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Well. I can’t say I was expecting that.
Liam shifts from foot to foot. He looks so intensely worried and vulnerable, I almost want to give him a hug, tell him everything will be all right. “Can you talk to her?”
“Sure, I can try.” I nod. “But she might not want to talk to me.”
“She won’t say a word to me either, so I figured this was worth a shot. You’re my Hail Mary here, Annie.”
The words slip out before I can think them. “Just what every girl dreams of.”
Awesome, Annie. Make a joke in a serious situation—foot-in-mouth for another win. Not.
“Where’s the bathroom?” I add immediately.
“Upstairs. First door on the right.”
I slip off my flip-flops, and make for the stairs. Liam starts to ascend behind me, and I hold up a hand. “Nuh uh.”
“What?”
“You should wait downstairs.”
His dark eyes smolder with intensity. “Why?”
“You know. Give her space in case she needs some… girl talk.”
Understanding dawns on Liam’s face and he nods jerkily. “Right, right. I’ll, um, be in the living room if you need me.”
Moments later, I hear the distant roar of a Braves game coming from the TV. I smile at the thought of him sitting there, pretending to relax.
Again, I’m struck by two things—one, what a good dad he’ll make one day; and two, how accommodating he is beneath that gruff exterior. Like, when he gave me space to talk the night we worked late, and now, he’s giving Legs spacenotto talk to him. Not demanding anything from her simply because he’s in charge.
“Legs?” I murmur as I tap the bathroom door. “It’s Annie.”
“Hi, Annie.” Her little voice is reedy and sad.
“Can I come in?”
Silence.
As a lifelong bathroom-hider myself, I get this. In my experience, one only locks oneself in a bathroom when they’re feeling desperate, and sometimes, desperation does not set the stage for conversation.
“I don’t have to come in, if you don’t want me to,” I tell her. “But I’ll sit on the other side of this door for a while. If that’s okay with you?”
A sniffle. “Okay.”
I sink to the floor, tuck my legs under me. “I once locked myself in the bathroom after I cut my own hair,” I say conversationally. “I was a little older than you, and all the girls in my class had bangs. My mom said I shouldn’t get bangs because my hair was too springy and they wouldn’t sit flat on my forehead. But I felt left out. So, I took my mom’s sewing scissors and chopped my own bangs. I cut them way too short. So short, they stuck straight up.”
“Oh no,” Legs says.
“I didn’t want anyone at school to see, so I hid in the bathroom as long as I could before class started.”
“I didn’t want Uncle Liam to see me tonight.”
I know that her offering this information is progress. And I also know not to push.
So instead of asking why, I simply say, “Sure, sometimes we need some time alone. Uncle Liam understands that. He’s just worried about you, that’s all. He wants to know you’re okay because he loves you.”
There’s a silence, then the door opens a crack.
