Page 19

Astrid

Grayson texts me his home address as I’m pulling out of Sloane and Callum’s driveway. Sitting in the road, my foot on the brake, I hit the link with shaking fingers, prompting my navigation to show me the way. It takes me down to the end of the street and instructs me to turn left toward the highway.

I try to focus on driving, but I can only think about that girl. I’d told Grayson to keep an eye on her—she should be seeing a real psychiatrist. In fact, both girls probably need a whole team of specialists at this point to avoid future damage.

Seven minutes later, I’m turning down Grayson’s road, surprised to find that the houses aren’t quite as big, and not as nice as Sloane and Callum’s place. No pools in the backyard, more average-American-home than obvious wealthy-hockey-player’s-place.

I pull into the driveway, my headlights illuminating the numbers on the side of the garage, just beside the door. When Grayson called, I was about to tuck myself into bed, so my face is covered with pimple patches, my hair twisted up on top of my head.

There’s nothing I can do about it now. I didn’t even stop to put on a bra.

I hurry up the sidewalk, knock on the door, then find it unlocked and open it before he can even get to me.

“Grayson?”

“Up here!”

There’s a low, mangled scream—the sound of a teenage girl’s wrath, and I hurry up the stairs. The house is beautiful on the inside, simple, with the kind of staircase that folds, so I have to turn on a second landing as I run up the steps.

When I get to the hallway, I find them—Grayson kneeling on the floor in the hallway, his hand on the bathroom door. The light shines out from under it, washing out onto the carpet. He turns and looks at me, a sense of relief flushing over his features.

I want to tell him not to feel relieved just yet. I—also—have no idea what the hell I’m doing. Approaching the door slowly, I gesture to Grayson, pointing inside. He nods, face white with a low-grade panic.

“Callie?”

There’s a pause, then she answers. “Who is it?”

“It’s Astrid.”

This pause is longer, then she says, “What…what are you doing here?”

“I heard you’re having a hard time right now,” I say. “I was hoping you’d be willing to talk to me.”

“Is he still out there?” she practically growls, and Grayson jerks, pulling his hand back from the door like it’s burned him.

“He’s leaving,” I say, holding his gaze. I can see it there—his feelings are hurt. He hasn’t done anything—nothing besides agreeing to take the girls in. But Callie is too young to reason with that. When she lashes out, it has to go somewhere. “Callie…are you okay? Are you hurting yourself?”

“No. I’m not.” The answer is immediate, matter of fact, her voice level. “I don’t…I don’t want to talk about it while he’s here.”

I glance at Grayson, and he holds his phone up in a shaking hand, where 9-1-1 is dialed on the screen. I stare at it, thinking, then mouth, Let me try, then we can call.

Surprising myself, I reach out and put a hand on his forearm, squeezing. He stares at my hand, and I watch him swallow, the movement of his throat before he glances back at me.

Callie’s voice breaks the moment. “Is he leaving?”

Grayson is freshly showered, his hair damp. Sloane and Callum came home only five minutes before I got the call, so he must have come home to this right after his game.

Even after all this time being Sloane’s friend, I don’t know that much about hockey, but I do know that Grayson being replaced on the ice before the end of the game is kind of a big deal.

Eyes still on mine, Grayson reaches up, wraps his hand over the top of mine, and squeezes.

“I’ll go,” he says, voice little more than a whisper, but loud enough that Callie can hear it through the door. “Just let me know if you need anything from me. I’ll be downstairs.”

Callie doesn’t say a thing, but there’s the creaking of Grayson’s weight against the floor as he stands and goes to the stairs. I can’t see Callie, but I know she’s listening to the sound of him going down the stairs, the gentle thump thump thump of his retreat.

“He’s gone,” I say, trying to keep my voice as understanding as possible. My heart is doing somersaults in my chest, screaming that we should just break down the door, get it open, make sure she’s not hurting herself in there.

But logically, I know that this is a reach for privacy. That Callie is controlling what she can about her life right now. She can go in the bathroom and have that space to herself.

