Broken Home, page 4
part #4 of Way Home Series
We got along well that way.
The two of us, we stuck together at the shelter for a few months. I’d keep her things for her while she was out earning her living over the late nights, and she’d be sure to find me a quiet place to get studying done during the day, showing me all the best libraries with computer rooms, and charming all the librarians into letting me stay late to finish my reports. I would never have managed without her, the terrifying world of women who had been living rough longer than I’d been alive, they’d chew me up and spit me out. Charlene, she sheltered me, like a safe place to hide behind and keep my head down.
Then in early March, Charlene came back to our room all cut up. Her knees and her hands, she had a black eye and a fat lip. I knew it had been a bad ‘date,’ but she wouldn’t let me take her to the hospital, or the police station. Instead, she decided that week it was time for her to move on to another city. With a tearful goodbye at the Greyhound station, she was gone. I slept there in that bus depot that night and then never went back to the shelter. It didn’t seem safe without her, and since then, I crashed mostly at bus stations or little plastic bus shelters. Thankfully, it’s only been a couple of months so far, and it’s been weirdly warm this spring. With all the lessons Charlene gave me on libraries and coffee shops and easy places to find warmth and quiet, I’ve managed. I always choose places in the suburbs to sleep at when I have to. They’re cleaner and deserted. No one expects a homeless girl on a bench surrounded by half-million-dollar houses. So as long as I don’t use the same one twice in a row, it’s worked in my favour.
Although, no one seems to understand why I’d rather handle the crazy old man wandering the bus depot than the squeaky-clean frat boy at school. They don’t realize how much more dangerous the clean-looking ones are.
I’m still looking forward to one day sleeping without using my duffel bag as a pillow, but it hasn’t been as bad as it could be.
I get off the stop at the gym and head inside. I didn’t get a shower yesterday, and I’m tempted to try to grab one before this class starts, but I don’t have time. Instead, I head to my usual bathroom stall and shimmy my way into my workout sweats, shoving my clothes into my bag and carrying it all out to the mats, setting it down where I can see it.
As usual, Erika is already in there, talking with Twiz and Shane. Today is our last class and one I’ve been dreading. The instructors are going to be our attackers, encouraging us to use what we’ve learned to fight them off.
Just the thought makes my heart pound so loud, I’m sure everyone can hear it, but I keep putting one step in front of the other until they see me, and there’s no turning back.
I watch Shane and Twiz suit up, with some padding and hand wraps. They give us a quick explanation in front of the class, and Twiz even makes a point of knocking on the cup between his legs, showing us that he’s all good. We can put our strength into fighting back exactly how they’ve shown us. He has us watch each person, instructing us on how we can learn each encounter, what to do, and what not to do.
I’m last, and by the time it’s my turn, I can barely hear Erika ask if I’m okay over the rush of blood in my ears. He says a few words, and I think I answer but then he’s coming towards me. His hair flops on his forehead. It’s too long. He looks up just as he grabs towards me.
“See, I told you, you just needed to relax. Just relax…” I shake my head, but the voices in there don’t stop, laughing at me as he touches everywhere. I feel my limbs no longer working, no longer defending me no matter how hard I try. I twist, push, and lift my knee, sure it will be frozen like it always is, until I feel the crunch and watch Twiz hit the ground in front of me, both hands between his legs.
“Oh, oh, oh, oh, I’m so sorry!” I don’t even recognize my own voice.
I stare a moment, everyone does. He gets up fast, his eyes watering and his legs shaky.
“No, no, you have nothing to be sorry about, baby girl. That was amazing. You got me good. That was perfect!” He’s hunched over with a hand on his knee. Soon, Shane is there with an ice pack. Oh, God.
“Holy shit, Jordyn, you’re awesome! We haven’t had someone take him down like that in forever! Great job!” He’s laughing, but Twiz is still breathing hard.
