Page 100 of Another Girl Lost

“Can you just take me to my car?”

“What are you going to do?”

A small shrug lifted her shoulders. “Get my act together and get back to work. If I’m not fired already.”

“I know a shelter where you can stay if you want to get your feet under you. It’s more support than being alone in an apartment.”

“Shelters have rules. And assholes.”

“Everything in life has rules, and there are always assholes,” I said.

“I don’t like being locked in at night at the shelters.”

“At least take a shower here. Get a little sleep.” Opening my home to her would create levels of complications I wasn’t sure I could handle. “I have fresh clothes you can wear.”

“I like my clothes.”

“I’ll wash them and give them back, but that takes at least an hour.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll put my clothes outside the bathroom door.”

I walked her to the small bathroom, handed her a towel, and let her close and lock the door. The water started running almost immediately, and I imagined her looking around the space for any kind of pill. I’d been on antidepressants for a while, but they’d made me feel foggy, and I’d lost interest in my art, so I’d tossed those years ago. I didn’t even keep aspirin here now. I laid a pair of jeans, a long-sleeve shirt, and underwear by the door.

When she emerged ten minutes later, the coloring in her skin was better and her damp hair looked a shade lighter. She looked so young. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight. Why?”

“Just curious.” Only a few years older than me. “The washing machine and the dryer are small and old, so it’ll take at least another hour. You can crash on the couch in the meantime.”

She looked around the space, her gaze drawn to the tall windows and the afternoon sun casting a glow on the drying prints. “Why are you in such a big place?”

“I like the space and the light. I also make prints.”

She walked up to a nearly finished image. “It looks weird.”

“It’s not finished. I can only screen print one color at a time. Two colors to go.”

“People buy this?”

“They do.”

She turned toward the easel where the Della picture lurked under the canvas. “Is that the painting of that girl?”

“Yes.”

“Why’s it covered?”

“I don’t like looking at it.”

“Why?”

No one had ever asked me about these paintings. “It drives me nuts because I can’t finish it.”

Her brow knotted. “What’s wrong with it?”

“I’m not sure.”

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