"You ungrateful bitch. I keep a roof over your head, and this is the thanks I get?"
"You could have killed her," I retort, trying to muster up confidence that I don't possess. "What if she goes to the cops, Dad? That bruise on her face is enough to...
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ONE MONTH LATER
I loop my arm through Damian's and skip—yes, skip—down the sidewalk. After being in the hospital for a week and then on bed rest for three, it feels good to have my freedom back.
Moira took good care of me, but she made sure that I didn't exert myself unless I absolutely had to. She ordered her own son to carry me to and from the bathroom. If we hadn't been best friends since we were five, it would have been exceptionally awkward.
Despite everything, I can't hide my jubilation. I'm semi-healthy again. I have the occasional migraine, but it's nothing an ibuprofen and a nap can't fix.
And best of all, I'm still living with Moira and Damian. I never had to set foot in a foster home.
My visit with the social worker was short and sweet. She seemed uninterested in everything I had to say. As soon as I told her that I was seventeen, soon-to-be eighteen, her concerned expression turned into one of apathy. In less than two months, I was going to be an adult. I wasn't worth her time or trouble.
"Slow down, sport," Jessica chastises me, trying but failing to hide her smile. "You've barely walked in a month. Don't push yourself."
I flash a grin in her direction, but I don't say anything. It's hard to be around her when I know she was the one who outed me to Social Services. Good intentions aside, it caused me enough panic to last a lifetime. It doesn't help that when I tried to bring it up in conversation, she hastily changed the subject. Now it seems like she's the one keeping secrets.
Reluctantly, I slow my pace and walk to Gabby's. I'm already tired, but I refuse to show it.
We claim a booth and order our desserts and drinks. Gabby rushes out from behind the counter to greet me, a look of both excitement and relief plastered across her face.
"Gosh, I'm so glad you're alright!" she exclaims. "I heard about what happened and—"
"It's okay," I assure her. "I feel much better now."
"Come back to work whenever you're ready. No rush." She pats my shoulder and then scurries off to get back to work herself.
"I have to use the bathroom," announces Jessica. Normally, she'd kiss Damian's cheek or show him some sign of affection, but not today.
Once she's out of earshot, I turn to my best friend and ask, "What was that about?"
He lets out a heavy sigh. "Things have been weird between us for a while."
"Define 'a while'."
"Since she told Dr. Ford about your dad."
I shake my head. "Damian, I'm so sorry."
"Stop it," he shushes me. "It's not your fault, okay?"
"But—"
"She made a choice," he cuts me off, "and I reacted to that choice. Meanwhile, you were unconscious, probably having your skull sliced open. Don't you dare feel bad."