“Awesome job, baby girl. Really. I’m not mad. I’m proud! I’m… I’m just gonna sit here a moment and nurse my wounds…”
He slides back down to the mat, and I look at him and then back to a still-grinning Shane and the rest of the class, who are still just staring.
Oh, God, they’re all looking at me!
I barely remember to grab my bag on my mad dash to the bathroom, and I throw it into a stall before I almost fall in myself.
I can’t believe I did that. I’m never going to be normal.
I don’t even know how much time passes, but it seems like hours, even though I think it’s only a moment or two before I hear the slide of something against the door of the stall I’m in. I glance behind me and see the back of Erika’s workout shorts and shirt between the stall door and the ground.
“Hey Jordyn.”
Her voice is deceptively light, considering where we are and why.
“Hey.” My voice cracks.
“You didn’t do anything wrong, sweetie.” Except possibly de-man her boyfriend. It’s right then the tears finally fall from my eyes. Perfect.
“I didn’t mean to hurt him.” She laughs a little, but I don’t see what’s funny.
“He’ll be okay, Jordyn. Hazard of the job. Besides, I know he was wearing a cup, so it wasn’t too bad. Probably just take him a second. You know how overly sensitive men are about their balls. You’d think they were made of glass.”
That makes me laugh a bit, which thankfully makes the tears stop. I wait, but she doesn’t leave. I guess I must keep talking or open the door.
“You probably think I’m crazy.”
She laughs and tells me a story about how she freaked out in the class before I started, running out just like I did. It occurs to me that most of the women in the group probably have a reason to be there like mine.
It works, her story, and I open my mouth far more than I usually do.
“I wasn’t always like this. I used to get mad at myself for being too loud. I was always talking too fast, always babbling to everyone and being an attention hog. I remember when I would try to be quieter…” I choke back a bitter laugh. “Now, I can’t remember the last time I went anywhere or talked to anyone I didn’t have to. It takes work just to get every single word out.” I can see myself in my mind, talking too fast with a drink in my hand that I inevitably spill all over something as the night gets longer. Waking in the morning, embarrassed and wishing I could take it all back, make myself more sophisticated, quieter, more in control. Berating myself as I’d go over every word I said, convinced I’d be back soon to having no friends if I couldn’t just learn to shut up more.
Instead, I became a virtual mute overnight. As if to drive that point home, my voice almost gives out, like it’s forgotten how to put so many words together at once.
“We all cope with trauma in different ways, Jordyn. Sometimes, we try to make ourselves bigger. Sometimes, we try to make ourselves smaller. There’s no right way to grieve what was taken from you.” It takes me a moment to realize I never even told her something happened to me. She just seems to know.
My answer comes without thinking. “I feel like… I feel like they took me from me.”
It almost physically hurts, talking about them. I can tell, the moment her breath hitches when she realizes I use a plural for the ones who hurt me, and I expect her to react with pity, or disgust, or confusion, or disbelief. I don’t, however, anticipate her next question.
“Jordyn, are you safe now?”
Am I safe? I don’t know. I mean, I spend most of my time just trying not to see them, and when I do, I’m so busy trying not to be seen, I don’t even consider anything else.
Safe isn’t something I’ve felt since that night, and it doesn’t even entirely have to do with the boys that are still out there.
“I’ll never be safe.” The words tumble out before I think them through.
“Is there anything I can do?”
I chuckle under my breath. There’s nothing anyone can do to help me, none of it will give me my life back. Of course, I’m dumping all this on the first person I consider attempting a friendship with in months. I’m such a loser.
“No, no. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bug you…” I stand up and open the door. She’s there with a smile, and it’s not even the usual sad gesture I get from people when they realize I’m homeless. It’s a real smile.
Still, it catches me off guard when she invites me for coffee. Enough that I find myself saying yes.
I jump in the shower, enjoying the hot water and the sliver of soap that had been left by someone. I lost the luxury of being a snob about that kind of thing a while ago. Now I’m grateful for the chances I have not to have to use my own dwindling supplies.
