Phones are snapping pictures like crazy. The waitress hurries to our table and drops off a couple of bags.
“Mark asked for them to change our order to take-out. Is that okay?”
I get to my feet and pick up the bags.
“Is it okay with you if we take it to my apartment?”
I nod, toss an amount of cash I think will cover the bill onto the table, and follow her to the door. Her security guard speaks into a Bluetooth gadget on his ear, and a car pulls up in front of the restaurant. She nods toward it. “It’s for us.”
We get in, she settles down beside me, and lets out a heavy breath. I can feel it stir the air on my arm. “Is your life always like this?” I ask.
She nods. “Most of the time.” Her face falls. “I’m really sorry.”
“It’s okay. I understand.” This happens when I go out with the Reeds too. They’re like royalty.
The car stops at her apartment building, and we go up in the really fancy elevator to the even fancier hallway. “S-W-A-N-K-Y,” I spell out on my fingers.
“E-M-P-T-Y,” she spells back.
She motions for me to set the bags on the kitchen counter and she takes out plates, then starts to transfer the food over. “I know it’s not as nice as the restaurant,” she says.
“Better,” I say. I smile at her. “Where’s your family?”
“They’re all with their boyfriends and husbands. It’s just me here.” She shrugs and her mouth twists. But then she grins. “But I do have your baseball cap to keep me company.”
I look around. “Where is it?”
“It’s on my bed. I’ll get it for you before you leave.”
She motions for me to bring my plate and walk into the living room. She sits down on the couch and motions for me to sit next to her. She sets her plate on the coffee table and then pulls the table closer to us. I set my plate beside hers.
“We need drinks,” she says. She hops up and goes to get two sodas. “This okay?”
I nod. “Perfect.”
We sit quietly and eat and the food is really good.
She accidentally drops a dollop of sauce on her glove and rubs it away.
“Why don’t you take those off?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “It’s okay.”
I take her hand in mine and reach for her elbow. Her eyes close and I can feel her deep breaths lift the hairs on my neck. I arch my brow in question as I reach to roll down the edge of her glove.
She nods. “I can do it, though.”
I don’t stop. I scrunch it up in my hands until I can pull the fingers and slide it all the way off. Her hand trembles in mine.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
She nods. “I’ve just never…” She stops signing. “Never mind.”
“Never what?” I ask.
“Never…shown…anyone.” She holds her chin tight and stares me down. “Until you.”
I reach for her other glove and do the same to it. She keeps her lower arm turned away from me, but then she tips it and I can see the slashes on that arm.
“Both arms?” I look at her face.
“Yes.”
“Same time?” I watch her eyes. They stare into mine.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Guilt.”
“Did you ever do it after that?”
She smiles softly. “No. Emilio taught me to play piano.”
“Emilio?”
“My adoptive dad. He and Marta adopted me when I was twelve.”
“When your parents died, there was no other family to take you?”
She shakes her head. “No.” She looks at me shyly. “Do you feel…differently about me…after seeing the scars?”
“Yes,” I admit.
Her face falls.
“No, not like that. It makes me admire you.”
“Because I tried to kill myself?” Her eyes narrow.
“No. Because you survived it.”
She pulls her legs up onto the couch and turns to face me, her plate forgotten.
“I see scars every day,” I tell her. “It’s kind of my specialty. And I understand why people want to cover them up. I really do. But sometimes I wish they would leave them.”
“Why?” Her face is tight and almost angry.
“Because scars mean you healed. You went through a trauma and your body healed. Scars mean you came out the other side. You survived.”