Page 111 of The Woman with the Target on her Back (Grassi Family)

It seemed as though August had set Smush on the task of making me feel at home while I was staying with him.

I wanted to follow my stomach to the kitchen, but I took the time to force myself through a shower and clothes change, brushing my teeth, and my hair. That was a harder task than I’d expected, my scalp sore from being pulled around by my ponytail, but I did my best, then made my way back out of the bath and bedroom.

The second I opened the door, I was hit with it.

The scents of food cooking.

The tangy red sauce, the creamy white sauce, garlic, basil, oregano.

What was he cooking?

The living room was abandoned, but a TV was on, some reruns playing.

“August?” I called, wincing at how much my throat hurt as I spoke.

You’d think sleep would make you feel better.

But, nope.

I felt like crap.

All the pains that had been overshadowed by my worry and fear before were amplified now.

“There you are,” August said as I stepped into the kitchen.

It was an enormous space, longer than wide, with a sprawling island down most of the length of it, and a dining table toward the far end with a view of the water.

He’d clearly been up for a while, dressed in slacks and a button up. No jacket, tie, or shoes, just socks.

“Christ,” he sighed as he approached me, his hands framing my face, eyes sad, as he took in all the bruises that really settled into impressively dark shades of blue and purple.

“Feels worse,” I admitted.

“Got your medicine over here. And fresh coffee,” he said, waving toward where he had a cup already waiting for me on the counter.

“What time is it?” I asked as I watched him make me coffee, then bring it and the bottle of pills over to the table.

“Twelve-thirty.”

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” I asked, eyes round.

“Because you needed to sleep,” he said, shrugging as I took two pills, knowing they weren’t going to do much, but at least they’d do something.

“Did you have Smush shop for me?” I asked.

“I did. She just did a quick shop so far. We wanted you to have something to change into when you woke up. But she’s out doing more shopping now.”

“She really doesn’t need—“

“Yes, she does,” he cut me off. “And I don’t want to hear shit about paying me back, or why everything is new, not second-hand, none of that shit,” he said, smirking at me.

“This brand is sustainable,” I said, pointing toward my shirt. “And the soap was organic…”

“Told you Smush is better at this shit than any of us would be,” he said. “Doesn’t even know you, but got all the shit you’d like.”

“Am I gonna meet her?” I asked.

“If you’re feeling up to it, sure,” he said.

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