Instead, I stand and hold out my hand to her. “Can I take you to the diner? Or the bakery? Get your arm cleaned up? Maybe get a drink? Something with sugar to help with the shock?”
Noelle blinks at me. “Sugar to help with the shock?”
My cheeks heat. “It’s something my mother says whenever someone’s upset.”
She looks at me for a long moment. Then she takes my hand and offers me a small smile. “Well, if your mom suggests it, I guess I should accept.”
I clasp my fingers around hers as I help her up. With a smile, I reply, “If my mother suggests it, then youdefinitelyshould.”
CHAPTER 3
NOELLE
“I still thinkyou should put some ice on it.”
Webb frowns at my arm, which is now freshly cleaned and dotted with three small Band-aids, his expression more fitting for a life-threatening injury than minor road rash. “Maybe we should head to urgent care,” he adds gravely, “to make sure you didn’t sprain something.”
I cover my wounded arm with my other hand, hiding my wince as pain flares. “It’s fine, Webb.”
He ignores me in favor of catching the attention of a passing server. “Could we get some ice?” he asks her. “Wrapped up in a clean towel, preferably.” Then he flashes her a winning smile. “We would really appreciate it.”
The server blushes before nodding quickly. “Of course. I’ll get some ice right away.” Then she hurries off, pausing just long enough to cast a longing look over her shoulder at Webb before disappearing into the kitchen.
Webb seems oblivious to her interest as he says to me, “Anyway, it can’t hurt to ice it for ten minutes or so. It’ll keep the bruising down, if nothing else.”
While I think he’s overreacting to the nth degree—I’ve had worse injuries during strike and kept going without a blink—I have to admit his concern feels like a warm balm soothing my raw and frazzled nerves. And the way he looks at me, like I’m the most important person in the world? Well, I know it can’t be true, considering he barely knows me, but that feels nice, too.
Plus, it’s obvious Webb feels bad about my very minor injury, though he absolutely shouldn’t. If not for him, I’d probably be in the hospital right now, rather than sitting across from him as the aroma of freshly baked cookies winds around us.
It still feels surreal what happened back there. One second, I was looking at Webb, feeling absurdly pleased to see him outside of work, and the next…
I shouldn’t have looked at my phone. After nearly a month and a half of Ken’s harassment, I should be used to it by now. But when my phone signaled an incoming text, it was like a compulsion to check it. Even though the logical voice in the back of my head commanded me to ignore it, I couldn’t stop myself. I had to know.
Maybe it’s Jaz,I reasoned.This is a new number, and the only people who have it are Jaz and my new landlord. I’ll read the message and realize I’m worrying over nothing.
Except it wasn’t Jaz. And it wasn’t my new landlord.
It was from an anonymous number, just like the dozens of others I’ve received. But unlike the first few weeks of texts, which only consisted of warnings and vague threats, it contained a photo. Of me.
That alone would have been enough to throw me off balance. But it wasn’t just a regular photo of me working at my computer or backstage. Because, as I learned as I received moreunwelcome messages featuring pictures of me from all around the theater, there were more cameras than just the one in my office.
But in this photo, I was changing. My shirt was off, revealing my pink bra and a small bruise I remember getting when I was helping hang twinkle lights for our May performance.
I remember the day the photo was taken. It was a Friday evening, and I was headed to the bar down the street to get drinks with some of the crew as an end-of-the-week celebration. I’d brought a new shirt to change into, a cute wraparound top that Jaz pressured me into buying the last time I visited her.
“You have a great body,”she told me as she held the aforementioned shirt up for display.“You should show it off. Let the girls out for a change, instead of hiding them under shapeless T-shirts and sweaters.”
Maybe that’s why it hit me so hard. As soon as I saw myself in the photo, shock warred with shame. It threw me back to the first weeks after my terrible discovery, when I kept wondering if I’d done something to give Ken the wrong idea.
Stupid, I know. No matter what I wore, even if I showed up to work in a freaking see-through top and shorts that barely covered my butt, it wouldn’t make what Ken did okay.
But logic and emotion are fierce enemies at times. And as many times as I told myself I didn’t do anything wrong, it didn’t stop the shameful thoughts from sneaking back in.
So as I stared at that horrible photo, my brain sort of… short-circuited. It was just too much to take in—the humiliation, the anger, the feeling of utter helplessness—and it took nearly getting hit by an oncoming motorcycle to snap me out of it.
“Noelle?” Webb lightly touches the back of my hand. “Are you really sure you’re okay?”
Dragging my thoughts back to the present, I force a wan smile as I reply, “I really am. A little shaken and embarrassed,” I admit, “but okay.”
