Page 40 of Saved By My Buyers

“Do you want me to swing by?” he asks. “I’m not far, and sometimes a hug goes a long way when you have a rough call.”

My lips twitch because Jack is a sweetheart. I know we never would be whatever we are if I hadn’t been drunk and sad on my eighteenth birthday. I didn’t even think I was into guys, but Jack is different. I wish we both didn’t feel so much guilt over it though.

“Have I told you how wonderful you are today?” I ask, carefully lifting my food from the microwave plate. “Talking to you is helping to settle me.”

“Okay,” he says easily as I grab my fork and water, moving over to a table. “To answer your question, you have not told me that yet.”

Chuckling, I open the top of my container, letting it cool a little. “If I tell you now, you won’t be able to get through the door,” I tease him.

“Nah, I’d be fine,” he says. I imagine the smirk he has on his lips as he walks down the sidewalk. “We’ve both been busy, why don’t we go out tomorrow?”

Chewing my lip, I want to ask if we should. We’ve gone around and around on this. It’s a tug and pull. Sometimes I think I want more, and others it’s him who questions things. Jack is right, if Dahlia wanted to see us, she’d reach out. She would find a way.

“Where do you want to go?” I ask hesitantly.

“How about the new speakeasy? We can do dinner and drinks,” Jack says.

Taking a bite of my food, I hum appreciatively. God, I could seriously eat this every damn day. I have a fake ID for when Jack and I want to go places that I can’t quite get into yet, because of my age. It’s ridiculous not to go when I have the means to.

Or maybe I’m just ignoring the fact that Jack has been over twenty one for years.

When I think about it, I worry that Jack will get tired of me. I’m idealistic, work a lot, and study even harder. But, at the end of the day, the only person who fits perfectly next to me when I close my eyes is Jack. That’s what matters, even if I get confused by it all.

“Earth to Bronwyn,” Jack teases me. Giggling, I realize again that I’ve been having an entire conversation in my head.

“I would love to, Jack. I’ll make sure I get my reading done tonight when I get home,” I say.

I chat with him as I eat, discussing what my schedule at the Crisis Center looks like the next few days in terms of shifts. I work part time because I’m taking fifteen credit hours this semester, and sometimes I feel as if I’m doggy paddling through my week.

It’s exhausting, but I know that I’m doing what I’m meant to do.

Finishing up, I say goodbye to him, clean up and return to my cubicle with a bounce in my step. Plugging back into the calls, I wait for one to be shuffled to me. There’s a slower pace now that people head home from work, or do whatever it is that they’re doing.

I get one or two calls over the next hour and a half, and I wonder if I should go home early. There are three other full time employees who are at the Center with me. As it approaches eight o’clock, my phone rings. Blinking away the haze of inactivity, I shake my hands out before answering it.

“Keller Crisis Center, my name is Bowen, are you in a safe place?” I ask. A lot of people make up a name when they’re answering calls, but since my name isn’t mine, I feel comfortable enough to use it.

“Yeah,” says a hoarse voice. It's raspy and tired, and she sounds as if she’s had a long day. “I don’t even know why I’m calling.”

“That’s okay,” I murmur. “Sometimes, it’s nice to reach out and know there’s someone else on the line.”

“I used to have people like that, but I don’t anymore,” she says sadly. Sometimes, the speaker on the other end gives me their name, while others they won’t.

This person sounds lonely, but I don’t know much else yet.

“May I ask what happened?” I ask, wondering if she wants to talk.

“Life is just really unfair, you know?” she asks with a sigh. “People are evil, and just want to use and abuse you.”

“I can’t believe everyone is like that,” I tell her. “There are really good people out there.”

“I don’t know,” she grunts. “You may think that, but it’s been a long time since I’ve met anyone decent.”

“Well, I’ll be the one decent person you know then,” I say with a shrug. “Sometimes life decides to make you their punching bag, and it’s rough.”

“You’re like Miss Sunshine,” the girl teases. “I don’t believe anyone has ever made you their punching bag. It doesn’t get much worse than being sixteen and homeless.”

This girl doesn’t sound sixteen… She must be talking about the past.

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