Under different circumstances, the irony of him questioning legality might have made me laugh, but I wasn’t in the mood. I had more to say. I didn’t think he was trying to challenge me—but instead trying to understand.
I ignored the question and kept going. He’d piece it together soon enough.
So I did it. I stepped back into the past and laid everything out—the humiliation, the degradation, every detail of the night up until we met. I told it from the moment I woke up to the point I ended up outside the bar. It felt detached, like I was watching it happen to someone else.
My nails dug into my palms again, falling back into the same pattern from earlier.
By the time I finished, my eyes burned and tears slipped down my face. My throat tightened until my voice barely worked. I tried to wrap it up with a bitter attempt at humor.
“My parents delivered me to be raped by my older brother to ‘keep it in the family.’” I let out a hollow scoff. “That’s so disgusting, right?”
“Shit,” Erich muttered. “That’s some true southern-fried horror.”
He flexed his injured hand, stretching out the swelling. He wasn’t fidgeting—he was trying to figure out what to say. I couldn’t blame him. I wouldn’t have known what to say either.
“If I stayed,” I continued, forcing myself to stay steady, “it wouldn’t have stopped. I know it wouldn’t have gotten better. I would’ve been married to him, and no one would care. No one would say a word as I disappeared into that house, doing exactly what I was told.”
I swallowed hard.
“I would’ve been forced to have his children. Smile through it. Pretend it was normal. No one would have helped me… so I had to help myself.”
I wiped at my face, rougher than necessary.
“I don’t even know if they’re looking for me,” I added, quieter now. “They might be more worried about what I’ll say. Or how people would react if I told the truth. I don’t know what they’re doing. I don’t know what they care about.”
I stood up, needing to move. To do something. Anything to take the weight off my chest. I couldn’t bring myself to meet his eyes.
I paced slowly around the room, feeling out of place in my own skin. Erich stayed seated, letting it sink in. I knew he was connecting the pieces—my bruises, the way I acted, the clothes I wore.
“I won’t let them find you,” he said finally, his voice steady.
I caught my reflection in the scuffed mirror. Bloodshot eyes, swollen, and smudged with the black of mascara. The tear tracks were drying, but not before they washed away bits of the face I painted on to get through the night. There was no sense in fixing it now. Erich surely thought I belonged in an asylum… Now I looked the part, too.
I said nothing. The embarrassment sat heavy in my chest. I had told him everything after barely a day of knowing him. There was no deep connection—he was only convenient.
“We’re leaving in the morning,” Erich said, shifting the conversation. He stood up from the bed. “Anywhere you want to go?”
I shook my head. Anywhere new was fine. Anywhere that wasn’t Mississippi.
He shrugged off his jacket and hung it by the door. Then he picked up the wallet again, holding it up.
“This should last us a few days,” he said. “You did a good job.”
It sounded awkward coming from him, but he followed it with a crooked smile.
“I didn’t get much done. Missed more shots than I hit. So you’re the big winner tonight.”
I tried to accept the praise, but it didn’t land. The smile I gave him felt hollow, and it came back to punish me when my lip split under the stress I put on it all night.
The open wound was a jolt of pain I wasn’t prepared for. I winced and reached up, wiping away a dramatic gush of blood. I pulled my hand away to find it staining the back of my hand with a vibrant streak of crimson.
I turned toward the bathroom, but Erich was faster.
He came back with a washcloth and, without asking, reached for me—one hand in my hair, thumb behind my ear. The sudden contact made the hairs on my neck stand on end.
Then he pressed the cloth gently to my lip, holding it there.
He was focused on my injury, gazing down at where his battered hand was on my mouth. The same way someone might tend to something fragile.