So, gently, I say, “Callie, I just have to make sure. Are you doing anything to hurt yourself in there?”

“No,” she sobs, the break in her voice immediate. “But…something is wrong .”

I nod—that much is clear. Something is very wrong. The world fucked over this poor girl massively.

“Can you tell me more about it? About what’s wrong? What you’re feeling in your body?”

I expect her to tell me about being sad, or maybe about the sharp pinch of anxiety in her chest, but instead, she surprises me with, “My stomach hurts. But not like normal.”

Sitting up, I palm my phone in my pocket. Could it be appendicitis? I had it in eighth grade and was lucky the school nurse caught onto what was happening in time to get me on the surgical table.

“Is anything else happening? Pain in your side?”

“Yeah, kind of,” she says, her voice soft and weepy. “And I…I’m bleeding.”

The realization hits me, actually drawing a quiet little, almost relieved, sob out of me. “Oh, Callie…is it—are you bleeding in your underwear?”

The word comes out like a hiccup, “Y-yeah.”

Sucking in a deep breath, most of the panic inside me settles right down. This sucks for her, but it’s manageable. I know exactly how to tackle this problem.

“Can I…Callie, would you feel comfortable if I come in there with you?”

There’s a pause, then the click of the door unlocking. “Just wait!” I wait, hear the clinking of the shower curtain, then the sound of her stepping inside. “Okay.”

I step into the bathroom, see first her undies on the floor, stained. A pang rocks through me, and I remember when I got my first period.

That was before. My mom was there with me, talking me through it, pushing the hair back from my face. I got to miss the entire week of school, and Mom acted like it was a national holiday, ordering a cake and any other snack I wanted.

I bite my tongue against the grief. The realization that I’m in my mother’s position now, having come full circle from the little girl I once was.

“Hey, Callie.” I take a seat on the toilet. “Do you know what’s going on right now?”

“…I think so.” Her voice floats over the shower curtain. “My period?”

“Yeah, that’s what I think. Would you be okay with me sending Grayson out for some supplies?” She’s quiet, and I add, “Just think—he’ll be completely out of the house.”

That makes her laugh, and she says, quietly, “Okay. Yeah.”

Typing as quickly as I can, I give him instructions—go to the health section of the store. Only organic cotton. Get chocolate. Get a heating pad. Just get one of each size and brand.

His response comes a second later, and though it’s only one word, I can sense the relief there.

Grayson: Okay.

From the shower, there’s a soft shuffling sound, and I realize it’s Callie, crying. I look up at the ceiling, ignore the wave of tears behind my eyes, and speak.

“You know,” I say, “I was a late bloomer. Didn’t get my period until I was sixteen.”

“…Really?”

“Yeah. I was. I was so afraid that it wasn’t going to happen for me. That something was wrong. Can you believe that the day I finally got it, I cried because I was so happy?”

She snorts. “No. My mom always said it sucked.”

“It does.” I toe at the bathmat, flipping it up and watching as it rolls back flat. “It does suck, but that’s like a lot of stuff in life. You know like, when you get a stuffy nose, and you realize you should have been happier when you could breathe okay?”

Callie says, “Yeah. I get what you mean. I just—”

She stops abruptly, like she’s keeping herself from saying the rest. I shift, wait, let the silence stretch between us. Even without a counseling certification, I know I have to wait for her to come to it herself. If I push, it might just send her right back inside herself, bottling it up.

After what must be several minutes, Callie says, her voice quiet. “I miss my aunt.”

It’s not what I was expecting to hear—but it makes sense. Callie is old enough to understand that her parents are gone, that there was nothing they could have done.

“I bet she misses you, too.”

“No,” Callie says, instantly. “She doesn’t care about us at all . She gave us away. Made us come to Wisconsin .”

I press the back of my hand to my lips to keep from laughing at the venom in her voice. After a second, I say, “Can you tell me more about how she gave you away?”

“She got in trouble. She was doing drugs.”

I set my chin in my hand. “And you’re mad at her for that?”

