“Sit anywhere, honey.” An older woman calls from the front counter, so I pick a booth by the window.
Just in case Emerson comes by.
I pull out my workbook and busy myself until my shake arrives, sketching out plans for my summer photography projects. I want to work on my portfolio, so maybe I can do a series on the town, or something about the shoreline, and how it’s changed…
I’m lost in thought when the waitress brings my drink. “Thanks,” I say, and take a sip. Then I look down, and realize my hands are covered in dirt from the bicycle. “Hey, do you have a bathroom here?”
“Right in back.” She points it out for me. I leave my sweater in the booth but take my purse. I guess old city habits die hard: out here, they probably all leave their doors unlocked, and give rides to strangers.
The bathroom is a small, two-stall room. I’m rinsing my hands at the sink when I hear a muffled sobbing noise, coming from the occupied stall.
I stop.
The noise comes again, ragged, like someone’s weeping, and doing their best not to be heard.
“Hello?” I ask cautiously. “Is everything OK?”
Another sob comes, louder.
I move over to the door, and tap gently. “Can I get you anything?” I ask.
“N…no.” A woman’s voice replies, hoarse. “I…I’m fine.”
I stand there, awkward. “Are you sure? I could call someone for you.”
There’s a pause, and then the door swings open to reveal a woman huddled on the seat with tissue paper bunched in her hands. She’s older, in her forties maybe, wearing a cheap red tank top and jeans, with mascara running down her cheeks and dark roots under bleached hair.
She looks up at me, and her expression is so hopeless, I catch my breath. “Are you OK?” I ask again. She’s nervy, jittering, and I realize what’s wrong. I’ve seen it before, with my dad, every time he goes more than a day or two without a drink. “What’s wrong? How can I help?”
She shakes her head, inhaling and wiping her eyes with shaking hands. “I’m fine, honey. Don’t you worry.”
The woman gets up, and I stand back to let her past. She takes a couple of steps towards the door, and then her legs give way. I rush to hold her up, but her weight is too much for me. I lower her gently, so she’s crumpled on the floor, leaning against the wall.
“I’ll go get someone,” I say hurriedly. She doesn’t look hurt, but her face is pale, and her eyes are bloodshot; her whole body trembling.
“No, I’m fine, I just need a moment!” she protests, but I’m already out of the door.
I find the waitress by the register. “I need some help,” I say quietly. “There’s a woman back there, she’s in a bad way…About this tall,” I describe. “Blondish hair, red tank top…”
The waitress’s face changes.“Dawn.” She sighs with recognition. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll handle it.” She moves to the phone, and dials a number.
“Is she hurt?” I ask, worried.
“Only what she does to herself.” The woman’s tone is resigned. “Thanks for looking out, but we’ll be fine. Your shake is melting.” She points to my booth, but I shake my head.
“It’s OK. I’ll stay with her.”
The waitress shrugs, as if to say, ‘suit yourself’, and then starts murmuring into the phone. I collect a wad of napkins and some ice-water, and head back to the bathroom.
The woman hasn’t moved. Her head is tipped back, eyes closed, like she wishes she was anywhere but here.
“Here, you’re Dawn, right?” I say, crouching beside her. “We’re calling someone for you.”
She takes the water and sips, avoiding my gaze. I can tell she doesn’t want to talk, so I wait in silence beside her until, after what feels like forever, the bathroom door flies open.
“Get up.” The order comes in a harsh voice that sends a shock right through me. I recognize that voice, from just a few hours ago, but it can’t be….
It is.
Emerson.
I stare up at him, stunned. I can tell from the expression on his face, he’s just as surprised to find me here. He’s still wearing that faded grey T-shirt from before; his eyes a stormy blue as he glances quickly from Dawn back to me. “What are you--?” He starts to demand, looking so mad, I scramble to my feet.
“I found her like this.” I interrupt. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know… They said they were calling someone, but I thought I should wait, make sure she was OK...”
Now it’s my turn to trail off into silence, my words dying as I take in the anger and harsh, flinty resentment etched across his chiseled face. He looks like a totally different person to the guy I met earlier: that Emerson was smirking, flirtatious, playful. Even when he was yelling at me about the accident, there was something confident about him, full of swagger. But this Emerson looks hollowed out, so tense it’s like his body could snap with just one touch.
Hold him.
The thought comes from nowhere, and I fight it off, waiting until finally, Emerson gives a sharp nod. “Thanks,” he grounds out, like he means anything but. “I got it from here.”
He reaches down and grabs the woman’s arm. “Come on, mom.” he grounds out through gritted teeth.
Mom?
“You’re hurting her.” Before I can think better of it, I rush forwards and gently help Dawn to her feet. “Do you think you can walk OK?” I ask softly, looking her straight in the eyes.
