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Me:Yeah
Cristo:I need you here. Now.
Me:Gotta stay with her. Her brother’s gone. Her mother’s drunk. Her friends are on lockdown.
Cristo:This isn’t a good look for you. You’re myconsilier.
Me:Give me a few hours. She’s family now. She’s my priority.
Cristo:Fuck me, since when do you put anything before the clan?
Since Star.
Me:Since now.
Me:I’ll be there as soon as I can.
The taxi pulls up to her house. I throw a couple hundred-dollar bills at the driver and help Star out of the car. We get into the house and up the stairs into her room. I sit her on the bed and slowly ease her shirt off, letting out a soft curse as I get a better look at the damage.
Gazing into her eyes, seeing the pain, and knowing I’m about to add to it, I grind down on my back teeth. “Baby girl, you’re going to need stitches.”
She glances down, whispering harshly, “No.”
I take her clammy hands in mine and pull her up to her feet. “Yes.”
Back down we go, past the foyer and the living room where we found her mother, which feels like ages ago now, and into their kitchen. The light-yellow walls are decorated with rows of antique, handmade folk plates. It feels lived-in and cozy. Afternoon light streams in through a set of three windows just above a windowsill lined with pots of different herbs and a wooden container with cooking utensils sticking out of it.
“Where’s the first aid kit?” I ask her.
She points to a large farmhouse sink. I crouch down and grab the kit, propping it open to check for a suturing kit. Considering this was amafiehousehold, I wasn’t too worried.
Star slips onto a stool by the kitchen island, watching me nervously. She’s only wearing her bra, which has a nick in the strap from the thug’s knife, and her school kilt. She looks so achingly young and vulnerable sitting there. My heart jumps to my throat and I force the ache down with a hard, audible swallow.
The gash cut across her collarbone and down her left breast—crossing over her heart. The canvas of her pristine skin is brutally marred.
A swell of rage surges through me, making me want to howl at the sky and tear the cheerful kitchen apart.
The gash may have stopped bleeding, but it needs suturing. This is going to sting.
Her eyes widen in panic. “Can’t we call someone?”
This is the first full sentence Star has spoken since the subway, which is telling.
“It’s a quick patching. I can handle it.”
Her shoulders sag. She was hoping I’d get the doctor we have on call for this kind of stuff, but I can take care of it. And funny enough, I don’t want anyone seeing her like this. This gash is my shame. It’s my responsibility. She’s my responsibility.
“Where’s the liquor?”
She points out the doorway to a credenza in the dining room, which is a dark and ponderous affair in comparison to the light and homey kitchen.
I stalk over to it, and ask over my shoulder, “What’s your preference?”
Her answer drifts over to me from the kitchen. “?uica.”
“Really?”
It’s our traditional spirit, made from fermented plums, but to say it’s an acquired taste is an understatement.
