by Sajni Patel
“Here’s a glass of water while you wait.” She filled one of many glasses behind her, set it on the counter between us, and returned to her customers.
I slumped against a barstool with the weight of many eyes glued to my side.
Chapter Nine
Jay
As I slurped a spoonful of my now tepid soup, a noodle splashed broth against my face, but my focus wasn’t on the saltiness dripping down my chin. I, and just about every customer in the place, had paused to notice the gorgeous, dark beauty who had tiptoed in as if she were about to steal a cake right out of the case.
It took a double take to realize who she was. Liya’s normally perfect hair was disheveled, frizzy, almost matted in some places. Her usually pressed clothes were smudged and wrinkled.
I leaned over into the aisle, my gaze sliding down her body. She was barefoot. Why was she at a diner this late with her shoes in her hand?
She wasn’t any of my concern, though. Her predicament shouldn’t bother me.
I wiped my chin and finished the last of my soup and sandwich as Mary, my usual waitress, returned with my card. I signed the receipt and watched as the older waitress met Liya. Together they walked along the counter, where she handed Liya the phone.
Something was most definitely not right, aside from her odd behavior and ruffled look. Why didn’t she have a cell phone?
Not my business, remember?
Liya slumped her shoulders while on the phone, then walked back around the corner to sit on a stool. She planted her elbows on the countertop and dropped her face against her hands, heaving out a breath as her body went limp.
I had to walk past her to get to the door, right? And it would kill me if I found out later that she’d been in trouble and something happened because I didn’t stop to ask.
Taking my jacket, I approached her continuously narrowing shoulders, as if she were trying to make herself smaller.
“Something got you down?”
“Move along,” she grunted without looking up.
“Are you okay, Liya?”
She slowly peered over her hands, her cheeks flushed, her eyes watery and smeared with eyeliner beneath her lashes. I automatically sat down and leaned into her, my heart racing with a hundred possibilities of what had put the all-empowered Liya in such a beaten state. She didn’t bother pulling away or telling me to shove off, which worried me even more.
“What happened to you?”
She cleared her throat, sat upright, and looked straight ahead, blinking rapidly a few times. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
“You’re a bad liar.”
She licked her bottom lip in contemplation but didn’t have a smart comeback. I leaned an arm on the counter. My knee almost touched her leg. Would she slap me if I brushed some of that unruly hair out of her face? Something told me it was best not to touch her, no matter how much I wanted to.
“Do you need a ride?” I asked gently.
“No.”
“How are you getting home?”
Her bitter gaze relaxed. “Don’t worry about it.”
“What happened to your shoes?”
“I broke them.”
“That’s too bad. They’re pretty.”
“And worth fourteen hundred dollars.”
What the hell? Were they made of gold and stardust?
“Are you going to hang around here all night?”
“A cab’s coming,” she said.
“Good. It’s late. The diner closes in five minutes.”
She groaned.
“The cab is coming before then, right?”
“Why do you care?”
“I’d hate to leave knowing that you had to wait outside, alone in the dark. When’s the cab getting here?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
“Are you sure that you don’t want a ride home?”
“Yep.” She kept her focus on the wall ahead, at the stacked glasses and coffee cups.
“Are you hungry?”
“What?” She looked at me, startled.
“Have you eaten? I can buy you dinner.”
“I can buy my own dinner.”
“Let me guess…you were on a date or something?”
“Leave,” she growled, and I had my answer.
“Some idiot left you hanging, huh?”
“I swear to god if you don’t leave me alone…”
I tapped the counter. “I’m just trying to help.”
“Go help yourself.”
“Fine,” I snapped and left, casting one last glance over my shoulder at her frigid frame.
I walked out into a gust of wind but waited at the end of the row of windows. I wanted to see if she would change her mind, but Liya didn’t strike me as the type of woman who swallowed her pride long enough to seek help.
Through the glass window, I caught her watching me, but she promptly turned back around. Her back stiffened.
What a proud woman.
And what a sap I was, because I waited in my car down the street. Over twenty minutes went by and no cab, no Liya. The last of the diner customers left, and the lights dimmed. A light drizzle sprinkled across the windshield.
Screw this. I didn’t know about her, but I didn’t have all night to wait around.
I marched into the diner. The bell above the door chimed, announcing my entrance, just as the waitress looked at me to say, “Sorry, we’re closed.”
“I know, Mary. I came for her.”
Liya groaned, “Didn’t you leave?”
“Where’s the cab?”
“They’re delayed.”
“Okay. Let’s go.”
“No.”
I slipped my jacket around her shoulders.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Mary needs to lock up the diner, and I’m not sitting outside any longer.”
“No one told you to wait for me!”
“But I’m waiting for you anyway.” I stretched my arm toward the door.
Liya hobbled at first, and I caught her when she almost tripped. She cringed every time she stepped on her left foot.
“Did you hurt your ankle?” I asked.
“Yes.”
Although she kept my jacket around her, she crossed her arms and stared down the street as if the cab would magically arrive any second. “The cab’s coming,” she stated.
