Misty comes home at 3:45 every afternoon, so we just have to keep an eye on the clock. I make sure Bernie’s inside before her mama’s car comes rolling down the street.
“How’s your face?”
Bernie takes her seat beside me and reaches up to touch my jaw gently.
It takes me aback. I can’t remember the last time someone’s shown me such kindness. Taking punches and kicks is second nature, but a caring gesture is foreign.
How twisted has my life gotten?
Still, I smile at her. “It’s okay.”
“Why didn’t you fight back? You just let him hit you until he turned to that girl.”
“Because I deserved it,” I say with complete honesty. “When a man deserves a beating, he takes it.”
“What about girls?”
Shaking my head, I lean against the railing post. “Women never deserve a beating.”
“But you fight back when a girl might get hurt?”
I nod at her. The thing I love about talking with Bernie is how easily she simplifies just about anything. As adults, we’re too damn good at complicating everything. “Yep.”
“What did you do?”
How do I explain this to an eight-year-old? “I let his girlfriend sleep over at my house.”
“She does that a lot, doesn’t she?”
“What do you mean?”
She gives me a weird smile. Or maybe it’s a grimace. Either way, she sees a lot more than I think she does. “Because she’s been here before.”
“Yeah, she has.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Don’t think I’d be able to stop you if I wanted to.”
She giggles, and it lightens the darkness consuming me at the moment. So much goes on in my head about Johnny, the Venom, and Chanel. But Bernie can break through those walls pretty easily.
“That’s probably true.” Her expression turns serious, and she turns her whole body to face me. “Why do you let her do that?”
“Let who do what?”
“That girl wearing the sheet. Until she wasn’t. Yikes.” She makes the same face from earlier, and I realize it’s a grimace. A fucking cute one. “Why do you let her treat you bad?”
I frown. “What makes you say she treats me bad?”
The glare she shoots my way gives Misty vibes. Definitely gets this from her mama. “Mommy always tells me to never let anyone treat me bad because I’m just as good as anyone else. So why do you let sheet-girl treat you like you’re not as good as the boy who hit you?”
Well, shit. She got me there. “It’s complicated.”
“Mommy says that’s what adults say when they don’t want to say the hard things.”
“Your mama is a smart lady.”
“Yeah, so what’s the hard thing you don’t want to say?”
