than material things. Movie nights on Tuesdays just because. Grocery store dance parties in aisle nine. “Be loud,” my mom would say when I sang in the kitchen. “Be happy,” she’d tell me, kissing the top of my head. “Be free.”
It turns out “loud and happy and free” looks great in pictures and at lunch tables, but it doesn’t always turn into sleepovers or shared secrets. People liked to orbit me. Not many wanted to land. There’s a version of me that learned how to be the party and go home alone.
Then I met Lydia.
