Page 70 of Derek
“I was trying to brush my hair.” I manage to say through my irritation and humiliation.
“Can I do it?” I glance up at him, my brow raised.
“Curly hair is kind of hard to take care of.” Derek grabs my comb and brush.
“I already looked up how to comb and brush curly hair.” He mutters, and my knees would buckle if I weren’t sitting down.
“Why?” I eventually whisper as he sits on his knees on the mattress and begins to slide the comb through the ends of my hair. He’s so gentle, it makes me want to cry.
“If I tell you,” he sighs slowly, and I watch him in the mirror while he works. “Do you promise not to make a big deal about it?” He stares at my reflection in the mirror and holds his pinky out, and it takes all of my willpower not to choke on a sob.
I wrap my pinky around his “Promise,” I say softly.
Derek leans in, his lips near the shell of my ear, and whispers, “I learned how to do it so I could help you when you have a rough day.” My eyes widen, and I feel him grip my pinky tighter before kissing my hand and letting me go. I sit in silence as Derek methodically sections out my hair, combs, and brushes and even reforms rogue pieces before moving to the next section. My chest is so tight it’s nearly painful. I have so many questions to ask him, but I can’t. I can’t because, not only would he take that as me making a big deal out of his kind gesture, and there is no way I’m breaking a pinky promise that he initiated. But also, what if the answers to those questions make me feel things I shouldn’t be feeling? No. Derek and I like each other. That’s as far as I can allow it to go.
* * *
“Thank you, Nika,”I smile as the old woman hands me a fruit platter. I look longingly at my friends and their delicious pastries. “I hate all of you.” I glare at the women as Nika looks from my plate to theirs. Her old eyes narrow at my group.
“Nemoj me jebat? Stefa!” Stevie winces mid-bite of her danish.
“Baka!” Stevie groans. “She’s eating like that because she’s not feeling well!”
“Support your friend Stefa! All of you!” Nika warns, and I hide my snort behind the glass of water I’m gulping down.
“Mama!” I look up to see Zora, Stevie’s mom, coming to rush over. “Now, don’t be scaring away everyone.”
“Who scare? I scare no one.” Nika shoos away Zora’s hand.
“You have village here, support necessary to continue.” Stevie rolls her eyes while dropping the danish and picking a strawberry from my plate.
“Happy now?” She snaps before her eyes go wide. “Oprosti…” She quickly mumbles before Nika and Zora walk off.
“The balls on you.” Ren marvels, shaking her head at our green-haired friend. “I don’t know half of what was said but that was terrifying, and then you sassed her?”
Stevie groans, rubbing her temples. “I know, I know. I’m just. I’m overwhelmed. I shouldn’t be snapping at her, though.”
Janie munches on her donut. “What’s up, girlie? You’ve been awfully quiet since the convention.” Stevie shrugs as she flicks a piece of the danish off the table.
“Brooks found me in a really embarrassing position, and I’ve been bleeding since New Orleans… I’m supposed to go to a new doctor next week to talk about surgery, but,” she takes a tired breath. “I’m scared that it’ll be like last time. They will look at me and say I either need to lose weight and it’ll magically clear everything up, or they will remind me that it’s my duty to have a child and I should wait because I might change my mind.”
Sunday scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Right, because you want to stay in constant pain just in case you want kids later. I mean, how dumb, and what about the fibroids? Doesn’t that cause infertility?”
“They can, depending on where they are growing.” Stevie sighs. “I love kids, sure, I would like one or two, but I don’t have to carry them. My uterus sucks, and I’m tired of it zapping away my life.”
“I can talk to my mom,” Ren shrugs as she takes a bite of her food. “Maybe she’ll know someone.”
“Maybe I can just have Baka scoop it out of me with a melon baller,” Stevie mutters, and we all chuckle.
“She probably would!” I laugh and go to pick up my fork, only to drop it. The clattering of the fork is deafening. The table goes quiet, and I squeeze my eyes shut. Opening my eyes, all four of my friends are staring at me, and the panic settles in. I look at my hands and try to make my fingers close together. I can’t.Oh god, I can’t feel my hand at all!
I spring up, causing the chair to scrape on the tiled floor.
“I have to go,” I say quickly, but Sunday grabs me.
“Hey, Indy, you need to breathe. It’s alright. We will figure this out.”
“I-I can’t feel my hand,” I sob out. “I can’t feel my hand!” It’s all I can say over and over again as Sunday pulls me against her body. She says something to the girls, but I can’t hear it. My heart rate is trying to rival a hummingbird’s.
