I press my palms over my ears, but it doesn’t help. Roman’s voice is still there. My father’s voice is still there. I thought leaving meant freedom, that Kenyan meant safety.
If I ran far enough, became small enough, quiet enough, useful enough, I could build a life Roman couldn’t reach.
But he found me. I was stupid enough to think I had a chance.
Men like Roman always find what they think belongs to them. The sob that breaks out of me doesn’t sound human.
I bite down on my fist to stop the next one, but it comes anyway. Then another.
And another.
Until I’m folded over my knees, soaked and shaking, trying to hold myself together with hands that have never been enough.
Then the shower curtain moves, the rings of metal sliding over the track.
I go still.
The steam shifts.
A shadow fills the space, making the tiles darker.
For one impossible second, I think Roman has come to get me. Then a voice cuts through the water.
“Amy.”
My head lifts.
Saint stands at the end of the shower, not caring if his black hoodie gets wet. His hair, neatly braided and tied at the nape of his neck.
I blink through the water on my lashes, trying to see if my eyes are playing tricks on me. He became another absence I didn’t know how to survive.
His eyes move over me once, and his expression changes. Something cold and lethal moves behind his eyes when he sees the side of my thighs under the fluorescent lights. The times he was in my room, it was dark, and the only light was filtered through the curtain.
Old scars cross my skin in faint, uneven lines. Some from when I was thirteen, some from my father, and some I don’t remember making.
His gaze drops lower, to the faded marks my father left on the side of my butt where my shorts have ridden up. The old memories the skin keeps so you never forget. The evidence of every moment I survived without anyone coming.
Shame hits so hard that I try to cover myself.
Saint moves fast enough to startle me, but not toward me. He reaches over me toward the shower handle and turns the water off.
Silence crashes into the shower stall, and for a split second, all I hear is my own ragged breathing.
Saint crouches next to me, careful not to touch. He just looks at me like the sight of my survival has rearranged something inside him.
“You survived all of them,” he says softly.
The words broke whatever was left of me. I cover my face and cry. I break open.
Saint doesn’t move.
When the worst of it passes, he reaches for a towel and holds it out.
My shaky fingers close around the fabric.
After a moment, Saint says, “Can I?”
I nod once.
