by Riley, Gia
Tess goes from wanting to rip the hair out of my head to seemingly calm in a matter of seconds. Her not remembering passing out in the middle of the street works to my advantage, and with a barely noticeable nod, she drops the subject—for now. I’m sure, the next time I piss her off, when I’m back to being the ungrateful slut she thinks I am, she’ll try to use it against me again.
“I don’t know if you remember our conversation, but I’m going back to The Whip tonight to work off what I owe Ace for the broken glasses.”
“I remember,” she says.
She doesn’t.
“Whatever you do, Winnie, just stay out of my way. Are we clear?”
If she thinks I’ll steal her tips, she’s crazy. The work I plan on doing has nothing to do with my looks or my body. I’ll be happy with washing glasses every night if it means I can stay away from the customers and their grabby hands.
“I get it,” I tell her. “I’ll pretend I don’t even know you.”
“You do that anyway.”
“Can you blame me?” I ask her.
Laughing, Tess shakes her head and tumbles off the couch and onto her knees. She stays on all fours for a few seconds until she gets her bearings, and then she stands up on shaky feet and walks into her bedroom. “Little slut,” she mumbles.
And there it is.
“You’re welcome,” I grumble back.
She’s lucky Dad taught me respect because, if I were a spiteful person like she is, I would have left her lying outside. And she’d be dead right now. Maybe someone else would have come along and saved her, but chances are, they wouldn’t have noticed her lying in the street until it was too late.
“Little slut.”
I don’t know why I let her opinion of me matter so much, but it does. It’s not because I want her to like me—well, maybe that’s part of the reason. But, more than anything, I just want some of the respect she demands given back to me, so I don’t always feel like dirt when I’m in her presence.
If Tess ever took the time to get to know me, she’d see how much her words affected me. Just like Dad did, I let the filth that flows from her mouth marinate in my heart until the harsh comments overwhelm me. And the only way to get rid of the imprint they leave is with something worse. Something I can see with my eyes and barely feel—another cut. Another reminder that I’m nothing.
My mind is extra cluttered today, but I somehow manage to bypass the bathroom and blades and close my bedroom door. I spend so much time sketching and watching for any signs of the neighbor that I lose track of time. My growling stomach can wait though because, instead of a fancy dress fit for royalty, I find myself sketching leather and metal. And, when I get to his face, I draw the helmet in his hands and his eyes wide open, looking straight into mine.
They’re bright blue like the ocean—the one I escape to when I’m alone and afraid at night. The sun’s shining brightly over his shoulders, and his crooked smile is just as warm and inviting as the hot summer sun.
I draw tiny creases around his eyes because, in my head, he’s older than me, probably by at least ten years. The grease stains under his fingernails are proof of all the time he’s spent in the garage, working on bikes like the one he rides. I’m not sure if that’s what he does for a living, but I can’t picture him doing much else. Not with the hours he keeps and the clothes he wears.
When I add details to his hands and knuckles, I try to remember pieces of the tattoos that peeked out from underneath his jacket. But the ink is nothing but a blur of colors, and I’ll never get them right without another look. I can’t even remember if he was wearing a wedding ring last night.
I expect he could be married. Maybe he even has a kid he sees on the weekends, but for now, he’s living all on his own. And, for some unknown reason, he’s hiding out in Carillon, appearing mostly at night.
The rest of him is easy to duplicate on paper, but the things I want to know require a voice that can only be heard. With a little luck, I’ll get close enough someday to hear him speak and not have to rely on the secret conversations we have through the window. Because, more than anything, I want to ask him why he helped me with Tess. Why did he wait until he was home to ask me questions? And, most importantly, is he expecting me to repay him?
Where I come from, nobody does anything for nothing. That is why I expect him to come back to get his reward. Since we’re strangers, he could want almost anything.
That thought both terrifies and excites me. Those chills multiply when I hear an unexpected knock on the front door. I’ve been focusing so hard on drawing this man, I wasn’t watching out the window.
Careful not to step on any loose floorboards, I tiptoe across the trailer and press my cheek against the door, peering through the peephole. Jasper’s standing on the porch with his hands stuffed into his pockets, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds—probably looking for Tess. He looks as nervous as I feel about him being here.
When I open the door, our eyes meet, and he smiles. It’s not a lopsided one, like my drawing, and his eyes are blue, not hazel.
“I was hoping you’d answer,” he says.
“Tess is still here, I think,” I tell him, suddenly self-conscious that he can see over my shoulder, directly into the living room and kitchen.
I’m sure the trailer’s a dump compared to his place. He has a whole house with two or three levels, staircases, and a porch that wraps around the entire front and side of the home. All I’ve ever done is bounce from one apartment to the next before ending up here. Now, my confidence is as poor as my living arrangements.
Jasper takes a couple of steps back until he’s leaning against the railing. “Are you going to work tonight, Winnie?”
“Yes, but I need to change first.”
“Is it okay if I walk with you?” he asks. “I’ll wait right here until you’re ready.”
I let go of the breath I was holding, thankful that I don’t have to make up some lame excuse about why he can’t come inside. “If you want to. Give me five minutes.”
