Page 157 of Scattered Glitter

Classic first date move.

I wait.

A minute.

Then two.

Then five.

When no answer comes, my mind drifts back. I scroll up to our last conversation. The twins’ birthday. The nightshe got hurt. A knot tightens in my chest, and before I can second-guess myself, I start typing.

I’m sorry you got hurt Saturday.

I would’ve never agreed to that if I’d known.

It takes her only seconds to reply like she’s been waiting, phone in hand.

It’s fine. It wasn’t that bad.

I close my eyes, clenching my jaw.Not that bad?My fingers move faster than my thoughts.

He hit you.

It was just a backhand.

… or two.

Like that makes it better somehow.

The words on the screen tighten the already thick coil of anger in my chest. My reply is a knee-jerk reaction, unable to soften it.

Do you even hear yourself?

Difficult if I’m texting :)

She’s pulling it back into a joke, trying to shake it off. Only, this isn’t something I can joke about, not for her and definitely not for myself.

I can’t stand women getting hurt.

Why? Did your daddy hit your mommy?

I jolt. Apparently, the harder she tries to deflect, the darker her humor gets.

I’m more than familiar with that.

I didn’t have a mommy.

I stare at the screen, my thumb hovering, my mind flickering over the reality of how much I’d rather forget.

Me neither.

A pause stretches. Somehow, it makes sense that we’re talking like this—two strangers with no one else around and no eyes on us. This conversation is as bare and dark as my room. I send the next part without a second thought.

I only had a dad.

I’m a foster kid.

It seems we’re trading scars, opening up wounds to see if there’s anything we recognize in each other.

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