Mary, after poking her head out to make sure we were good, locked the doors behind us and, inside, turned off the dining area lights. The drizzle turned into a light rain, and Liya shuddered as her hair dampened. Strands and clumps stuck to her forehead and cheeks.
I took her hand and she startled. “What now?”
I shot her my most stoic expression and brought her toward my car. This time, she did not argue. I opened the passenger-side door for her, and she slipped in. Between keeping my jacket on, straightening her skirt, and handling her purse and shoes, she was too occupied to get to the seat belt. So I did it for her, leaned down and across her, our faces so close that our body heat bounced off each other.
“What now?” she asked again.
I didn’t respond. The answer was obvious. It took everything inside me not to slam the door once I secured her seat belt. She couldn’t for a second be grateful, or at least keep quiet if she couldn’t say anything nice?
I walked to the other side, slipped into the car, and drove. I kept silent the entire time and didn’t ask her directions to her place. She told me. A left here. A right there. Two more lights. The building on the right with the metal balcony railings.
The mood in the car was far different than it had ever been between us. We usually bickered, one insult to meet the last, but this time I kept quiet. Which left her to be quiet. She simmered down and accepted my help.
I opened her door just as the rain increased, and helped Liya out, taking her purse and shoes so she could concentrate on walking on a bad ankle.
“Where?”
“I can walk to my door from here,” she insis
ted.
“Where?”
She sighed but replied, “Top floor, first on the right.”
I went to slide my arm across her back. Liya nearly jumped out of her skin and shot a death scowl so potent, my bones felt it. I held my hands up and slowly said, “I’m sorry.”
She swallowed and scoffed.
“What happened tonight, Liya?”
“None of your business.”
I clenched my jaw and slowed my beating heart, my head crammed with all the worst-case scenarios. But maybe she didn’t need an angry man making things worse by trying to help.
I took a step back and calmly asked, “May I help you up to your apartment?”
She furrowed her brows, as if she couldn’t trust or believe that all I wanted was to get her safely inside. Finally, she nodded and concentrated on the stairs into the lobby as I carefully slipped my arm around her upper waist, her left side against me for support. By the time we reached the elevators, her stamina waned and every step incited a grunt. By the time we walked out onto the top floor, she hobbled miserably and hissed with every movement. She shook under my arm, and when she unlocked her door and flipped on the light inside, the brightness illuminated the scratches on her arms and wrists and a light bruise on her cheek.
A whole new wave of anger overtook me. Not at her, but at whatever had happened, and god help me, if the imbecile who abandoned her on their date hurt her, I might actually punch him.
In the foyer, I closed the door behind us and touched her face. “Did someone hit you? Do you want me to call the police?” I growled.
“No,” she replied softly. “I fell.”
“Seriously?”
Her attitude returned in the tilt of her head and raised eyebrows as she said, “You think I wouldn’t beat someone who hit me?”
“You’re right, but it doesn’t mean you wouldn’t lie about getting hit in the first place.”
“I didn’t get hit. My heel snagged in a crack on the sidewalk, it broke, and I fell. Hence the broken shoe, scrapes, and twisted ankle.”
“Maybe I should’ve asked before you made it up to the tenth floor, but do you need to go to the ER?”
“No. Preeti is a doctor. She’d tell me to RICE, you know? Rest, ice, compress, elevate.”
“If you don’t think it’s broken.” I squatted in front of her, and she stilled as I touched her ankle slowly, looking up to her to make sure she didn’t take this the wrong way. She held in a breath but eventually relaxed, her shoulders limp. The ankle was definitely swollen and blotchy. I squeezed gently to gauge the pain. She merely hissed but didn’t pull back or kick me. “It’s not bruised, doesn’t have a bone poking through.” I rose. “Hopefully it’s not fractured.”
“I wouldn’t be able to walk on it at all if it was.”
“Right.” I rolled up my sleeves, took my shoes off, and placed our shoes on the floor and her purse on the kitchen counter.
“What are you doing?”
“What? You allow people to walk into your apartment with shoes on?”
“Well, no, but why are you staying?”
I found the glasses in the cupboard and poured water. “Where’s your medicine cabinet?”
“In the bathroom. I can do it,” she protested, but one step forward and she yelped.
I handed her the water. “Hold this.”
“Um. Okay.”
“May I?” I asked, now sorely aware that touching her again could trigger whatever the hell had happened tonight.
“Sure…”
Once she took the glass, I scooped her up. She was light in my hold. Her breath escaped her lips in a burst of brief pants as she awkwardly tried to maintain a distance. I readjusted her in my arms, and she finally collapsed against my chest.
There were only two doors past the living room: one cracked open to reveal the corner of a bed, and another revealed a bathroom. I entered the latter.
I settled Liya on the edge of the bathtub and turned on the water.
“Are you going to bathe me?” she asked sarcastically. “Because the medicine is up there.”
I roamed through the medicine cabinet until I saw the familiar orange color of a brand-name ibuprofen bottle. “That idea doesn’t suck,” I muttered.
