Broken Girl(44)

“You okay, Rosie gir’?” Briggs asked as he turned off the engine.

“Yeah, sure.” What the hell was I going to say, no?

“That wasn’t too convincin’. You wanna talk ‘bout it?”

“I don’t think so. I’m pretty exhausted. I just want to sleep for like three days. But I can’t. I gotta get back to work. Rents not going to pay itself, and I owe you for . . . Sybil.”

“What? Don’t you disrespect me. I’m not goin’ to take your money. You go in there, get some rest. You’re gonna be just fine.”

Tears swelled in my eyes before plummeting down my cheeks.

“Oh, come on Rosie gir’. Now there’s no need to cry.” He slid the palm of his hand down across my head, catching the back of my neck. The pressure in his fingertips felt good as he rotated and massaged the muscles on either side of my spine. I felt the stress drain from my neck and clear down through my shoulders.

“I’m just exhausted. That’s all.”

“You need to take care of you’self now, Rosie gir’. You hear me?”

I nodded.

“How ‘bout I’ walk you up. Come on now,” Briggs said as his fingers parted from my neck and he pushed open the driver’s door of his SUV.

“Naw, you don’t have to, Key, I’ll be fine.” I pulled off my seatbelt. “Besides, you’ll get towed if you leave your car here unattended. I’ll text you once I’m in my apartment.”

“I don’t like this one bit. You promise?” he asked as he tucked his thick finger under my chin and made me look up at him.

“I pinky-promise you,” I answered holding out my pinky finger to him.

Briggs gave me a confused look until I grabbed his hand and twisted my pinky around his.

“This is a pinky promise.”

“Fin’,” he huffed before leaning over and kissing my forehead. “Take care Rosie gir’. If you need anyt’ing, you call me. Oh, and here.” He handed me a wad of money.

“What’s this for?”

“My bail. You ain’t payin’ me way.”

“Briggs!”

“No, Briggs, Rosie, I won’t have it.”

“Fine,” I answered.

There was no use in arguing, he was just as stubborn as I was. I smiled, just enough so he knew I appreciated him before I slipped out and pushed the car door closed.

He watched me open the door, and I noticed he was still sitting there after I looked back right before the door shut behind me. I knew he’d sit there until I texted him. That’s just how Briggs was. The eyes that kept me safe, Kean Briggs seemed to have my back even when I didn’t know about it. Broken by his past, just like me, we connected instantly the first time we met. It didn’t matter who we were, everyone at one point or another has been broken, and you could either sweep up the pieces and throw them away, or find some crazy glue. But through our unspoken words; his—the injustice of war and mine—the hidden marks of abusive parents, we found a safe haven in each other’s company. Briggs has never gone into detail about the war, or the appalling things he saw; maybe he didn’t because he wanted to protect me. Maybe someday he’d open up about it. All I knew at that moment was I couldn’t have been happier to have him in my corner.

The common entry of the building looked the same as my eyes scanned the carpet leading to the stairway. I shuffled toward the elevator, but then decided to climb the stairs. By the second flight my heart began to thrash in my chest. I didn’t want to go into my apartment alone, not because I thought someone could be there, but because I didn’t want to see all the blood, and leftover mess from what happened just three days ago. I pulled my key out from my purse, slipped it into my lock and twisted. It was the longest fifteen seconds in my entire life. Longer than the disgusting f*cks I took when I was just seventeen years old and started selling my body. Longer than the Greyhound bus ride I had to take home from Sonora when I was fifteen because my parents got super wasted and kicked me out of our cabin for not eating all of my dinner. When I pushed my apartment door open it was like cracking the doors to Hell and waiting for the devil himself to invite me in. I squeezed my eyes shut with an extended blink before I opened them and stepped inside my postage-stamp-studio apartment.

I peered around the room, no blood on the hardwood floors; the broken table next to my bed was gone and replaced by another table half its size. Both, Sybil’s and my beds were made and covered with new bedspreads. Any evidence that a crime had been committed here didn’t exist. Even the tinge of blood I had smelled days ago was gone.

My phone chimed with a message from Briggs, pulling my attention from the room.

BRIGGS: HEY, U OK? U DIDN’T MESSAGE ME!

ME: Sorry. I’m fine. Hey, did you clean up my apartment?

BRIGGS: MAYBE.

ME: Come on . . .

BRIGGS: I HAVE MY WAYS. I DIDN’T WANT YOU TO COME HOME TO THAT MESS.

ME: Thanks Briggs. I really appreciate it. Thank you for making me feel safe.

BRIGGS: GLAD YOU’RE SAFE. SLEEP TIGHT, I’LL CALL IN THE MORNING.

ME: Thanks

Briggs wasn’t one to message emoticons in texts but he always used shouty caps. He claimed his phone was stuck on caps lock, but I think it was the only way he believed he could be heard over the noise in his head. I looked around, knowing he came back to my apartment and took care of everything—made me feel like I wasn’t so empty or alone in this world.