“The guy from the restaurant who groped you?” If so, I’ll chop off his balls and feed them to him.
She shakes her head
My fingers find her chin and I tilt her head up. “I’m going to ask again. Who did this to you, Harley?”
She bursts into tears. They run down her face so hard, her features contort.
Fuck.
I scoop her up in my arms. She circles my waist with her legs, wraps her arms around my shoulders, buries her face into the crook of my neck, and cries harder.
I enter her apartment and kick the door closed.
“Shhh.” I rub her back in soothing circles. “It’s okay. I’m here.”
That does little to appease her.
For a few long minutes, I rock her in my arms. As I do so, I survey her apartment.
Her whole existence is contained in this minuscule room.
Jesus, this is the size of a sardine can.
I approach the only window in the space, located above a double-size futon bed. I stretch my neck to catch the view.
A brick wall.
This is like a prison.
My eyes drop to a broken item on the floor near a cabinet.
What is that?
Harley pulls away from me.
Her green eyes are rimmed with red circles.
She sniffles a few times before wiping her face with the back of her hand.
“You… you must think I’m a hot mess.”
She’s the image of defeat.
“No. But I do think you’re going through a rough patch.”
“That’s the understatement of the century.” The tears are back in full force.
Way to go, Lindstro¨m.
“I’m sorry, Harley. I didn’t mean to make you feel worse.”
“It’s not your fault.” She sniffles again. “All of this is my fault. I keep making bad decisions and trusting shitty people.”
There’s a lot to unpack there, but let’s start with the puzzling piece on the floor.
I turn us both around. “What’s that?”
“That’s one of the offensive items that sent me spiraling.”
