An hour later, we’re both on her sofa watching the fire burn as we sit side by side. Our pizza plates are empty and put to one side on the coffee table. The quiet and comfort of just being next to her provides me a sense of stillness I haven’t felt in a long time.
“Are the books your dad gave you up there?” I ask, looking over at the shelf.
“No,” she says with a shake of her head. “I don’t have them anymore.” My eyes move to her hands when she fidgets. They’re covered with her sleeves.
“Why not?”
She shrugs, not looking at me.
I know I shouldn’t push her, but I can’t let it go. I want her to tell me everything. I want her toknowshe can say anything.
I inch closer, reaching for her hand and rolling the fabric of her cardigan up her wrists and lacing my fingers with hers.
“Your past doesn’t scare me, Erin.”
“That’s because you don’t know how dark it is.”
“I’m not afraid of a little darkness, Erin.”
Her eyes flare with uncertainty.
She takes a breath, pulling her hand from mine. Her back pushes against the armrest as she faces me but closes her eyes, and it seems like, in a split second, she’s a light-year away from this room.
From me.
Back in a place she doesn’t want to be.
Trapped.
I reach for her hand, hoping I can help ground her.
She doesn’t pull away.
“I’m here, baby.”
She lets out a shaky breath.
“I-I didn’t recognize her voice or see the face of the woman who shot my dad three times in the chest.”
Her words slam into me at full force. Her eyes remain closed, but her pain and turmoil wrap around us like bubble wrap, preventing even the smallest breath.
“I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. I was trying hard not to be seen. T-To be next.” She shakes her head, tears spilling down her face. “I d-didn’t save him.”
I wipe her cheek with my thumb, but she still doesn’t give me her eyes.
“Erin,” I whisper, trying to coax her out of her memory. “Look at me, sweetheart.”
“When I saw my mom with that man in the hotel, she warned me not to say anything. Said bad things would happen to my dad…but I didn’t listen. I told my dad what I saw, and he lost his life because of it.”
“You were just a kid, Erin.”
“I never had a chance to call for help—but someone came. A man with a tattoo and dark eyes. He had a needle,” she tells me,her trembling finger running along her neck. “He put me in a car and said, ‘Sleep now, little Lucia. It’s going to be alright.’ And that’s all I remember before everything went dark.”
Her eyes open, her tortured brown gaze looking right into me. There’s a look in her pupils that I recognize. Fear. An ache rattles deep inside my bones for the girl sitting in front of me, sharing her ghosts with me.
“Lucia?” I ask her.
“The name I was given at birth. I changed it after I was adopted,” she says. “I never told anyone what happened that night.” Her words are fragile now, making it easy for me to sense the weight of them. The heaviness of what she’s faced stirs the ache within me, because I know the burden of carrying someone else’s traumas and truths.
