Around the Corner (Discontinued)

Chapter 18

When I'm lost amidst my emotions, my steps are no longer carefully orchestrated and lack direction.

The window is blurred by a chilling downpour. My eyes travel to it once more, taking in the overcast sky. The weather is ideal for thinking, and because of that, the rhythm of the rain accompanies my thoughts in an aimless voyage. I glance away from the storm. Although none of the other tables are occupied, the distinctive scent of coffee perfumes the air as if plenty of orders have been made.

I glimpse her, but quickly avert my eyes. Fernanda is out of place in the empty shop, and there's a wrongness to seeing her in a drab café, when her settings are always electric with mischief and liveliness. I'm certain I appear as out of place as she does. I belong home, trapped inside my recent memories like a dead clock stuck on a certain time.

"Lucero said we should talk." Her contempt stiffens her words enough to use them as weapons. I focus on the steady rain. "Don't be difficult, Laila. What happened?"

"I saw something," I murmur. My chair is uncomfortable. I fidget, my fingers shifting against the table as my eyes roam nervously, struggling to avoid her stare.

"Laila."

"Mm?" My eyes travel across her face accidentally, but I don't look away. Those arched brows accentuate her large, almond eyes wonderfully. Her full lips, the color of rose petals, hold the potential seduction grants. My mother gifted her with unmarred beauty, from her high cheekbones to a bronzed complexion. I inherited my father's hooded eyes and sallow skin, along with his wiry, unruly hair. My broad, crooked smile is nothing more than a copy of his own.

"I can help you, Laila." Manicured nails rest on the rim of her half empty styrofoam cup, lining up perfectly with the curving edge.

"I don't need your help."

"You do."

"You never help anyone," I hiss. She draws her fingers back as her lips flicker into a sly smile. Amusement is one of many traits her face wears well.

She warns, "lying is a mistake you'll regret."

"How many mistakes have you made, Fernanda?" My quavering hands ball up into tight, unmoving fists. "How many of those do you regret?"

When she leans forward, my chair is shoved backwards. I fall victim to her accusing eyes, and shuffle forward to my original spot.

"You think," she says, "I'm going to hurt you?" I nod. "I really want to, but you're smart enough to know I won't."

"Why not?"

"It'll hurt you more."

"Of course?"

"No." She shakes her head. "It'll hurt you more than physically. I don't want to damage you the way they did to me, Laila."

"You never cared." Disbelief pours into my words and adds tremulousness, without me to hold it back. "If you did, you wouldn't flinch every time we try to help you."

"I do what I do, and that is not your fault." If any emotion is coursing through her, she doesn't allow anything to reveal itself through her face and body language.

I do. I freeze up, and my fingers cease movement. Years. They unfold before me, the lilt of her voice causing them to crease open to the myriad moments of her abuse. Moving images of her violently screaming at my parents, her snarled words and violent ways, flash across my mind.

"You don't make me feel better." My eyes discover hers. Behind her curved lashes and my wispy ones are the same shade of brown. She sighs.

"I've been around. I can give you advice. Good or bad is beyond me, but worthwhile nonetheless." Fernanda finishes the final gulps of coffee and my fingers resume their incessant moving. I can't fault her for misleading advice, nor will I have to credit her for success. Risks are always meant to be taken.