Just in case Emerson comes by.
I pull out my workbook and busy myself until my shake arrives, sketching out plans for my summer photography projects. I want to work on my portfolio, so maybe I can do a series on the town, or something about the shoreline, and how it’s changed…
I’m lost in thought when the waitress brings my drink. “Thanks,” I say, and take a sip. Then I look down, and realize my hands are covered in dirt from the bicycle. “Hey, do you have a bathroom here?”
“Right in back.” She points it out for me. I leave my sweater in the booth but take my purse. I guess old city habits die hard: out here, they probably all leave their doors unlocked, and give rides to strangers.
The bathroom is a small, two-stall room. I’m rinsing my hands at the sink when I hear a muffled sobbing noise, coming from the occupied stall.
I stop.
The noise comes again, ragged, like someone’s weeping, and doing their best not to be heard.
“Hello?” I ask cautiously. “Is everything OK?”
Another sob comes, louder.
I move over to the door, and tap gently. “Can I get you anything?” I ask.
“N…no.” A woman’s voice replies, hoarse. “I…I’m fine.”
I stand there, awkward. “Are you sure? I could call someone for you.”
There’s a pause, and then the door swings open to reveal a woman huddled on the seat with tissue paper bunched in her hands. She’s older, in her forties maybe, wearing a cheap red tank top and jeans, with mascara running down her cheeks and dark roots under bleached hair.
She looks up at me, and her expression is so hopeless, I catch my breath. “Are you OK?” I ask again. She’s nervy, jittering, and I realize what’s wrong. I’ve seen it before, with my dad, every time he goes more than a day or two without a drink. “What’s wrong? How can I help?”
She shakes her head, inhaling and wiping her eyes with shaking hands. “I’m fine, honey. Don’t you worry.”
The woman gets up, and I stand back to let her past. She takes a couple of steps towards the door, and then her legs give way. I rush to hold her up, but her weight is too much for me. I lower her gently, so she’s crumpled on the floor, leaning against the wall.
“I’ll go get someone,” I say hurriedly. She doesn’t look hurt, but her face is pale, and her eyes are bloodshot; her whole body trembling.
“No, I’m fine, I just need a moment!” she protests, but I’m already out of the door.
I find the waitress by the register. “I need some help,” I say quietly. “There’s a woman back there, she’s in a bad way…About this tall,” I describe. “Blondish hair, red tank top…”
The waitress’s face changes.“Dawn.” She sighs with recognition. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll handle it.” She moves to the phone, and dials a number.
“Is she hurt?” I ask, worried.
“Only what she does to herself.” The woman’s tone is resigned. “Thanks for looking out, but we’ll be fine. Your shake is melting.” She points to my booth, but I shake my head.
“It’s OK. I’ll stay with her.”
The waitress shrugs, as if to say, ‘suit yourself’, and then starts murmuring into the phone. I collect a wad of napkins and some ice-water, and head back to the bathroom.
The woman hasn’t moved. Her head is tipped back, eyes closed, like she wishes she was anywhere but here.
“Here, you’re Dawn, right?” I say, crouching beside her. “We’re calling someone for you.”
She takes the water and sips, avoiding my gaze. I can tell she doesn’t want to talk, so I wait in silence beside her until, after what feels like forever, the bathroom door flies open.
“Get up.” The order comes in a harsh voice that sends a shock right through me. I recognize that voice, from just a few hours ago, but it can’t be….
It is.
Emerson.
I stare up at him, stunned. I can tell from the expression on his face, he’s just as surprised to find me here. He’s still wearing that faded grey T-shirt from before; his eyes a stormy blue as he glances quickly from Dawn back to me. “What are you--?” He starts to demand, looking so mad, I scramble to my feet.
“I found her like this.” I interrupt. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know… They said they were calling someone, but I thought I should wait, make sure she was OK...”
Now it’s my turn to trail off into silence, my words dying as I take in the anger and harsh, flinty resentment etched across his chiseled face. He looks like a totally different person to the guy I met earlier: that Emerson was smirking, flirtatious, playful. Even when he was yelling at me about the accident, there was something confident about him, full of swagger. But this Emerson looks hollowed out, so tense it’s like his body could snap with just one touch.
Hold him.
The thought comes from nowhere, and I fight it off, waiting until finally, Emerson gives a sharp nod. “Thanks,” he grounds out, like he means anything but. “I got it from here.”
He reaches down and grabs the woman’s arm. “Come on, mom.” he grounds out through gritted teeth.
Mom?
“You’re hurting her.” Before I can think better of it, I rush forwards and gently help Dawn to her feet. “Do you think you can walk OK?” I ask softly, looking her straight in the eyes.
