“Eat something,” he said. “You’ll feel better.”
I took a bite of toast, chewed, and almost started crying. The sweetness of the jam, the warmth of the bread—simple, solid, like being anchored back to earth.
“I’m sorry,” I blurted out, unable to hold it in any longer. “About last night. About all of it.”
He tilted his head, considering. “What are you sorry for exactly?”
I stared at my plate. “For making a mess of everything. For needing you to bail me out. For being—” I almost said “a disappointment,” but the word stuck. “—for being a pain in the ass.”
He snorted. “Sunshine, if you think puking your guts out is gonna scare me off, you don’t know me at all.”
I looked up, surprised.
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I’ve seen men shot, stabbed, and set on fire. I’ve seen the inside of more toilets than I care to count. None of that even comes close to what you did last night.”
I winced. “You mean being a drunk idiot?”
He shook his head. “No. Standing up for yourself. Telling that asshole off. Trying to be brave, even when you were scared shitless.”
I stared at him; the words stung more than I expected. “I didn’t feel brave.”
“Most people don’t,” he said. “But you were. I’m proud of you.”
I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes, and I wiped them away with the heel of my hand. “I don’t know why you’d be proud of me.”
He gave me a look equal parts exasperation and affection. “Because you fought for yourself. And because you let me help you.”
That did it. The tears came, hot and quick, and for a moment I couldn’t even look at him. I just stared at my eggs, letting them go cold, and tried to remember the last time anyone had said they were proud of me.
He reached across the table and put his hand over mine. “You don’t have to do this alone,” he said, voice low. “Not anymore.”
I nodded, breath hitching.
“Finish your breakfast,” he said, voice soft but firm. “You’ve got a long day ahead.”
I ate, slow but steady, until my stomach stopped twisting. The pain in my head faded to a dull ache, and my body felt almost normal again.
Papa cleared the plates, rinsed them, and stacked them in the sink. Then he walked to the fridge, opened it, and pulled out a bottle of Gatorade.
“For you,” he said, unscrewing the cap and sliding it over.
I took it, sipped, and smiled. “Thank you,” I said, voice barely more than a whisper.
He smiled back, then nodded toward the hallway. “Go shower if you want. I’ll be here.”
I nodded, then padded off to the bathroom, desperate to scrub the last of the shame and sweat from my skin.
I turned on the shower; the bathroom steamed up. I saw that he’d left a fresh set of my clothes—underwear, bra, and a long-sleeved dress I liked—on the counter. I stared at the little stack, a fist of feeling squeezing my chest.
Nobody had ever done something like that for me. Not even Mama, who loved me more than the sun loved the sky.
I peeled off my shirt and stepped into the shower, letting the water run as hot as I could stand it. I closed my eyes and let the spray pummel me, washing away the guilt and the fear, the memory of strange hands and dark voices, the old ache of never quite being enough.
I scrubbed my hair and scrubbed every inch of my skin desperate to start fresh. When I got out, the towel was still warm. I dried off, then picked up the underwear and pressed it to myface, feeling the tears come again. Not sad tears, but something softer. Gratitude, maybe. Or hope.
I got dressed, brushed and dried my hair, and went to face the day.
This time, I didn’t feel defective at all.
