Page 31 of Bravo

There’s a knock at my door, and I groan.

I really don’t want to get up.

Another knock.

Keeping my firearm close, I force myself to get out of bed and head over toward the door. After peeking out the peephole, I set my firearm in a kitchen drawer and pull open the door for Lani.

“Hey, I brought food!” She steps inside with a white bakery box seated on top of a pizza box. It smellsamazing.

“Did you read my mind? I was just thinking about how hungry I am.”

“Seems like I showed up just in time then,” Lani replies and sets the pizza on the counter. She heads toward the far cabinet and retrieves two plates then offers me one.

I’ve only known her a short period of time, but it feels like we’ve been friends a whole lot longer. Which is honestly great. Aside from the fact I’m going to have to leave one day, and she’ll never know why.

It makes me think of—No, Kennedy.

“What kind of pizza did you bring?” Shoving thoughts of the past down, I check the box and nearly groan with delight when I see double cheese and pepperoni staring me in the face. “This looks fantastic.”

“Gio’s,” Lani replies. “He’s the best.”

“Definitely the best.” I put a piece onto my plate then head over toward the two-seater table where Lani is already sitting and take the chair across from her.

Lani bows her head. “Lord, we thank You for this food we are about to eat. We thank You for bringing us through today and allowing us this time to spend together. In the name of Jesus, Amen.”

I open my eyes and take a bite. Salty cheesy deliciousness dances on my tongue. “This is so good.”

“Best pizza in the south. I’m convinced. So how was today?”

“It was long.”

“How’s your hand?”

I hold it up. “Not too bad.”

Lani takes my hand and inspects my knuckles. “You wouldn’t even know these were nose-breaking knuckles.”

I smile and take another bite of pizza. “I feel so bad.”

“He shouldn’t have put his hands on you.”

“No,” I say. “But I hardly think my hitting him was an appropriate response.”

She sets her pizza down and takes a drink of water. “Why did you hit him?”

“What do you mean? I told you, he grabbed my arm.”

“Sure, and I’m not saying he didn’t deserve it, but why did you hit him? Did he do something else, too? Back you into a corner?”

How do I tell her it’s because I’ve been stuck in fight mode for the last two years? How do I explain to my new friend that the reason why I hit first and ask questions later is because, the one time I didn’t trust my gut, everyone I loved died?

“Just instinct, I guess. Something I need to work on.”

She doesn’t respond, just takes a bite of pizza. “How did Bradyn take it?”

“What do you mean? Didn’t you talk to him?”

“Sure, but I got the muted big-brother version. I want to know how he took the news live. Come on, Sammy, spill.”

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