Tina might not want children, but in this moment, I know—she’d be an incredible mother.
The thought makes me smile, despite the storm inside me.
"Do you want some tea?" she asks gently once my tears have run dry and the tissue box between us sits empty.
One of the reasons Tina and I get along so well is because she never pushes when it comes to my past. She knows there’s a wall around that part of me—thick, impenetrable—and she’s never tried to climb it. She just waits, patient and ready, letting me offer it one small piece at a time. After six years of being best friends, she knows most of it. And tonight, she waits for another piece of the puzzle I’m not quite ready to lay down.
I nod, and she gets up and heads to the kitchen. The house is open-concept, with the living room, kitchen, and dining area flowing together in one seamless space.
I close my eyes and take a few deep, cleansing breaths as I listen to her move around, grabbing the kettle, turning on the tap. The soft rush of water fills the silence. A moment later, she sets the kettle on the stove. The tick, tick, tick of the burner igniting rings sharp in my ears, too loud for the stillness, and then the quiet whoosh of the flame follows.
She opens the tin where we keep our tea bags, pulls down a couple of mugs, and places them on the granite counter with a gentle clink. She doesn’t speak, and neither do I. I know she’s dying to ask what happened, but as always, she waits—quiet, calm, ready—until I’m ready to speak.
Focusing on her movements momentarily distracts me. But the moment there's a lull, the memory floods back in. One second, Cal and I were sharing the most intimatemoment we’ve ever had. The next, I was staring at the cop who destroyed my life.
The tears come again, sudden and unstoppable.
But then the kettle whistles, sharp and shrill, and the sound startles me just enough to silence the spiral. To pull me back from the edge, if only for a breath.
Tina returns with two cups of tea in hand. She hands me one, and gives me a look—knowing, full of concern.
I see it in her eyes, the unspoken question:Are you okay?
And the answer sits heavy in my chest, too tangled to give voice to. So I just nod and wrap my hands around the warm mug, like it might hold the peace I’m fighting so hard to find.
I blow into the cup and take a sip. The rich flavor of chamomile and honey soothes my dry mouth. I try to inhale the steam, but my nose is too stuffed to breathe it in.
“Do you need more tissues?” Tina asks, settling beside me.
“I’m done crying,” I reply, with a touch more bravado than I feel.
“I’ll get another box,” she says gently, rising and walking toward the closet at the end of the hall.
The tears return the moment she’s gone, hot and unrelenting. I don’t try to stop them. I just let them fall.
For the next few minutes, I cry and sip my tea in silence. Tina sits quietly beside me, her own mug cradled in her hands. Every time I reach for a tissue, she passes one without a word. The pile at my feet grows steadily.
When my tears are spent and I’m too exhausted to continue the tear-fest, I sink back into the couch and glance at Tina.
“Do you want more tea?” she asks, reaching for my cup.
“No,” I whisper. My voice is hoarse, and the crying hiccups have started. I don’t know how to ease into what I have to say, so I just say it.
“When Izzy and I ran away from our foster home, we got stopped by two police officers. It was early—just after sunrise—and they were right to question why two kids were walking the streets of Madison at that hour.”
She nods, her eyes locked on mine, full of understanding.
“They tore Izzy from my arms. There was nothing I could do but watch while she was taken away, screaming. She was so little, scared and confused. I felt like a caged animal. One of the cops held me back while the other carried Izzy farther and farther away.”
I pause, the memory clawing its way up my throat.
“And like a caged animal, I snapped. I bit the cop’s arm. I bit him so hard I swear I felt my upper teeth press into my bottom ones through his forearm.”
Tina doesn’t flinch. “Okay,” she says quietly, nodding to let me know she’s still with me.
“That cop... he covered the scar with a tattoo, and he eventually left the force.”
Her eyes widen. “Elle,” she whispers, shaking her head slowly. “Don’t tell me that Cal... is Cal? How is that evenpossible?”
