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“Do you have a window in there? Mine doesn’t have one.”
“There’s no window.” That was my only requirement when looking for a place of my own.
“You have your phone right by you?”
I shake my head. “I charge it on my dresser overnight. It’s on the opposite wall.”
“You should move it next to you. In case you need to call or text the police and want to limit the amount of noise you make. I can give you my number, too. If you ever feel unsafe or like something’s not right, you can call me.”
He’d do that for me?
A shaky smile crosses my lips. “That actually makes me feel better.”
He nods, pausing before he asks his next question. “Is this scenario something you’re seriously worried about or a hypothetical situation?”
My smile drops. “It’s serious.”
“Have you thought about getting a gun?”
“No gun.”
He recoils slightly, my hard tone probably over the top, but I can’t help it. How could I ever own one after what happened to Mom?
“They scare me,” I murmur, staring at my lap.
He takes a seat on the other side of the couch, a whole cushion between us, but for some reason, it feels closer than that.
“What about something like an air horn? To throw the person off balance and distract them?”
“And what if I throw them off so much that they fire the gun at me?” That’s what the police said likely happened with Mom. She startled the robber so much with her scream, that he accidentally shot her. A break-in gone terribly wrong.
I press the heels of my palms to my eyes, not letting any more tears come out. “This was a bad idea. I’m sorry.”
“I… okay.”
I glance over at him, the confusion on his face sending a stab of guilt through me. He offers to help me with self-defense and then I flake out on him with a bunch of cryptic remarks? Some friend I am.
I should just say it. Get it out of the way so I stop looking like such a weirdo.
“Can I tell you something?”
He nods, his brows narrowing a bit.
“When I was eight…” I clear my throat, rubbing my suddenly sweaty palms on my pants. “I woke in the middle of the night from my bedroom window sliding open. It was a man.”
“A big man?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
I nod. “Your body type, yes. Although, he seemed like a giant to me at the time.”
I rub the bridge of my nose, not wanting to go through the whole explanation. To relive those memories again. Better keep it short and sweet. “He shot and killed my mother.”
He inhales sharply. “I’m so sorry.”
I wave away his concern. “I don’t want pity. I just want you to understand where I’m coming from. Why this is… hard for me. Harder than expected. I thought I’d moved past this.”
“Is that something you ever fully move past?”
I cross my arms, hunching into myself. “I saw the therapist the state provided, okay?”
