Page 162 of Scoring the Player
The fuck am I crying for?
“He’s just so scared…”
“Is he still really young? Like six or seven?”
I nod.
“Phew.” She blows out a breath. “To be six or seven, scared and alone in that big house. That sounds really scary.”
She takes a moment and then asks, “Do you think—and you can absolutely say no—do you think we can invite him to sit with us for a while?”
No! He’s dirty, and he smells.
I shrug.
“Yes or no? It is completely up to you.”
I don’t open my eyes because her eyes are open, and she’ll catch me checking the time. So, I don’t know how long I sit here, but it feels like it’s long enough for this session to be over.
Why isn’t it over?
“Okay,” I mumble.
“Are you sure?” she asks.
I sure as hell ain’t gonna be scared like him. “Yeah.”
“Okay, you can invite him in whenever you’re ready.”
I don’t speak or look up as the door creaks open. Keeping my chin tucked, I stare between my legs.
She has this way of breathing that’s contagious, like yawning. I breathe in deeply.
Then I hear it…the barely-there shuffle.
“Is he there?” she asks.
I nod as the fucker with the blowtorch discovers a ladder.
“What’s he doing?”
I don’t have to look to know. “He’s hiding by the door.”
“Think we can help him feel safe enough to come closer?”
My nostrils flare.
Why did he even come out if he’s so afraid?
“Okay. How about we sit with him for a minute?”
Listening to the stilted breathing across the room, I nod.
My feet press into the floor as I push back against the wall.
“Alright. Maybe we can let him know, with or without looking at him, that he can leave whenever he’s ready, and that it was really brave of him to come out and sit with us today. You think we can do that?”
I scrub away the tears that have dripped onto the knuckle tat on my left hand.