Tonight’s outfit doesn’t require high heels or a short dress that squeezes my chest to the point I can’t breathe. I’m wearing cutoff jean shorts and a black tank top. The hair that usually hangs down my back is thrown into a knot on top of my head, and the only makeup on my face is some lip gloss—mine, not Tess’s. If I’m doing this, I’m doing it as Winnie.
But, even though I’m wearing my own clothes, I’m still self-conscious when I join Jasper on the porch. “I know I won’t fit in, dressed like this,” I tell him, “but it’s all I have.”
“No, you definitely won’t,” he whispers. “You’re beautiful, Winnie. You don’t need all that shit on your face to stand out. You do that all on your own.”
I imagine this is what a date would feel like. A boy picking me up at my door and then ushering me down the stairs to his car, telling me how pretty I am. Only Jasper and I are walking, and this is anything but a date. It’s just two people on their way to work to make the best of a bad situation.
And Jasper wouldn’t be complimenting me if he knew about the scars hiding beneath my shorts. My body’s composed of so many secrets. If he ever found out the truth, he’d think I was the ugliest human being.
My shame runs deep, and it’s wrapped in all the hands that have touched me even though I wasn’t interested. All the men who have acted like I’m a prize yet treat me like I’m worthless.
Jasper glances at me out of the corner of his eye, and my anger starts to bubble to the surface. It’s not his fault, but I still want to hurt him before he has a chance to do it to me first. Just once, I want to land a blow when it counts.
“Why are you here, Jasper?”
The question comes out harsher than it needs to, but I feel so exposed, standing here, on the porch, and my only defense mechanism is my temper. And, as soon as I put on my favorite disguise, I feel hidden again—far enough away that Jasper can’t knock me down.
“I thought we were friends,” he says.
>
Are we?
Is that something I want?
I’m not sure.
Friends ask questions and want details. They pry into my world until I’m both vulnerable and torn wide open.
I don’t need more baggage.
I don’t want complications that wedge their way into my life and turn it upside down.
I can’t.
And, as nice as Jasper’s being to me, he could easily become a full set of luggage that would turn my dull and monotonous existence into an adventure. A trip of a lifetime I’d never want to end. But it would. Jasper will graduate high school next year, go on to bigger and better things, and I’ll get left behind—again.
“Winnie, we’re friends, right?” he asks.
The answer is always no, Jasper. I can’t say the words aloud though. Not when he’s looking at me with so much hope.
Instead, I tell him, “Whatever I make tonight, it’s yours.”
“I don’t want your money, Winnie. That’s not why I came to pick you up. I’m here as your friend.”
His reasoning doesn’t matter. This is just the way it has to be.
“The money was a loan. And, since Tess took the cash before I had a chance to count it, I’ll probably have to give you a couple of days’ wages. There’s no way tonight will cover it.”
“I never said it was a loan.”
He’s right; I made that up in my head. It made me feel less guilty for not having the cash to pay him back right away. I figured, after a couple of days on the job, I could hand him a similar-sized wad of bills and call it even. But we’ll never be even because those bills could have been a million different combinations. I’ll always owe Jasper something, and that makes me mad all over again.
“I’ll get you the money, and then I want you to leave me alone,” I tell him as I run down the rickety porch stairs and start walking toward The Whip.
He stays on the porch for a few seconds and then jogs to catch up with me. “You know I’m not going to do that, right, Winnie?”
The familiar motorcycle slows down and rides past us. I glance over my shoulder to make sure it’s him, and when he turns into his driveway, I wish we were still standing on the porch, so I might have a chance to talk to him.
“What’d you say?” I ask Jasper.
“Nothing. Do you know him?”
We move toward the center of the street where there are less potholes, and I kick a rock out of the way. I need to decide how much I should tell him about the neighbor. If it were up to me, I’d lie completely, but something tells me Jasper would keep digging until he got the answer he was searching for.
“I don’t even know his name. He helped me with Tess last night, but we’ve never spoken.”
It’s only a partial lie. We’ve written, which is a form of communication, but I’ve never heard his actual voice.
Jasper and the neighbor continue to stare each other down. I wait to see who’ll break first, and I’m a little disappointed when it’s the neighbor who turns his head and walks toward his trailer.
“Did you let him inside your house?” Jasper asks as he continues to walk backward down the street.
If he’s waiting for the neighbor to make another appearance, he’ll be waiting all night. I know because I’ve wasted a lot of minutes doing the very same thing.
“I didn’t have much choice. He was carrying Tess in his arms.”
If I wasn’t already staring at Jasper, I would have missed the brief flicker of hurt flash through his eyes. I’ve always been able to read people, and he’s wondering why I was okay with a stranger in my living room, but I didn’t want him to come inside.
I’m not sure why I trusted the neighbor to lay Tess on the couch and then leave without hurting me. He took control of the situation, and it felt like he was there to help. Despite all the rough trailer trash that drifts aimlessly through the trailer park, I wasn’t scared of him. We hadn’t even exchanged any words yet, and I trusted him. Why?
If Jasper knew what I let the neighbor do, he’d call me crazy. That’s why I don’t offer any more information about last night, and he doesn’t ask any other questions.
