Page 17 of Remiss

“What are you really in here for, if you don’t mind me asking?” She shifted from foot to foot, her steady gaze taking in his features, sweeping over the cast on his left leg.

Unable to meet her eyes, he glanced back at the doors, then at Freya, glued to her phone, probably reading a book.

Individuals were assigned therapy groups by their demographics. As a teenage boy, he was placed with other teenage boys. If the truth hadn’t reached Bianca’s ears now, he doubted she’d find out. Unless he told her, like she was urging him to do. It flittered across his mind that she might be setting him up, so he’d admit what he’d done, just to humiliate him. No matter how pretty she was or how nice she appeared, she was too unfamiliar for Rule to understand her intentions.

“Hey, if you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to,” Bianca reassured, breaking into his thoughts.

“I wouldn’t,” he said, meeting her gaze once more. “And I won’t. Not now, anyway.”

She nodded. “Understandable. We’ve just met, and not everyone is the sharing type like me.”

“You’ve barely shared anything about yourself,” he reminded her.

She cocked her head to the side. “What would you like to know?”

“What do you want to tell me?”

“Well, my first name is Bianca, but you know that already,” she began. “Bianca Castillo is my full name. I’m a second-generation American citizen, born and raised in L.A. My grandmother is from Venezuela. Maracaibo, to be exact. My mother was born there, but she and her parents immigrated when she was two. I like to read. I write poetry sometimes, and I know a couple of card tricks. Royal blue is the best color. I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder when my grandmother died, and tried to kill myself when my mother died,” she continued, stunning Rule into speechlessness. “I’ll have to live with my father when I’m released, which I’m not looking forward to, and the medicines I take are—”

“I-I think I get the point,” he stammered, unsure how to reply to her info-dump. “Y-you’re a fully opened book.”

She only grinned, unaffected by his reaction. He dreamed of such confidence.

“The more open you are, the easier it is to talk to therapists truthfully, and the quicker you get out,” she explained. “Plus, lying about shit is one reason I tried to off myself, so honesty is ‘paramount for recovery.’ My doctor’s words, not mine.”

One conversation in, and Rule was thoroughly intrigued.

“I thought you didn’t want to live with your father.”

“He’s a pain in the ass, but he’s preferable to a psych ward.” She sighed, rubbing her temples. “God, just talking about him gives me a headache. If the food wasn’t shit, I might be open to staying indefinitely.”

A chuckle escaped him. “It isn’t that bad.”

“It’s unseasoned and dry.”

He couldn’t argue with that. Rule hadn’t realized how much he took for granted until he was whisked away from his privileged life and placed in the care of strangers. His mother was an excellent chef, and he missed her cooking more than ever.

“I, um, like indigo a lot. And black. I’m from Hortensia, Washington, and I like to draw and pray,” he revealed when theconversation lulled, opting for some of her openness, hoping it’d combat his loneliness.

It wasn’t nearly as much information as she’d given, but it was better than nothing. He hoped Bianca found it satisfactory.

“Black’s a solid color,” she said breezily. “It goes with everything, and it’s flattering on everyone.

Rule winced, reminded of words his mother said often. Shopping wasn’t a rarity in the Caldwell household, and when selecting new clothes, Mom offered that advice to her children when they were indecisive.

“Why aren’t you praying today?” Bianca asked, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. His eyes tracked the movement, returning to her mouth when she spoke again. “You said prayer isn’t coming to you, but, like, you normally say prepared prayers.”

A warm feeling rushed through him, knowing that Bianca had been paying attention to his habits, even before today, when they’d only seen each other in passing.

“I say prepared prayers,” he agreed. “But I also enjoy saying words from the heart afterward. It makes me feel closer to the Lord. Today, the words just aren’t in my heart.”

As they hadn’t been for several days. Typically, though, he had the discipline to say the prayers he’d dutifully memorized over the years. Yet, praying while his life was in shambles felt tedious, and taking a moment to connect with God couldn’t lessen his guilt.

Bianca eyed him, and he tensed, worried she’d pry more. Instead, she just nodded.

“It’s like that sometimes,” she said gently, relieving him to no end. “Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t I help you get a dose of religion and teach you the Lord’s Prayer in Spanish? It was one of the first things my mother taught me when I began learning the language.”

Rule considered the idea, then nodded. Starting in eighth grade, his school required its students to learn a second language. Eighth graders got an introductory course to their language of choice. In high school, students were tested on proficiency and placed accordingly. He’d chosen Spanish, as it was a practical language, but had few opportunities to speak it in his day-to-day life.