From the corner of my eye, I notice one of them gesturing in my direction at the same time someone whispers my name.
“Mountain.” He says it like a warning, like I’m about to make a scene. But that’s not my style. I don’t need volume to be heard, don’t need to inflict misery to get my point across. Besides, they’re not worth the energy. My only concern is Sam.
I close in, but she doesn’t notice me. Instead, Sam shifts like she wants to disappear, her chin tucked, hands fisting in her lap, breath hitched. Pivoting, I stop at her aisle, letting my eyes settle on her. She finally glances up, a flick of her eyes as if she felt me before she saw me. I nod once, just so she knows she’s not alone. Then I lower into the seat next to her, the metal chair squeaking under my weight. My bag falls to the floor between our feet, but it doesn’t stop the closeness I feel the moment my thigh brushes against hers.
I reach around Sam and push Jackson’s foot off her chair. We make eye contact for a moment before she drops her gaze to my bicep. I see the questions swirling, but surprisingly, they never come. We stay like that for a beat, so much being said between us without words. Her gaze is one of thanks for the solidarity, and mine is a silentdon’t mention it.
Removing the pen cap, I peer behind me and flick it back at Jackson. Not bothering to look at him, I turn around and settle in. And the moment my back hits the seat, it goes quiet behind me. It’s classic behavior. They treat the small person like trash but tighten up in the presence of someone they can’t push over. Someone mutters something but I can’t make out what.
“Chill,” Jackson orders. It’s hushed and reeks of annoyance.
“Hey,” I say to Sam. “You good?”
Sam blinks, then gives the smallest smile, her eyes and shoulders softening just a little, almost as if she now feels safe.
She nods, quick and clipped. “Yeah.”
I don’t believe it. But I know that if I push it, so close for them to hear, she’ll shut down.
So I take out my phone and do the only thing I know to do. Holding it low beneath the desk, I type:
Bryden:Be real with me.
Bryden:This is getting out of control. Tell me what’s up?
I watch her phone light up and her head slowly turn toward it. She stares at my name, then back at me, confusion creasing her brow. She opens the text, reading each line painfully slowly.
Sam looks at me, her eyes pleading.
Bryden:Did something happen that night? Why is he being so mean to you?
Collins:Why does anyone do anything? Because they can. Just leave it alone.
“Look at me,” I say, more sternly than I intend to.
She does, and that’s when I see it. The pain. The fear. Something snaps in my chest, something deep in my subconscious telling me that whatever she’s holding is enough to break her if she lets it.
Bryden:What. Happened.
I stare at the phone, even though she’s next to me, my pulse racing, fingers tingling. The silence starts to mount, and pressure builds behind my eyes. I’m usually a patient person. Things don’t bother me, don’t set my nerves on fire. I don’t get involved in things that don’t pertain to me, but something about Sam’s stillness feels eerie. Feels haunting.
Collins:Haven’t you heard? I raged out and broke his knee.
Bryden:Sam.
She holds the device, her grasp tightening like it’s her lifeline. Then she takes a breath, her shoulders shaking. With a sway of her head, Sam punches into the keypad.
I glance at her, catching a glimpse of something playing on her features. But it’s the uneasy, now awkward shifting from Jackson that I catch from the corner of my eye.
Collins:Vault.
I breathe.
Bryden:Done.
She braves another peek at me before focusing on her phone again. Her fingers trembling slightly as she types.
Collins:You have to promise not to get upset. I don’t want to make a big deal out of it.