She took the bottle and popped a few pills while I sat across from her and lathered my hands with her body wash. The scent of Hawaiian flowers filled the room, the smell beneath her perfume.
Lifting her foot, I gently swung it over the lip of the tub. Her cheeks flared red as she shoved her skirt in between her legs, struggled to keep her knees together, and at the same time braced the wall for balance. Anger flashed across her eyes, and I knew she was about to rip me a new one.
I said, “I should’ve asked. Is this okay?”
She relented, but I knew her well enough to know she had no quarrels in letting me know otherwise.
“Those sidewalks are filthy. You don’t want to get all that in between your sheets, do you?”
I gazed up at her as I stroked her feet, hitting the arches and toes. Sparks of pleasure glistened across her face, until I washed her ankle. She bit her lower lip in a whimper, tears flooding her eyes as she blinked them away.
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No…” she replied, her voice soft.
“Does it hurt that badly?”
She nodded. “It’ll go away. It’s not broken.”
“Hmm. You’ll have to wear flats for a while at work.”
“Ugh.”
I chuckled. “There are worse things in life.”
I dried off her foot after a good scrub and stood. I grabbed her waist and slid her across the lip of the tub and switched positions. We went through the same routine. Lift foot. Shove skirt between legs. Keep knees ungracefully closed with leg bent sideways. Brace the wall. Lather. Stroke. Pleasure across her face.
After I dried her foot, I handed her a wet washcloth so she could wash her face. Instead of removing all of her makeup with a good scrub, she dabbed beneath her eyes and removed the smudged blackness from her eyeliner.
“The bed or the couch?”
“What?” she asked, her eyes wide in an indignant warning.
“Do you want to RICE in bed or on the couch? I can lock up when I leave, but you need to lie down and put a pillow under your ankle.”
“Oh. Um, bed. But I can walk.” She stood and buckled, her shoulder slumping against the wall.
I didn’t ask if I could touch her again. I let her walk and stood nearby in case she stumbled. We finally made it to her room. Liya crawled into bed after I pulled down the sheets.
She had a canopy bed with lavender and dark gray bedding and gray window drapes. The lavender was unexpected, but somehow the combination put Liya’s classy touch on display.
With a pillow propped under her feet, a newly filled glass of water and the bottle of ibuprofen on the bedside table, an ice pack on her ankle, and her phone on the charger within reach, she was set.
She quickly checked her phone as soon as it turned on. I took it before the screen locked.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Programming my number.” I sent a text to my phone so that I’d have her number, too, and set it down within her reach.
I tucked her in. “Stay off the foot.”
Her gaze stuck to the wall in front of her, her lips smashed together. I didn’t expect a thank-you or anything, and she wasn’t going to give one. But I would go home knowing that she made it safely through the night. And that was enough.
“Well. Good night.”
She nodded, and I left.
Chapter Ten
Liya
Jay’s footsteps were silent save for the squeak in the foyer when he put his shoes on. The front door opened and closed.
Sitting up in bed, I called out, “Jay?”
Nothing but silence.
“Jay?” I asked louder, only to be met again with the quietness of my apartment.
My
head hit the pillow as my thoughts mulled over the events of the night. Mike. I was going to beat his ass the next time I saw him. He owed me fourteen hundred dollars for those shoes.
Who was I kidding? Shoes came and went. They were replaceable and dispensable. But for the first time in years, I’d placed myself in a situation that had scared me half to death. Several years ago, fifteen-year-old Liya had been trapped in Mukesh’s house, convinced that she had done something wrong to provoke his crude behavior. Worse than that, she’d worried she’d done something wrong by exposing him to her parents. Ever since, I stepped into a position of power with boys, and then men. Things never went further than my realm of control, and most times, they never went far at all. I required full control. At all times. In all things.
I am not a whore, Mike. Not even close.
I was a woman who had physical, consensual relationships, and I was not ashamed.
No matter how strong I tried to be, I was not that strong. I could hit a man and cause damage, but I wouldn’t have been able to fend Mike off if he tried hard enough. My mental state was not barricaded enough to withstand another situation.
Stupid tears, hot and messy, cascaded down my face as my vision blurred. Hopefully Jay had really left, because if he knew how I turned over, curled into a ball, and cried into the pillows, I would never be able to save face.
Men should not have control over me.
Men should not have control over me.
Men should not have control over me…
Despite the mantra, my chest heaved as I hyperventilated, and hot tears drenched my face. But the turbulent whorls of weakness and sadness evaporated as I screamed into my pillow. By the time I rolled onto my back, wiped my face dry, and cleared my throat, I had gathered myself. My breathing calmed. My temper, my pulse, and my shaking calmed. I combed my fingers through bedraggled hair.
No man was worth tears. Especially a fading blip like Mike.
As I lay in bed, effortlessly moving between anger and depression, I kept glancing at my phone. I tried to be a strong woman, I swore I did, but being a victim of something did not make me weak. Right?
Asking for help or comfort did not make me weak.