My reflection in the mirror is unforgiving. The swollen, split skin of my bottom lip stares back at me, a vivid reminder of last night’s ruin. I had hoped, naïvely, that his elbow wouldn’t actually connect, that the threat alone might keep me safe. But no, it struck true—hard and deliberate, despite his feeble protests that it was accidental.
My mother said nothing. Sat frozen on the couch, her gaze vacant as he raised his arm and brought it down across my face. No intervention. Just silence.
I touch the tender flesh, feeling the rough edges of two cuts—one from last night’s bar scuffle on my upper lip, and the more painful one freshly bruised below. Makeup won’t hide this; it’s raw and blatant.
I exhale sharply, a quiet surrender to the ache. Gathering my scattered thoughts, I reach for my phone and the car keys he’d flung across the room in anger—his way of forcing me out, I suppose.
Lights off, I slip out of my bedroom, closing the door softly behind me. My heart stutters when I hear a shuffle to my left. Turning slowly, I see him—still clad in the same clothes from last night’s debauchery, his presence a looming shadow. I swallow a nervous prayer.
He looks hungover, maybe too sluggish to go to work. Please, don’t still be drunk. Please.
“Why so scared?” His voice is rough, worn thin like the frayed edges of his patience. I can’t tell if it’s the alcohol or just the weight of his misery speaking.
I want nothing more than to ignore him, to vanish from this house and the storm that brews within its walls. I dart down the stairs without a word, my footsteps a hurried echo in the quiet morning.
Outside, I lean against my car, pressing my palm to my throbbing knee where I’d stumbled earlier. The cool metal soothes the heat rising from my lip, but I know the pain will linger.
With a shaky breath, I head toward the bookstore—a haven that waits two hours later than usual for me.
“Feeling under the weather, Azalea?” Mr. Terrip’s gentle voice greets me as I step inside, the familiar scent of old books wrapping around me like a warm blanket.
“No,” I say, forcing a smile. “If I looked ugly, just say it. You don’t have to sugarcoat it.”
He chuckles softly, placing a frail hand on my forehead. “If you were ugly, I’d have kicked you out ages ago. You’d scare away all my customers.”
The warmth of his grandfatherly affection envelops me as I wrap my arms around his thin frame. His presence steadies me, a quiet anchor in my turbulent world.
He adjusts his glasses, peering at my face with a mix of concern and curiosity. “What happened to you?” His voice is gentle, probing.
I hesitate, then offer a flimsy excuse. “I’m training for exotic dancing. Hit my mouth on the pole.”
The absurdity of it makes me smirk inside. If I told the truth, he’d probably panic.
“Here’s the truth,” I say, deciding to soften the lie. “My alarm startled me awake, and I bumped my knee into my mouth.”
He sighs, removing his glasses. “You need to get out more.”
I gasp, feigning offense. “I thought you liked having me around.”
He nods slowly, deliberating how much to say. “I do. But sometimes I think you’d benefit from a quiet day at home.” The thought makes my skin crawl.
“No, thanks,” I whisper, sliding into my usual chair, resting my head against the back as the bell above the door jingles.
I snap upright, watching a girl my age step inside. She browses the shelves quietly, her presence tentative but curious. Gathering courage, I approach her softly. “Can I help you find something?” I ask, careful not to overwhelm.
She shakes her head politely, her beauty striking yet distant. I offer a sad smile, retreating to Mr. Terrip’s desk.
“Be honest,” I say, settling on the edge of his desk. “Do I seem approachable? Like someone you’d want to talk to?”
“Of course,” he replies, though I sense the bias of his fondness for me.
The girl returns with two books in hand. Mr. Terrip stands to ring her up, his movements slow but sure. I keep my gaze fixed on my black skirt, cheeks burning.
The door chime sounds again, and my heart hammers as Grey steps inside—his presence magnetic, effortless. A stray lock of hair falls over his forehead, and I long to brush it aside, to feel his warmth.
Mr. Terrip bids the girl farewell, her eyes fleetingly scanning Grey with obvious interest. She doesn’t notice the faint smile I send her, or the way she disregards my silent gesture.
My smile falters as she passes Grey, obviously admiring him. He doesn’t shoot her a glare like he does me. The sting of jealousy tightens my chest.
My blonde hair falls forward, shielding my face as I stare down at my lap. I sense his presence before I see him, and when I turn, I feel the weight of unspoken words between us.
“Mr. Terrip, this is Grey. Grey, this is Mr. Terrip,” I murmur softly, bridging the distance.
Mr. Terrip’s eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of recognition sparking. “So this is the young man you’ve been telling me about,” he says warmly.
Grey nods curtly, his usual guarded demeanor in place but with a hint of something softer as he meets Mr. Terrip’s kind gaze.
For a moment, the tension in the room shifts—a fragile truce, a silent acknowledgment of the complexities between us. Despite the bruises and scars, the cracks might just be the places where light can enter.
I catch Grey’s eye, a flicker of vulnerability there before he looks away, and I realize that, like me, he’s a work in progress—broken, guarded, but still reaching for something better.