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“Yes, Mom.”
I playfully pinched her, and she laughed. As small as it was, it was a wonderful sound.
* * *
It had been after midnight when we had arrived at my apartment, so Dean dropped a quick kiss on my temple and headed on. Kennedy and I had slept in my bed, and by the time I woke up around nine, Dean had already returned my car and texted me a snotty message that readGot it detailed for you. Try to keep it clean this time.
He was the absolute worst.
Once Kennedy finally shuffled out into the kitchen, I had a plate of bacon and eggs waiting for her. I’d never been a great cook, except for breakfast food.
“Thanks,” she mumbled, taking the plate to the living room, where she plopped down on the floor, setting the plate on the table in front of her.
I followed with a glass of water. “How do you feel?”
She shrugged, stuffing scrambled eggs into her mouth.
“Are you ready to talk about it?”
She held up a piece of bacon, extra crispy how she liked it. “There isn’t…” She shook her head and tried again. “He didn’t hit me, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“You said he hit your pills out of your hands.”
She demonstrated with her own hands, using her right hand to slap her left wrist, the hand holding the bacon. “He didn’t do it on purpose. They scattered when…”
“He did do that on purpose, Kennedy. It might not have been your face, but not far off.”
She winced, setting the bacon back down.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly, not sure how hard to argue about it. She had to know the danger she’d been in, but I knew I also couldn’t push her if she wasn’t ready. Then again, she’d go back to that motherfucker over my dead body. “I’m not trying to scare you. I’m sure last night was terrifying enough for you.”
She nodded and rubbed her fingers on a napkin.
“But you know this isn’t your fault, right?”
“Well,” she started, and I sank down to the floor next to her.
“No. It is not your fault.”
“He only wanted me to talk to him. I was ignoring him because I was so mad at him,” she explained, as if that gave him the right to yell and slap her wrist.
“That doesn’t matter.”
She met my eyes. “It’s hard to know…” She licked her lips, and I offered her my water. She took it and swallowed down a few sips before continuing. “I love him, and I know he loves me, but sometimes he gets jealous and angry for no reason.”
“That’s his problem, not yours,” I told her, my gut churning. I knew it was hard for people in abusive relationships to leave. During undergrad, I’d worked as a paralegal in the summers and helped on a case with a woman who was suing her ex-husband in a civil case for abuse. I’d seen the evidence firsthand, how it started with emotional abuse then escalated until he’d pushed her down a flight of stairs, nearly killing her.
That would not be Kennedy. I wouldn’t let it happen.
“I know you think he loves you, but love shouldn’t hurt. It shouldn’t make you feel bad.”
She eyed me suspiciously. “What do you know about love?”
Pulling my knees up to wrap my arm around them, I shrugged. “Not much.” But I thought back to blue eyes and warm embraces, promises to take care of me. To always take care of me. I remembered heating pads and soup. I closed my eyes and recalled a strumming guitar and a gruff voice singing to me. It felt like weeks ago when it was just last night.
I peered at my sister. “I know love isn’t perfect, but it should lift you up. Not tear you down.”
Letting out a low breath, Kennedy sighed and dropped down to her side, placing her head in my lap. I combed my fingers through her hair. “I don’t want to see you hurt, and I will always be here for you.”