“Yes. Mad and…I just wish…” Quiet again, another pause. Then, “I just wish she cared about us more. Enough not to do it.”

“It may not seem like it.” I cast my eyes to the ceiling, trying to find a way to explain addiction that might make sense to her. “But your aunt…she’s sick. It doesn’t excuse her actions, but I bet she really, really loves you guys. I bet she misses you a lot.”

Biting my lip, I wonder if I’ve gone too far. Asking Callie to have some empathy for the aunt who did, from her point of view, send her off to Wisconsin.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Hey,” Grayson says, her voice sounding stilted, awkward. “I—uh—I got the stuff. Should I…?”

“Just leave it outside the door,” I say. There’s the crinkle of bags, then the sound of his feet retreating again. Opening the door, I grab the bags, bring them inside, and rip into the new package of underwear.

“Callie,” I say, swallowing down how strange this situation is. “Would you like me to show you how to use a pad?”

The curtain rustles, then she pulls it back just enough to peek out. Her eyes dart from the package of underwear, then roam over the various packages laid out on the counter.

Her face goes slightly pale, then she looks back at me.

A moment passes, and I feel it—what my mother felt the day I announced I’d gotten mine. A passing of the torch. Again, I have to choke back the tears that build up behind my throat. The last thing Callie needs right now is to have to comfort me .

“I can leave,” I say, dipping my head. “Whatever makes you most comfortable.”

“I want you to show me,” she says. “Please.”

So I do, giving her a little tutorial while she stands in the shower. I demonstrate the importance of lining it up right for when you’re going to bed. I show her how to roll it up and wrap toilet paper around it when you’re done.

Grayson retrieves a pair of her pajamas, and I leave them folded on the counter.

“I’ll be downstairs if you need me,” I say, as she starts up the shower.

Before I close the door, she says, voice barely audible above the water, “Thank you, Astrid.”

I’m exhausted when I get down to the living room, and Grayson stands from the couch like he’s waiting for a diagnosis.

“I think she’s going to be okay,” I say, rubbing my hands together. My back hurts from sitting on the floor, then on the toilet, but I ignore it. Grayson is looking at me like I hung the moon. “I told her I would stay until she was done, in case she needed anything else.”

“Good idea,” Grayson laughs. “Of course this would happen. I have no idea what I’m doing.”

I wave my hand at him, then catch sight of the obscene amount of chocolate piled on the counter. “You’re doing just fine.”

Crossing the room, I rip one of the packages open and pull one out, peeling off the foil and letting the chocolate melt on my tongue.

“I really don’t know how to thank you enough.” He rubs his hand over the back of his neck. “Without you…”

“Consider it even. For the jump start.”

He looks away, licks his lips. I’m hyper-aware of the movement, unable to pull my eyes from him.

“Astrid.” Just the sound of my name on his lips tells me that we’re heading into dangerous territory. But I don’t even try to stop him, hanging onto the thread.

“Yeah?”

“I, uh—” He coughs, a blush rising to his cheeks. “I did some asking around.”

At first, I have no idea what he’s talking about. “…What?”

He laughs, drops his head into his hands, and breathes out through his fingers. “Uh—I talked to my ex-girlfriends.”

“Oh.” It takes a moment to sink in, and when it does, I cringe, hit with the second-hand embarrassment. “Oh no , Grayson—”

“Please don’t.” He holds his hand up, shaking his head. “I can’t handle anyone else being so gentle with my feelings. Does it make me sound like a dick if I say my problem is I’m too nice? I really think they were all afraid to hurt my feelings. So I never even knew.”

I bite my tongue, grimacing when he meets my eye. My entire face is hot. This is up there with the strangest conversations I’ve ever had. “That…that sounds about right.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but there’s the sound of the bathroom door opening upstairs, and Callie appears on the landing, staring down at us, her hands on the railing.

“I’m…I’m going to bed.” She looks between me and Grayson. “Thank you, Astrid.”

“You’re welcome.” I smile at her, wave, feel how something has shifted for me here in this house tonight. “Good night, Callie.”