Page 71 of Barbed Wire Fences
“You got any liquor?” she asks as she stumbles into my kitchen, searching through the cabinets for something I know she doesn’t need.
I finish the short note then sigh, folding it back up and placing it on the countertop face down.
“Jael, come here. Let’s talk about this. Please.”
“What’s there to talk about? My father treated me like shit my whole life. I tried to pretend the abuse wasn’t happening. I acted like it would stop, never acknowledged it to anyone but you, but he washurtingme, and I was a child. It was horrible!” Jael shouts sadly. “I didn't deserve that. And now, here he is, dead, providing a sort-of apology for not being present? Why is it that he waits until he’s gone to apologize? And frankly, it’s a shitty apology if you ask me.”
She reaches under the counter, opens another one of my cabinets and retrieves a bottle of tequila I'd stashed there last week after game night at Lainey and Larks, her eyes light up like she’s happy but it doesn’t quite touch the sadness and hurt lingering there.
“Ah-ha! Found some.” She stumbles towards the cabinet where I store my dishes and retrieves a glass, turning to pour it to the top. I walk cautiously around the island until I’m behind her, wrapping my hand around her wrist to stop her.
“Jael. Look at me. Please.”
Her gaze stays fixed on the countertop, but I can see it, the way that she’s spiraling out. She’s slipping deeper into that pit of self-loathing, probably twisting this moment into some way to blame herself for her reaction to his letter.
I know this because I know her. I always have. And Jael’s heart is as pure as they come. She used to make excuses about how she wasn’t a good enough daughter and that’s why her mom always worked and didn’t take her side. Wasn’t obedient enough. Wasn’t smart enough.
When things got bad with her parents, this is what she did—tried to outrun the pain any way she could or ignore it entirely. Back then, it was sneaking off to that old church where we used to pick berries. I’d find her sitting high up in the tree, wind and rain whipping around her like the world was daring her to fall. And every time, I’d have to climb up after her or beg her to come down.
When the fighting between her parents got bad, she’d try to hide from her father’s fists and most of the time, it worked. But sometimes, times like that spring before our junior year, she’d take the brunt of it while her mom spent her night hiding safely at work, pretending like she didn’t know what was happening to her daughter at home.
But now, we’re not kids anymore, and her self-sabotage has taken on a sharper edge. Her poison of choice is no longer trees and storms; it’s alcohol. And I’m not a kid, standing by, trying my best to protect her without having the means to. I’m a man who won’t let her self-destruct again.
**
Rhett: You’re late. I’m standing by the truck, and if you don’t show up in the next five minutes, I’m leaving your ass behind.
I fire off another text to Jael, warning her that her ride home is about to leave while I tap my foot impatiently.
School ended fifteen minutes ago, and Jael knows the deal – if she needs a ride back to her house, she needs to be at my truck no later than 3:15, or I’m leaving her to make the five-mile walk home alone even if I don’t think it’s safe.
I glance down at my watch again.
Two more minutes.
I look up, finally catching Jael walking my way out of a side door to the school. It’s the beginning of May, only a few more weeks until school lets out for the summer before our junior year.
Though it’s technically still spring, temperatures are already in the nineties and the girls in our class are all wearing sundresses and shorts.
Jael, however, isn’t.
Today, she’s wearing high-waisted jeans and a long-sleeved shirt with a baseball cap pulled firmly over her face. Though I’ve had three classes with her today, this is the first time that I’m actually taking notice to what she’s wearing.
As she comes closer into view, my eyes glance down at her hands gripping her biology book where I notice the faintest tell of what look like yellow bruises.
“Jael, what the hell happened?” I shout, stepping towards her and grabbing her arm to examine it more closely. I yank the sleeve of her long-sleeve shirt up to reveal more colorful bruises all over her tiny arms like paint splotches.
“I fell during gym class,” she says flatly as she pushes her shirt sleeve back down and pins me with a glare like I’m responsible.
“Those bruises are yellow. You didn’t just get these.”
“Oh, are you a bruise expert now?” she shoots back.
“Who did this to you?” I demand, my voice lowering, though I already know the answer.
“I told you I fell, Rhett. Drop it.” She steps onto the stairs leading into my truck, swinging her body and backpack inside, before slamming the door shut behind her.
I slip into the driver’s side next to her and turn my body so that we’re facing. “We need to tell someone.”
