Nix: You, too.
Good weekend?
Guess that means I won’t be seeing Charlotte until Monday. Or maybe even the next home game.
We don’t have any firm plans until then…
Shit.
But a clear schedule is probably a good thing. I can’t shake the feeling that whatever’s up with Bea isn’t something that will be handled with a few days of R&R in NOLA and a stupid movie night with her big brother.
I set my phone down and start toward the guest room, bare feet silent on the hardwood. Outside the closed door, I pause, leaning in. Listening…
Nothing.
Not even the whir of the fan, and Bea’s never been able to sleep without the fan on, not even in the dead of winter.
I gently push on the door handle, cracking it just enough to peek at the bed and be sure she’s okay. But when the mattress comes into view, there’s nothing there but a dented pillow and rumpled covers.
“Bea?” I ask, poking my head more fully inside, far enough to see that the guest bathroom door is closed.
I’m about to head back into the kitchen—assuming Bea’s grabbing a shower and will be out soon—when a muffled sob cuts through the silence.
It’s followed closely by another, then a soft string of curses.
Coming from the bathroom.
I cross the room, calling in a louder voice, “Hey, Bea? You okay in there? I made pancakes.”
Silence. Loaded silence.
Then, “Um, yeah. Thanks. I’ll be right out.”
Her voice is thick. Rough. Like she’s been in there crying for a while.
“There’s no rush. Pancakes warm up fine.” I keep my tone light, brotherly, even though my pulse is hammering. “Take as much time as you need, okay?”
“Thanks, Nix, I appreciate it. I really—” She breaks off with another sob, this one almost too faint to hear.
But I do hear it, and my gut is screaming that I have to help her. Now. I have to be sure she knows that whatever’s going down, she doesn’t have to go through it alone.
“Are you going to the bathroom, Bea?” I ask, already reaching for the doorknob.
“Wh-what?” She sniffs. “Um, no, but I?—”
“Good, then I’m coming in,” I say, pushing in before she can send me away.
She curses again, her eyes flying wide as she freezes in place.
She’s sitting cross-legged on the wide, empty side of the counter, nudged up as close to the mirror as she can get. Probably because she doesn’t have her glasses, and Bea can’t see anything close without her glasses.
Not a book, not directions for macaroni and cheese, and, apparently, not the bruise under her left eye.
It isn’t fresh, but it’s ugly, a mix of light purple and yellow. I’m sure it isn’t easy to cover with makeup. Especially when you’re crying, and she’s clearly been crying, as evidenced by the red in the whites of her eyes and her puffy lids.
Our gazes lock in the mirror, and the hand holding her makeup brush trembles. She swallows, her eyes growing even wider at whatever she sees in my face.
Probably murder.
