Bet on It (2)
Aja could hardly look at him, her eyes still trying to focus as they flitted across his face and body. She caught nothing concrete other than the red birthmark that splayed out on the right side of his lightly tanned neck.
“Thank you for…” She paused, not exactly sure why she was thanking him. Maybe for helping her feel a little less alone, or for not trying to get her to calm down the way other people did—with tons of unnecessary touching and useless suggestions to find your center.
“For standing here with me.”
His chuckle was deep and throaty, and her fingers flexed in response. “Don’t worry about it. Like I said, I get it. Plus … those Hot Pockets are the only reason I even came in, and I’m not leavin’ until I get them.”
On another night, she might have laughed. But while the worst of her panic attack was over, her body was still eaten up with anxiety, and she desperately craved the comfort of her bed. So she just kept her eyes on his shirt and flashed him a shaky smile before turning and dragging her heavy feet back down the aisle—cringing at how she was about to force a cashier to check her out only minutes before closing.
Chapter 2
There were few places in the world more superstitious than the Greenbelt City Bingo Hall. It was a place where Friday the thirteenth and knocking on wood meant next to nothing. Instead, something as small as a chihuahua bobblehead or an old string of Mardi Gras beads was thought powerful enough to turn the tides of a game when called upon.
Aja hadn’t known how seriously people took bingo until she’d first attended and was nearly coldcocked by a little old lady for daring to sit in the seat she had claimed three years before Aja had even been born. That first warning had been the only one she’d ever needed. After that, she picked a seat in the middle row on the right side of the room, right near a thick pole that kept one side of her closed off. The pole was there to keep the building’s structural integrity sound, but for her it meant she didn’t have to spend bingo being stressed out about sitting between two strangers.
Every Wednesday evening, she spent twenty dollars on a pack of bingo sheets, blue and yellow daubers, and a large order of crinkle-cut fries. And for three full hours she felt good. Calm. Involved. All the things that seemed so far out of reach when she stepped outside of those walls.
The inside of the hall reminded her of the poorly lit church basement she’d spent so much of her childhood in. Even with their often-snappish behavior, Aja had built an easy camaraderie with her fellow players. She kept mostly to herself, but they provided plenty of entertainment from her place on the sidelines. They were so uninterested in pretense that she was confident no one was paying nearly as much attention to her as she tended to think people were.
Her favorite was Ms. May Abbott—who’d made sure to put an emphasis on the “miz” when introducing herself. A white woman in her mid-sixties, with dyed red hair, thin lips, and wrinkles around her mouth, she spoke entirely in a conspiratorial un-whisper-like whisper. Her normal seat was right next to Aja’s, and she spent the majority of her Wednesday nights giving her a running commentary of other people’s bingo faux pas. They didn’t know each other outside of the hall, but inside, they were damn near best friends. After they had formed a kinship over the house-made chicken wings and their mutual love of Tina Turner, Aja looked forward to their visits.
The older woman hadn’t shown up in three weeks though, and Aja regretted every time she’d been too nervous to exchange numbers with her. Four days after the Piggly Wiggly Incident, she planned to walk into bingo and finally work up the courage to ask one of the gossipy little church ladies in the front row if they’d heard anything. But before she could bring herself to, Ms. May came strolling in through the double doors, hair slightly askew, leopard-print leggings tight as ever, and both of her arms in bright-pink casts. The first thing Aja felt was relief that she wouldn’t have to melt under the scrutinous eyes of the church ladies. The second was pure shock.
It must have shown, because when Ms. May locked eyes with her from across the room, her lips curled into a rueful smile, and she shook her head.
“Oh my God…” Aja breathed when the other woman was finally in front of her.
Ms. May waved a dismissive hand as best she could with her arm obstructed. “It’s nothin’.”
“Nothing?” Her voice was damn-near hysterical. She knew she must have been overreacting, but she suddenly couldn’t get the distressing images of Ms. May out of her head. Bloody, bruised, battered, and worse. She’d been hurt, and that reminded Aja that the people she cared about could be hurt—something she spent an inordinate amount of time trying, and failing, to keep her mind off of.
“I fell down those damned steps of mine.” Ms. May rolled her eyes. “You should have heard me callin’ out the screen door for my no-good neighbors to come help. It would have been hilarious if I hadn’t wound up like this.”
Aja wasn’t sure how she could find any humor in that. She could have been there for hours without anyone noticing, she could have been hurt even worse. Aja inhaled shakily and pressed a hand against her sternum underneath the V-neck of her shirt. She needed to calm the hell down. Ms. May was fine. She was standing right there, heart beating and pink in her cheeks. It was hard to remember that, but very important. Every bad thing tended to feel like a tragedy in Aja’s mind, and it was never easy to convince herself it wasn’t.