And I have no idea how to save her.
I roll onto my side, grab my phone, and Google "how to help someone after rape," and I immediately feel like a piece of shit for not knowing this already, for being thirty-one years old and having no fucking clue how to support someone through something like this.
The articles all say the same things. Listen without judgment. Believe them. Don't pressure them to talk. Respect their timeline for healing.
But Maya's not talking, she's not healing, she's cutting herself and planning suicide and pretending to be fine,and I'm supposed to just wait and hope she decides to open up?
That feels like watching someone bleed out while you stand there with a first aid kit, waiting for permission to help.
I hear her laugh upstairs. High and bright and fake.
Emma must be home.
I should go up there, act normal, and pretend I don't know what I know and play my part in this twisted performance we're all putting on.
Instead, I stay in bed and try to figure out how to save someone who doesn't think she's worth saving.
6
MAYA
I've been staring at the same job posting for twenty minutes.
Pediatric Nurse - Hartford Children's Hospital. Full-time. Competitive salary. Benefits.Everything I should want.
My finger hovers over the"Apply Now"button.
I can't do it, can't even pretend I can do it.
Emma's at some prenatal appointment with Chase, and took Ethan with them because apparently they're making it a family thing. I'm alone in the guest room with my laptop and a cup of coffee that's gone cold, trying to convince myself I'm capable of being responsible for someone else's life.
Spoiler: I'm not.
The list of job sites is still open on my browser. I've looked at seventeen postings this morning: pediatrics, emergency, and even a few administrative positions that don't require direct patient care. I haven't applied to any of them.
My hands are shaking, and I press them flat against my thighs where the fresh cuts sting under my jeans.
The pain helps, grounds me, reminds me I'm still here even when I wish I weren't.
I should apply. I need money, need a job, need to prove I'm not useless. But every time I think about walking into a hospital, about putting on scrubs, about being responsible for a child's life, I'm back in Lily's room watching her monitor flatline, feeling her ribs crack under my hands while I did compressions.
Six years old, and I couldn't save her.
What right do I have to try again?
My laptop pings with another job alert. I close it without looking.
Max jumps onto the bed, meowing his judgment. He's been following me around for the past week like he knows I'm a mess. Emma keeps joking that he's a traitor, that he's supposed to be Chase's cat, but Max has decided I'm his person now. Honestly, I'll take whatever affection I can get.
"I know," I tell him. "I'm pathetic."
He headbutts my hand, purring.
At least someone doesn't think I'm a complete disaster.
There's a knock on the door. "Maya?"
Jackson. Shit.
