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Chapter Twenty-Five
Paige
I’M CURLED UP IN A chair in the common area reading an old issue of X-Men and ignoring the ugly puke-green carpet all around me. The entire color scheme in this group home is puke-green and brown. I refuse to let myself consider why.
The little corner in the common area is one of the few places I found here that offers peace and solitude. It never lasts long, and it’s only during certain times of the day, but at least it’s something. I no longer have a private room—I’m forced to share with two others—so I’m going insane with no end in sight. I distract myself with whatever I can. Amber lets me use her accounts to sell items online through drop-shipping, but I hate it. I prefer items with history, ones I can touch and sort and stuff into packages I drop in the mail. For now, drop-shipping is keeping me busy enough until this situation ends. If it ends.
I stare out the window at the trees in the back garden. It feels like I’m stuck here forever, but I’m doing my best. I’m keeping hope.
I made a few friends, and I’m learning ‘life skills’ from mandatory workshops every week. I’m also taking two business courses from an online college. Amber and I got in touch with an advocacy group that got me a scholarship to cover a few classes, and the group is also raising media awareness for my story. They’re working with a lawyer to get the guardianship appealed, but they warned me it could take months. Or years.
This place is nothing like Brody’s house, but I’m safe. I’m around a variety of other disabled people and struggling youths who have also experienced tough situations. The grumpy ones keep to themselves and everyone else is friendly, even when they complain that I’m dancing too much. No one yells or threatens me with violence, so I’m happier than I was living at home. But I’m still stuck. I’m not a legal adult and can’t go anywhere without permission and a minimum-wage caregiver.
The group home is away from the city in a smaller town in the mountains. It’s an hour’s drive from Brody’s and reception sucks. Amber comes to visit me when she can, but she’s busy with her receptionist job and degree. She also sells her used panties to guys online because, as she said, “Someone has to pay the bills while Brody is out of commission. And guys like my pussy. What can I say?”
I haven’t seen Brody since the night he was shot. He was in the hospital for an entire month. Four terrifying weeks. They released him a while ago and Amber keeps me updated with pictures, but he’s still at home recovering. We text, but it’s not the same as seeing him in person. Touching him. Being able to rest in his arms while we watch TV. Knowing he’s with me at night.
I cry a lot in my room or the bathroom. I’ve heard horror stories about other group homes and this is actually one of the good ones, but it still took several meltdowns and two weeks to adjust. I think of my time at Brody’s house constantly to get through the hours. What if the legal battle takes too long and it’s years before I can go back? Or never?
Brody says it’ll be over soon. I decided to believe him. I’ll get through this. I’m in a better, safer place with nice people, and soon I’ll be free. I’m choosing to believe.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Sammy, one of my friends here, says. She falls into a chair next to me, her short brown bob swaying around her head. She’s nineteen and also came from an abusive home. Despite the age difference, we bonded over that.
I wave as she combs fingers through her stick-straight hair.
“Got my meds adjusted and I’m feeling fantastic today,” she says, grinning. “I’m happy, but not manic. Happy chill?”
I set my comic on a side table and grab my phone.
“Yeah. I’m liking this neutral zone I’m in.” She adjusts herself in the chair so she’s sitting cross-legged. “I heard my uncle is going to jail. About damn time. Maybe that’s why I’m happy, and I’m giving too much credit to the meds.”
“Five years. Asshole deserves longer.” She grins at the trees beyond the window and gives me a sideways glance. “Any news about your mom?”
I hug my stomach and shake my head. I try not to think about my mom because it eats away at my insides. It doesn’t matter how many articles I read or how many people say she was abusing me. I still feel guilty. She’s my mom. We had good times in the past, and she was different when I was younger. Happier. I think of who she was then and who she is now, and it’s like two different people. Her old self, the one I can still glimpse, is who I feel bad about leaving. Her old self is the one I mourn.
I lift my phone, which is heavy in my hands.
Sammy nods thoughtfully. “How you feeling about that?”
I shrug. This isn’t a topic I really like to discuss.
Before I can change the subject, Sammy straightens, staring at something behind me with round eyes. “Oh. Oh, my. Who is this? Wow. That is a very attractive man. Ripped.”
I turn to see who she’s looking at. I gasp, my heart racing, and shoot to my feet to run across the room.
“There you are,” Brody says. His hair is shorter, trimmed, and no longer brushes his shoulders, but it’s still sexy and swept-back. His features are a bit more worn, tired, eyes sunken from his struggles in the hospital. But his smile. His smile and dazzling blue eyes are the same.
I sprint to him and fling my arms around his neck, squeezing, afraid he’ll disappear if I let go. He smells the same. A little sweaty. A little tropical, like coconut. My safe space.
He groans as he rests his hands on my hips. “Easy. I’m still tender.”
I jerk away and cover my mouth, glancing at his stomach.
“Hey, I didn’t say to stop hugging me. Just don’t squeeze too much.”
I study his stomach, the way the black fabric of his shirt strains against his middle. Wait a minute. I poke one of his abs away from where he got shot. It’s squishy.
