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I lean forward, taking another sip of my coffee.
She takes the book in her hand, examining the cover and back. Still looking down, she says, “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.” If she chews her lip anymore, it’s going to bleed. “Leah?” She looks up. “You can relax. And you can ask me anything. I don’t know if I’ll always know the answer, but I can guarantee I’ll help you find it.”
She takes a deep breath, and her thin frame relaxes. “The women here…they go to work, and some go to college. I think I’d like to do something. Maybe I could make something of myself.”
Looking at her, I can’t help the lump forming in my throat. I swallow it down.
I can’t imagine what it must be like—living here, trying to trust new people when the first and most important relationship in her young life left her black and blue. But here is where her strength shines through. She may doubt everything. She may not know if she can make it through the day, but she’s thinking ahead. She’s standing tall so she can see over the bad days—the ones that have gone by and the ones to come—and she can see a glimpse of the days when she’s stronger.
Little does she know, her strength is already rushing through her blood.
I see a warrior.
A survivor.
“What do you think you’d like to do?”
She scratches the back of her neck, then her face, and now her palms.
“I’ve always been fascinated with publishing.” She looks up briefly before lowering her head again. “I don’t know where to start, but I mean, I love reading.”
More scratching at her skin. I reach out and stop her. She’s going to hurt herself. Crouching, I meet her eyes.
“I might know someone who can help you out.”
At least I hope he can.
He might tell me to get lost.
“Thank you,” she whispers, an obvious wobble to her voice. “Can I ask one more thing?”
“Anything.”
“I’d love to know how to do my makeup properly. I’ve tried online tutorials, but it never turns out the way it’s supposed to. I wasn’t allowed to wear it before. My boyfriend said if I wore it, I must be trying to impress someone. My mom died when I was a kid, so she never showed me.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t learn.”
She lifts her left shoulder. “I love your makeup. It’s pretty. Womanly.” There’s heat in her cheeks again. “Not that you need it. I bet you’re beautiful without it. I just mean—”
“Leah,” I cut her off. “It’s okay. And thank you. I’ve always liked makeup too. Some people don’t and that’s fine and there are days when I can’t be bothered. But on those days when I need a little boost, it’s my go-to. And my mom didn’t show me how to do my makeup either.”
“I’m sorry. Is your mom dead?”
“No. She’s…” She’s what? “My mom suffers from her own demons.”
“Who taught you?”
“My friend’s mom.”
The memory makes a grin stretch across my face. Nick’s mother Kate sat me down when I was going through a phase of thinking blue was my color. Blue eyeshadow, blue mascara, blue eyeliner. The pictures still make me cringe.
I remember when she called me inside, sat me on the edge of the toilet, and handed me a wet wipe. I whinged because I didn’t want to take it off.
“Were you in a fight with a Smurf? You look like a giant eyeball,” Kate teased. “Your eyes are already so blue.”
Then she grabbed her make-up bag and showed me how to apply foundation and what colors matched my eyes.
