BRAM
After another horrifying session with Biyu, I need some fresh air. I borrow the ranch truck and go for a drive to check out the H-E-B in Marble Falls.
Letting my thoughts go, I pick up a basket and mindlessly peruse the massive produce section. Charlie usually provides soups and sandwiches for our visitors, but I want to cook something for Biyu outside of our Friday dinner. Care for her in a way that isn’t about rehashing her trauma.
Anders mentioned that one of his friends puts peaches on her pizza, and it’s surprisingly good. Since it’s the beginning of peach season, I went digging online and found a promising recipe I’m going to try out.
I’m bagging a few pounds of gorgeous-looking peaches when I get a text from Charlie.
Charlie:We found Biyu’s parents. They still live in the same house she grew up in. They told our contact they never lost hope.
Me:That’s amazing news.
Charlie:We’re arranging transport for her now.
Me:How does that work? Will she have to travel alone?
Charlie:No. A local female therapist will accompany her, taking her as far as Beijing, where she will meet with her translator and be united with her parents, then transported home.
Me:And we’ll get confirmation when she arrives safely?
Charlie:Yes. We’re also providing Biyu and her family with additional support.
Me:I’m glad to hear it. Levy and I have some ideas about providing online help to ease her re-entry.
Charlie:Wasn’t sure if it’s legal for you to provide therapy to someone in another country. Don’t want to involve you in anything that would threaten your license.
I laugh, thinking about the ways in which I’ve already done that to myself.
Me:Let us worry about the legalities. We’ll talk soon.
Charlie:Okay.
Gripping my phone, I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. Biyu’s story is one of the most harrowing I’ve ever heard, and the amount of strength in that quiet wisp of a young woman is unlike anything I’ve ever seen.
Our shared living arrangements have never been totally comfortable, but she understands we’re trying to help. She chose to give us a chance despite previous repeated disappointments.
Not wanting to get emotional in H-E-B, I put my phone away and refocus on the groceries. When I look up to find the sign for the condiment aisle, I spy Nacho two aisles down, pushing a basket full of processed crap and not one single green thing.
Speaking of things that will get my license revoked.
I swear I seem to conjure him whenever I need him the most.
He hasn’t seen me yet, and it’s interesting to observe how other people react to his brand of swagger. He’s a friendly, sharp-dressed guy, up-nodding everyone he runs into, but he’s covered in prison-issue tattoos, easily identifiable as an ex-con.
The tight smiles he gets back are a little funny, though I’m less amused by the hot mom in velour track pants hungrily looking him over despite the huge rock on her left hand.
Eyes off the goods, lady.
Returning her flirty smile with a wink, Nacho turns to dip down the snack aisle, which finally sets my feet in motion. Knowing he’ll choose something absolutely awful, I double-time it, brushing past Mrs. Real Housewives of Burnet County.
As I enter the aisle, I stutter-step to a halt. I keep forgetting how sexy he is up close, even with the terrible grocery store lighting. Worse—better?—he looks like a giant kid, tapping his inked fingers together as he reviews the selections, finally landing on a huge box of Twinkies.
“Put those back,” I command.
Nacho startles and drops the box as he pivots to face me.
“Dr. Barlowe,” he says, his voice high and shaky. “What are you doing here?”
