Page 9 of Unbroken

It was so quiet that we both heard the toilet flush and the water began running a second later. My arms loosened from around his middle, but Devon didn’t let go. I could barely feel the lightest graze of his lips against the top of my head. Then he whispered softly, “Little Warrior,” before he squeezed me once and released me.

Reluctantly, I stepped back, extricating myself from his arms but not moving away completely. We were still close enough that I could feel his warmth.

It was a nickname he’d picked up a long time ago and used sparingly. Mostly in moments when he knew I needed the reminder. The “little” part was because I was the youngest of our friends. Well, now besides Hazel. Skipping two grades meant I was always young.

Warrior, however, was the first half of my last name. Just replace the “o” with an “e”—Blakely Warrier-West. Almost a year after we’d first met and the first party back after summer break was when I’d discovered Devon’s hidden talent. He was never a big partyer, and honestly, neither was I, but I was determined to keep up with the new group of friends I’d found.

They were my first real friends. Ever.

We were all at a party, drinking and partaking in the normal debauchery that occurred as young college students. Except we couldn’t find Devon. The trashed frat house was hard to navigate, but eventually, after searching for several minutes, I found him hidden in an upstairs room. I walked in with a light tap on the door, and he acknowledged me by looking up from his lap.

I crossed to where he sat on the floor, leaned against the end of someone’s bed. Plopping down next to him, I peered over his shoulder at the sketchbook in his hands. He tilted it away from me like he didn’t want me to see, but I touched his forearm with my hand and hoped he’d change his mind.

He reluctantly dropped the book flat on his knee, and it took meseveral seconds to take in the complexity of the sketch. Each intentional stroke of his pencil formed a beautiful image. A woman, tall and strong, wielding a sword and a shield. She was the only one standing in a sea of faceless bodies. Her features were set, with wavy hair flowing behind her shoulders that were covered in light armor.

My finger lightly brushed over the tip of her nose, and I looked up at Devon.

“Is that me?”

Even in the dim light of the room, I could see his cheeks darken. He fidgeted where he sat, scooting away from me one inch, then another.

“Yeah. I know it’s?—”

I didn’t know what the next words out of his mouth were going to be because I finished the sentence for him. “Amazing. You are so talented.”

Surprise was evident on his face, and I reached for the small sketchbook. That time, he had no issue letting me see it. It probably fit, although snuggly, in the pocket of his jeans, but the images on each page were nonetheless impressive.

I felt him watch me appraise each sketch. Turning back to the one of me, I smiled. I wished I was that powerful.

“This would be a badass tattoo,” I said, pointing to the sword held in the woman’s hands.

“Really?” he asked, and I nodded.

“Yeah, would you be able to do a larger sketch for me?”

He nodded, and I handed it back to him. He took the book from me and laid my head on his shoulder. It took him a moment, but he eventually went back to what he was doing before I interrupted. He shaded and defined a few parts that weren’t yet complete, and I was mesmerized by the way his hand moved effortlessly over the paper.

“Why this?” I finally asked as my eyelids drooped. Raised voices carried up the stairs, and I could feel the bass of the thumping music through the floor. But right then, it was just us. “Why me?”

My words were quiet, but I knew he heard me. The movement of his pencil stuttered, and he didn’t immediately respond. But I’d gotten used to that—even back then, Devon didn’t talk much.

“For my name, right? Warrier and warrior? They sound the same,” I said, trying to prompt a response.

I felt his shoulder lift beneath my head as his pencil began moving again.

“It started off because of that,” he said. “But as I worked on it, I realized…you have a little warrior in you, too.”

Staring at him in that quiet hospital hallway, I wanted to ask him if he truly still believed that. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I didn’t care because I liked it when he called me that—his little warrior. And I wasn’t going to ruin the moment by asking.

My phone vibrated in my pocket, but I didn’t reach for it. I wanted to extend that moment for as long as I could.

The bathroom door swung open, and Sydney, whose eyes were glued to her phone screen, veered left toward the elevators. “Ready?” she asked without looking up.

She pressed the button to call the elevator, and we all stepped on, Sydney and I flanking Devon. The doors closed, and my mind began racing once again. Leaving Shelly felt wrong, but I would fix everything soon enough. I would figure it out. Maybe even talk to Hazel.

I would fix it, I told myself again, and I hadn’t realized I had begun tapping my leg until Devon brushed his hand against mine. Immediately, I stopped and looked over at him, but he wasn’t looking at me. He stood with his eyes forward, his face devoid of emotion. When I returned my attention to the stainless-steel door, I felt his hand brush against mine again. Only I wasn’t fidgeting anymore when he hooked his pinky finger with mine.

The small gesture was surprising and made my heart leap. The feeling was so foreign it took a second to register the excitement at the touch.

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