I take longer than is probably normal, since hot water and time are something I embrace whenever I can. By the time I step out, Erika is gone, and I wonder if she changed her mind. I wouldn’t blame her if she did, but I find her right outside the changing room door, her and her ‘not boyfriend’ engaged in what looks like an intense conversation that stops when I get close.
“Hey, baby girl,” I feel the heat on my cheeks as he smiles at me. “Great job today, yeah? I haven’t had a student drop me like that in forever. Amazing! You’ve learned a ton.” I’m too terrified to get much closer, so I’m left standing a weird distance from him while he speaks.
“I’m sorry you got hurt.” My voice comes out in a hoarse whisper.
“I’m not. I teach this class a few times a year. I’d love for you to come back next time!”
At that, I find myself taking a step ahead, and I see Erika grin.
“Really?” I loved this class and the people I met, and the chance to feel normal in a group.
He nods and gives me a piece of paper with his phone number, telling me to call if I need anything or if I feel unsafe. I’m trying not to cry.
I can’t remember the last person who did something like that, cared about how I was, worried about how I felt, wanted me to succeed. I could get too used to that. I won’t, because I know how easily people disappear from life, but I could, and that’s terrifying.
Erika and I are driving to the pub she’s chosen, after she realizes I’m almost twenty-four and not seventeen. Things are going just fine until it seems she puts things together that I might be living out of my bag. Which isn’t something I ever intended her to know, and I hate that it’s just going to hang between us now.
When we get to the pub, she insists on ordering me a drink and some food when a bouncy blonde comes by to take our order. While I want to put up a fight, I’m too hungry to object much. I’m still talking about school and jobs when the waitress returns, Juliette is her name, and I’m completely taken off guard when she starts talking about a job opening here at the pub.
“You mean me? I’ve never waited tables before. I’m not sure if I’d be any good…” All I can think in my head is how much easier working somewhere like this would be to the theater, and with tips and a steady schedule and so much less popcorn and sticky floors.
I look down on the hardwood of this bar. For a pub, it’s immaculate.
“I’m still finishing college…” I babble. “I’d like to be sure I do. I have just a couple of weeks left of final exams. But I could come in anytime I’m not there, I swear!” I must make myself stop talking before I run my mouth right out of a job. I can’t remember the last time I used this many words in a row to another person.
Juliette doesn’t seem to mind, though, and I find myself drawn to her and her energy. She promises to come back with application forms and other paperwork. After that, she’s gone, and Erika tells me more about her, how she was hired at the pub as a waitress when she was in college. Now, she’s the manager. How she married one of Twiz’s friends. She points him out at the bar.
It seems all the men around me are fucking hot. How is that even possible?
Dammit.
I think I shudder. Which I realize isn’t a normal reaction to an attractive person when Erika’s expression changes. She asks me questions I knew she would eventually.
Soon, I find myself throwing in front of her my whole pathetic story. I don’t know what drives me to it. I haven’t told anyone since that morning when my parents didn’t believe me. Yet, there I am, and before I know it, she’s staring at me with tears in her eyes, and I’ve spilled my guts like a child.
“I’m sorry, I can’t believe all that came out.” I try to make light of it, but it doesn’t work. Instead of recoiling in horror or running away or telling me I’m making too big a deal out of it and I should just move on, she squeezes my hand on top of the table.
“Jordyn, I’m so sorry this happened. I have no words, there’s nothing I can say, except that I hurt for you, and I’ll do anything I can to support you.” I nod. I’m not even sure the right answer, and I’m so overwhelmed with all their help. Eventually, I get up and head to the bathroom if even just to think. I lock myself in a stall, sitting on top of the toilet with my head in my hands.