Five minutes later, we’re behind The Whip, and Jasper’s holding the door for me. “You ready for round two, princess?”
Princess.
Suddenly, I’m five years old, wearing my favorite pink pajamas and surrounded by all my favorite stuffed animals.
Dad brushes the hair away from my face and tells me to scoot down underneath the covers. He kisses my forehead and whispers, “Sweet dreams, princess,” just like he does every night.
That was our nightly routine until I started to grow up. It seemed like life had changed overnight. Those sweet nicknames and tuck-ins faded away. And there I was, barely ten years old, dependent on myself. Dad had a new princess.
The next time I heard someone call me princess, I wished the word never existed.
“Open your eyes, princess.”
“Touch me, princess.”
“Princess, nobody ever has to know.”
I wish that were true—that nobody would ever have to know. But it’s not. I’ll always remember those nights, and no matter how hard I try to forget what happened, I can’t erase the memories.
I didn’t want to be touched, but he was bigger than I was. So much stronger than any person I’d ever seen before. And, each time I shook my head, it didn’t matter. No wasn’t no.
“Winnie!” Jasper yells as he grabs my shoulders.
He doesn’t grab hard enough to hurt me, just enough that my head turns in the direction of his voice, and I see the worry in his eyes.
I dig the heels of my palms into my eyes, hating that he’s seeing me lose control like this. When it happens, there’s no stopping it, and all I can do now is wait for it to pass. But, until the memories slow down, I let Jasper hold on to me even if him touching me is painful, too.
“What’s wrong? Tell me how to help you,” Jasper begs.
He tightens his arms around me, and his warmth swallows me up. There was a time I might have been able to get lost in his embrace, but those days have come and gone.
“Breathe,” he says a couple of times until I start to listen.
Little by little, my pulse slows down, and my breath isn’t so hard to catch. But the anxiety attack has me so locked up inside, all I can do is tell Jasper, “I’m sorry.”
I’m so ashamed he just saw me fall apart.
He lifts my chin with his finger and forces me to look at him. “Don’t be sorry.”
His words are so sincere, they slice right through my heart. It’s more proof that I have to keep my distance from Jasper.
“Please, let me go. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine, Winnie. You’re freaking out, and I have no idea what I did to trigger you.”
I always wondered what it would be like to tell someone I was okay and have them tell me I was full of shit, just like Jasper is doing now.
I imagined I’d be thankful that I didn’t have to be brave anymore, that I’d take comfort in whoever was saying the words and finally let my guard down. But I never expected Jasper to be the other person. And I still don’t feel very good about myself.
“I’m sorry, Jasper. You didn’t sign up for this.”
“You’re not allowed to apologize for being human, Winnie.”
Jasper runs his hands up and down my bare arms until they’re covered with goose bumps. When I can’t stand him staring at me anymore, I try to cover my face with my hands, but he grabs my wrists and pulls them away.
Even then, he doesn’t stop touching me. With my palms on his chest, he covers my fingers with his. I can’t figure out why he needs all this physical contact. It might comfort him, but all it does is make me nervous.
“Please don’t call me that name anymore,” I tell him with a shaky voice. There’s still so much emotion lodged in my throat, I can barely get the words out.
“I won’t,” he says. “I promise.
I’ll think of a nickname that’s ten times better.”
I almost believe him. But Jasper won’t ever be able to top a word that can make me feel completely cherished and utterly broken in a matter of seconds. Nobody can. And I don’t think I want him to even try.
Ten
Winnie
Ace has me working in and out of the kitchen, running food and washing the mugs like I did last night. When he saw me clock in, he didn’t say a word about the way I was dressed. In fact, he didn’t seem to care. If anything, Ace looked relieved that I hadn’t shown up in shoes I couldn’t walk in. Last night, everyone knew I was an imposter. I look so different now that some of the girls don’t even recognize me.
Jasper notices though. He’s been watching me since our shift started, waiting for me to fall apart again. Each time I leave the kitchen, I feel his eyes on me, boring holes into the back of my head. And, with my every trip back from the bar, he makes eye contact.
For the first hour or two, it bothered me and made my palms sweat, mostly because I’m not ready for his questions. And I know he has a lot of them. Who wouldn’t? But Jasper doesn’t seem to care that he’s making me uncomfortable. Not after what happened outside.
I hate that I let one stupid word turn me into a broken doll.
Jasper sets a full tray under the heat lamp and wipes his hands on a towel. “Winnie?” he says like I’m not paying attention.
But I see him. And I haven’t stopped thinking about him since he knocked on my front door.
“Where’s the food going?” I ask him.
“Table five. And, when you get back, we’re taking our break.”
“Together?”
If he thinks I need constant supervision, then he’s not as perceptive as I thought he was. Most days, I’d rather be alone than be around other people. A couple of years ago, I would have told you the exact opposite, but I’ve come to appreciate the quiet. At least then, all my conversations are in my head, and there’s nobody to argue with or to judge me.
“I thought we’d eat together tonight. Is that okay with you?”
“Will Ace mind?”
“Why would Ace care?” he asks with a smidgen of jealousy.
