Page 41 of Crossing Lines

“I know,” I say, simply.

“Really, I’m fine.”

“I’ll believe that when you stop gripping my hand to death. Have you flown before?”

“Yes,” she says, “but only a few times. Growing up, we didn’t have money to go on vacation, let alone take a plane.”

“Same for us.”

Her eyes widen in surprise before she frowns, as if trying to process what she just heard.

“I didn’t grow up in a wealthy family,” I clarify.

“Really?” She draws out the word, full of doubt. “I find that hard to believe.”

“It’s true.”

“Okay, then tell me a story from when you were a child.”

“Why?” I ask, wearily.

“Just do it.” She has a small smirk on her face as if sayinggot you. I don’t normally share the details of my life with anyone. But I guess Nina’s not just anyone.

“When I was six,” I say, “I wanted to try cream cheese. It’s such a stupid thing to have wanted, but at that time, my friends would rave about it, and I didn’t want to be left out. My mom said it was too expensive, that she couldn’t afford it, and I had a full-on meltdown in the store. In my anger, I threw a rock at the store window, and it shattered. My mom was mortified, and my father had to work in the store to pay off the new window since he didn’t have the money to replace it. We were already living with my grandparents because my parents were living paycheck to paycheck. It was a one-bedroom apartment, and my parents and I basically lived in the living room, them on the couch, me on the floor. I didn’t see my dad for weeks after I broke that stupid window since he had to work two jobs to pay off my mistake.”

Her smirk slips from her face as if understanding all the things I didn’t say. How we barely had enough money to feed five people. How my parents were constantly stressed because we were one wrong move away from us all being homeless if they couldn’t make the rent on my grandparents’ place. How I had to step in when I got older and start working small jobs to contribute.

“Shit,” she whispers. She runs a hand through her hair and stares at the floor while she appears to be thinking through something.

“What about you?” I ask. “When you were six, what were you doing?”

“I… It wasn’t a good year.” She swallows hard, staring at the seats across from us. “I was stealing food from Elodie’s house.” She says it in a whisper, as if still ashamed by that fact. “They don’t know I did that.” She glances at me, her eyes watery, but the tears don’t fall. “I’m not sure why I just told you that.”

“I won’t tell anyone.” I squeeze her hand in mine. “Remember? I’m a workaholic without any friends.”

Her lips twitch, and that’s better than her being on the verge of tears.

“Can I ask another question?” I ask.

“Depends on what it is.”

“Where were your mom and dad during that time?”

Her face goes completely blank before saying, “Never knew my dad, but my mom cared more about funding her pill habit than anything else. Still does.” She says it bitterly, and now her mom calling and Nina’s reaction to that makes more sense.

I somehow knew Nina didn’t have an easy life, but I didn’t realize how bad it was until now. Sure, my parents didn’t have money, but they were good, loving parents and I wasn’t alone. Not like how Nina sounds like she was.

“Thank you for sharing that with me,” I say instead ofI’m sorry. I hated when people saidI’m sorryafter my grandparents or my dad died, as if that made it better. It’s such a meaningless statement.

“I guess one good thing came out of that time,” she says. “I learned to sew by hand when I was seven and started making my clothes fit.”

“That’s impressive, to learnso young.”

“Eh, not really. Desperation has a way of doing that to a person, but turns out sewing is the only thing I’m good at.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” I say. “You’re good at many things.”

“Like what?”

---