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“I know, Spencer,” her worn voice told me.
I looked at her then noticed the guy in front of us. He was laughing at something on his phone while his poor girlfriend looked terrified, her arms pressed tightly against her abdomen. He looked up at me and smirked, gesturing with his head toward his girl before rolling his eyes, an attempt at camaraderie. When I didn’t bite, he went back to his phone with a picture of a naked girl on the cover, and obnoxiously laughed at whatever text he’d gotten. All he made me want to do was kick his ass and tell the girl to run as fast as she could.
I began filling out the paperwork while Bridge sat bent into herself on the chair. Halfway through the tedious process, I looked over again to check on her and looking at her hair triggered something. For some reason, I was bombarded with memories of when she was little. She had this ridiculously curly hair, and it was always wild about her face, regardless how hard my mom tried to contain it. She’d put it up in some sort of clip but sure enough, five minutes later, it was a blonde halo around her face.
I remembered her being four or five, her melodious little squeaky voice with a lisp inviting everyone she could within a five-mile radius, stranger or not, to her ballet recital. She wore her leotard, ballet flats and tutu every single day for two weeks, practicing every opportunity she could, dancing to imaginary music throughout the whole house. I thought she was so goofy in the head but, and I’d never had said it out loud, especially at the time, I thought she was adorable.
I remembered summers when I felt too cool to stay at home. I’d leave around ten in the morning, head out to the pool to say goodbye to my mom. Bridge would’ve already been swimming two hours by then, a two-toned, thin, little nothing of a kid constantly yelling out for us to watch her make the same dive over and over again. Her lisp gone by then but her falsetto “please, Spence” got me every time. “Fine, Bridge,” I’d tell her. She’d dive in and come up; her eyes round with anticipation. “Amazing, Bridge!” my mom and I would always say, clapping.
I remembered skinned knees, birthday parties, school plays. I remembered when boys first started noticing her and that protective part of me warning off every one of my friends. I remembered the first time she came to the Holes. I marched her off to my car and drug her ass home. She was furious at me, yelling the entire way, but I’d be damned before she attended one of those things. Never mind the fact I went to them every weekend. But then I went off to college and there was nothing I could do to stop her. And then there was this. This awful, shitty thing my dad was doing to her...I was doing to her.
“Shit,” I said under my breath, crumpling up the paper I was filling out then throwing the freaking clipboard onto the seat next to me.
“What’s wrong?” Bridge asked.
“Let’s go,” I said, standing up.
“What-what do you mean?” she asked, confused.
“I mean, let’s get the fuck out of here.”
“No, we stay.”
“No, we go. You don’t want to do this anyway.”
“It doesn’t matter. Dad will—”
“Dad won’t do shit,” I told her.
“How’re you gonna stop him?”
“I just am, okay? Let’s go.”
She stood up hesitantly. “What’s your plan?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “but I’ll figure it out.”
I walked to the door but stopped when I noticed the young girl and her douche boyfriend. I dug into my back pocket and pulled out my wallet, grabbing every bit of cash I had.
“Seven hundred fifty dollars,” I told the girl, “all yours if you leave this dickhead right now, go home and tell your folks. I can even give you a ride home if you want.”
“I’ll take it,” she said without hesitation, standing.
“Wait a minute!” the jackass said, moving to stand himself.
I glared at him. “Sit your ass down,” I ordered in my most fierce voice.
The guy backed down.
“Need a ride?”
She looked over at Bridge and Bridge nodded. “Yes, please.”
When we reached the car, her eyes widened.
“Where’d you get a car like that?”
“My dad bought it for me,” I told her, cringing at how obnoxious that sounded.
