Page 73 of The Version You Hide

When I return to the bathroom, the door is still partially open, and I can see that the shower curtain has been closed over. I reach a hand in between the crack, placing the clothes on the basin for Mackenzie to find.

Once I’ve returned to my room, I remove my own wet clothes, dressing in a pair of sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt. The pipes in this house are noisy as hell, so I instantly know when Mackenzie shuts off the water.

A few minutes later, she emerges from the bathroom, wandering awkwardly into my room, her legs bare, the hem of the t-shirt I gave her falling mid-thigh.

“I tried the pants,” she says, brushing her wet hair back from her face. “But they wouldn’t stay up.”

A sad smile tugs at my mouth as I watch her pull at the bottom of the shirt before folding her arms across her chest. I move to the dresser and open the top drawer, reaching in for my light blue hoodie. It’s oversized on me so I know it will hang a little lower than the t-shirt I gave her to wear, plus it will keep her warm.

She raises her arms above her as I approach, allowing me to loop the soft fabric over her head. She fumbles with the sleeves as I gently tug her hair from the hood and smooth it out behind her. I frown when her face crumples slightly, a sign she’s holding back more tears.

“What is it, Kenz?”

“I’m sorry,” she sobs.

“Hey. Look at me,” I beckon. She raises her glacial gaze to mine. “You have nothing to be sorry about.”

“But you’re missing your shift.”

I shake my head. “Don’t worry about that. I’d miss my shift a thousand times over if it meant I got to see how gorgeous you look in my hoodie.”

A mangled laugh leaves her as she chokes back another sob.

“Seriously.” I turn her cheek, drawing her eyes back to mine. “There’s no place I’d rather be than here with you.”

I wish I could scoop her up in my arms and hold her until her sadness disappears, but this is Mackenzie. I need to practice some restraint with her, though I know that despite her tough exterior, she’s more fragile than she lets on.

She is a domestic violence survivor and I know next to nothing about what that means for her. The way she’d freaked out at the trail tonight only proves that she’s wrestling demons I know nothing about. I’m going to have to muster up more patience than I ever have before.

But I can do that. For her, I’d do anything.

“Come on.” I slip my hand in hers and lead her to the living room.

“I like your place,” she says, dropping down onto the couch, her eyes scanning the small dining table by the window and the closed, white curtains that primarily hide the french doors at the back of the room.

“Thanks,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck. “Better than a vacation mansion out on the cape?”

The hint of a smile pulls at the corners of her mouth, but it doesn’t meet her eyes. “Definitely.”

I take the space beside her on the couch, leaving a little distance between us. It’s then I notice the purple-blue bruises on her kneecaps. She must have got them when she fell down at the trail. I don’t know how I hadn’t noticed them before. Maybe the heat of the shower has brought them out further.

“Shit, Kenz. Your knees.” I rub a distraught hand over my face.

She glances down and gives the slightest of shrugs. “It’s fine. I’ve had worse.”

My eyes flash with fury in response to her words, my jaw clenching in anger. “Don’t tell me that.”

I can’t hear that these bruises are nothing to her. That she’s had worse inflicted upon her at the hands of a man that never deserved to be graced with her existence.

She draws her knees up, hiding them under the long hem of the hoodie and I hate that I’ve made her feel like she has to cover up. She has nothing to be ashamed of.

“Kenz, I’m not going to push you to tell me what it is that has you so upset tonight. But I want you to know… I need you to know, that I’m here for you. Whenever you want to talk. Or not. I just…” I trail off, swallowing the lump that builds in my throat at the sight of a silent tear tracking its way down her cheek.

This amazing woman here is hurting and I’ve never felt so powerless. I don’t know whether to draw her near or give her space. I wish I knew what she needed but she isn’t easy to read.

“My mother died.” The words leave her mouth so easily that I’m not sure if I’ve heard them correctly.

“What?”

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