Resist, page 19
I stepped closer, my attention locked on the bruise under her eye. “I don’t know what I would have done, exactly, but I would have done something, damn it. If I knew you lost your home and job—”
“You would have…what?” she asked, her tone rising like it always did when she was upset. “Hidden me in your dorm room at school? Gotten yourself kicked out?”
Flexing my jaw, I glanced away, because I didn’t have an answer. I hadn’t been given the opportunity to come up with a plan, after all. But now I was, and I was going to take her out of here, find her somewhere to stay that wasn’t a strip club, and get her a job. One that didn’t involve taking her clothes off like her mother—or mine.
“You still should have told me. I could have taken care of you.”
“I didn’t need help. I was working at a strip club for a little while—not deathly ill. I can take care of myself, and always have.” She gripped the sheets at her lap. “Father.”
I tugged on my clerical collar again and studied her, noticing each mark and bruise as a personal failure of mine. I failed Rose. But I wouldn’t do it again.
Never again.
“I’m not a priest yet. Just a deacon.”
She rolled her eyes. “Same thing, if you ask me.”
I stared at her, not sure what to say. Or do. I didn’t feel that familiar, comfortable warmth I got in her company. I didn’t immediately know how to make her laugh. Or smile. Or open up to me. For the first time…
I had no clue what to say.
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Missy Johnson, Resist