I never tell people anything about what happened. Not the teachers, or the coaches who wondered why I stopped helping with the teams, or the few almost friends I had that couldn’t understand why I didn’t want to hang out, why I hid in my sweaters, why I all of a sudden stopped partying. It’s only been six months, but I haven’t told a soul since that night, other than my parents, and even then I barely got out the basics.
This is going to explode in my face, I’m sure of it. There’s no way these people, this job, this support… This isn’t real life.
After what has probably been too long to be socially acceptable, I head out to the sink. I’m thankful I’m still alone, while I wash my hands, my wrists, my arms to my elbows… I stop only because my sweater won’t push up any farther and look at myself.
My hair makes my head look like a pink Q-tip. With the blond hair I’ve always had, at the end of high school, I’d loved how easy it was to add colour. It’s fading now and grown out, becoming more of a pastel than the harsh fuchsia I started with. I think I like this colour better anyways. I never redid any of the little makeup I still wear after class, making the bags under my eyes more extreme and washing my lips out to the colour of my face. Somehow, my face looks too young and too old at the same time.
My tattoos make a strong contrast on my skin, but they’re barely visible under the giant sweater I always wear. A few peeks out on my hands and my neck, but underneath is hidden, like a secret only I know. I wonder if everyone out there would be as nice to me if they could see the mosaic on my skin, but I shake my head at the thought. With the tattoos on the pretty blond waitress and even Twiz’s sinister-looking forest on his arms, I can’t see something like that mattering to them.
Still, not many women are as vibrant as I am under these clothes.
If only I still had the guts to be seen.
I pull up the courage to head back out to the bar, and I almost walk right into a wall.
Not a wall.
A man.
I feel my heart rate spike, my vision even hazes for a moment until I look up at his face.
The first thing I think is his eyes are fire.
They’re hazel, I think, though right now, they almost burn an orange red colour, a contrast to the hard look around them. His face is a little weathered, just enough that no one would mistake him for a boy. He has a short beard, more of a long scruff on his face, and his head is bald. The fine, even hair across it is almost a halo from the light behind him. Shorter than what’s on his face, it looks more like he just didn’t shave it today than an actual hairstyle.
He’s strong. In a beat-up t-shirt with the faded name of a brewery and worn-down jeans with small holes all over them that you know didn’t come like that. His shoulders are broad, and the muscles in his arms twitch as his hands fidget at his sides.
His expression is stern, and normally, I’d be afraid of someone like him but for some reason, I’m not. He just seems… comfortable. Safe. For the first time in a long time, his strength is more appealing to me than frightening. I just stare, and for a minute, so does he, but it’s almost impossible to get a read on what he’s thinking.
“Hi, I’m Jeremy, and I own the bar. I hear that you’re coming to work for us?” His voice is rough but kind, and he doesn’t make any move to even shake my hand.
“Hi, I am. I mean, if that’s okay, I’d like to, maybe…” Words are not working for me, as usual, and I feel like an idiot and just close my mouth before I finish talking. This beautiful man is going to assume I’m slow.
“Great!” I think even he’s startled by his loud voice cutting me off. “I could use the help. The hours are late though, so the position does come with a room and board option. Juliette here didn’t want it because she’s shacking up with Tavish. There’s an apartment above that’s open. I live on one side of it, but there’s a separate living area in between the hallways, your side would have its own bedroom and private bathroom… I’m not sure if you’d have to break a lease…” He adds that last sentence in deliberately, and I can’t decide if it’s because Erika told him or because he’s just trying not to be pushy.
“I don’t… I mean… Really?”
Fuck, Jordyn, say a whole fucking sentence! I’m losing it here.
“I’m sorry. This is all just so fast, and I’m not sure what to say!” He smiles. He smiles, and it’s devastating. His entire face changes, and I want to do anything to make it happen again.
"Tell you what. Why don’t you give me a minute to sort some paperwork for you, and then we can go upstairs and check it out.” I step back. Upstairs, alone, with him… Suddenly, I’m breathing heavy, and the last thing I want is to act like a broken freak in front of him.
