Broken Girl(62)

“I wanted to apologize for last night.”

“Now, there’s no reason for doin’ that. You were hurtin’ and t’at’s, t’at.” His eyes told me he wasn’t going to have any of my apology. He looked over my shoulder. “What you decidin’ to do with all those?” His thick long finger hung in the air as he pointed to the eight large black garbage bags that held all of Sybil’s life as I’d known it.

My breath escaped me, I wasn’t expecting him to ask about them.

“I was just going to leave them until someone from her family asked for it.”

“And what if they don’t?”

“Well, then I’ll take them to a thrift store.”

“And ‘er shoes?”

Sybil had such great taste in heels; some with leopard prints, colors for every skirt she had, a half a dozen black ones, classics that went with just about anything and some six-inch stilettos that would make any shoe whore jealous.

“I just haven’t gotten to those yet.”

Briggs was a no-nonsense type of guy, I guess when you’ve lived through the tragedy he had, you build up a wall that would protect your emotions.

“Got anymor’ bags?”

“Under the kitchen sink. Why?”

He took a couple of steps from where he was to the kitchen area and returned with a bag.

“Let’s take care of tis.”

“No, that’s okay.”

“Naw, com’ on now. Let’s get tis dun.”

“Key, don’t worry about it. We have to get to the cemetery.”

My objection didn’t faze him; he snapped open the black garbage bag and held it open waiting for me to fill it with more of Sybil’s belongings.

“It won’t take too long.” His accent thickened when he’s determined.

I pulled the big black garbage bag from his hands rolled it up before I tossed it into Sybil’s closet and shut the door. I turned around and rested my back against the door.

“I’m just not ready . . . to let go.”

I slid down the door squeezed behind my bent knees in the attempt to stop the pain pouring from my gut. Tears rained across my cheeks drawing down and landing on my skirt.

Was I really going to be strong enough to walk up to the six-foot deep hole in the earth dug specifically for her?

Truthfully, I didn’t want to pack everything of hers away. If I left a part of her out, then maybe I could hold on to her just a little longer. The unrealistic idea that maybe keeping some things of hers out and where they belonged, it wouldn’t hurt so badly when I got back today.

Briggs dropped down next to me draping his arms around me, swallowing me in his embrace. I was safe, felt comfort as he hummed in his Irish accent. He caressed my head lulling me away from the fear that clung to every breath I took. And in no more than a slight sway, he convinced me that I was strong enough to make it through the day.

“Shhh, I’m here, Rosie, me lovely lady. I know you’re hurtin’. Sybil, she’d want you to be strong. She’d want you to go on . . . Not’ing will bring you down here anymore. Come on, sweet’art. Let me see that strong gir’ I know.”

He pulled back from me, catching a glimpse of myself in his dark eyes, he wouldn’t abandon me. Not here, not there, not ever. He stood up, held out his thick massive hands, and waited, the first move toward my future. Pulling me up, he caught my chin between his calloused thumb and pointer finger.

“We aren’t much different me and you. We’re fighters, always and for’ver.” He swept the loose strands of hair off my forehead before he pressed his lips across the deep worry lines that made it their home above my eyebrows. He was right. We were fighters, we were survivors in our own right and this, as hard as it was going to be, won’t break us.

A glimpse of . . .

Strength.

I grabbed my purse off my dresser, the crystal bowl which used to hold more condoms than anything else caught my eye and I saw the cluster of Blow Pops Shane gave me from several of our laundry dates. I grabbed a couple, tossed them into my purse and avoided the need to add anything else from that crystal bowl. I looked at myself in the full-length mirror behind the door, making double sure I was just conservative enough.

“Ready, Rosie?”

I nodded as I quickly swept my hands across the front of my skirt and grabbed a lightweight black knit cardigan from the rickety coatrack Sybil found down the street one night and decided to drag home. A twinge of sadness fluttered across my heart.

Briggs held the apartment door open for me and did the same as we left the building. He was such a gentleman. Everything he did was protective and comforting, hurrying me across the street he pressed his palm against the small of my back and pulled the car door open, small gestures that most might overlook if not paying attention.

“Thank you, Key.”

“For wat?”

“For being here for me.”

He gave me a quick smile and a wink before he shut me into his car. All it took was that slight smile and that simple wink to reassure me that we were good. That we were going to make it through today together, as friends, and as family.

Trusting . . .

The drive to the cemetery started out quiet, until a pressure started building inside of me. It felt as if a vice was being tightened across my chest, pinning me down in a sticky leather seat poking me with fiery sharp needles up and down my spine, arms and legs. My skin flushed hot before sweat began to cool the raging heat thundering through my body. I tried to look out the window, count the people whose lives seemed so much better than mine. I tried to hold the voice in my head at bay hoping Briggs didn’t notice I was starting to have a panic attack.