Shame blistered her face with its warmth, and the tip of her nose tingled. How had she not thought about Matt in the backseat? She’d been so absorbed in herself that she’d clean forgotten him. She yanked on her wrists imprisoned by his hands, but it was like fighting a pair of handcuffs.
“You done hurting yourself?” Matt’s words themselves weren’t kind, but the way they were spoken, slowly and deliberately, contained latent compassion.
She bobbed her head up and down, uncertain her voice was functional.
“I’m going to let you go, and if you hit yourself again, I’m taking you back to the hospital for an evaluation and immediate admission to the psych unit. Got it?”
He eased his grip on her wrists little by little, as if hypervigilant about waiting for her to start thumping on herself again. When she remained mostly paralyzed by humiliation, he released her from his hold, but not from his penetrating gaze.
His eyes were the color of a clear summer sky, but they contained none of the carefree happiness of a June day. He assessed her, judged her, challenged her. This she could handle. She’d known hate and intimidation at Queen’s hand, and Matt’s efforts were majorly lacking. She met him glare for glare, locked in a strange staring contest that she wouldn’t lose.
Without warning, he stepped back out of the open car door and whispered, “Pull your shit together and pretend to be normal. Someone wants to meet you.”
She barely had time to digest his words.
A woman stepped up beside Matt, and everything that had just happened vanished out of existence. The woman’s hair was a captivating shade of lavender—the kind of color that could be both happy and sad at the same time. She wore a completely normal pair of shorts and a tank top, but what wasn’t normal was her body covered from the collar down with brilliant, flowing tattoos. And with her face full of crumpled construction-paper wrinkles, the woman had to be pushing mid-seventies, maybe early eighties.
Isleen mouthed the only word that came to mind. “Wow.” It was impolite to stare, but she couldn’t stop looking. This old lady wasn’t a sweet, kindly looking grandma. She was insanely spectacular.
“Isleen! Holy hell balls, girl! You’re looking so much better.” The woman’s tone was that of a long-lost friend, as if they’d already met and known each other for years. “I sneaked some peeks at you while you were in the hospital, but you were always asleep. Christ on the crapper, look at your hair! It’s grown at least three inches. How is that even possible?”
The woman paused to take in some oxygen.
“I need to get caught up on all the Institute work that’s been back burnered since—” Matt moved away from them.
“Go. Shoo. Move. Get the fuck outta here.” The woman flicked her hands in his direction but spoke to Isleen. “Sorry, sorry, sorry—you’re probably wondering who the hell I am. I’m Roweena, but everyone calls me Row. I’m the maid, the cook, the laundress, and goddamned keeper of order around here.”
Isleen sat stunned. She’d never in her life heard a woman cuss so much—and do it so good-naturedly. Row bent into the car, pulling Isleen out and into a warm hug filled with genuine affection. For some reason, tears burned in Isleen’s sinuses. No, she knew the reason for her emotion. Gran used to hug her like this, but once her mind was gone… Well, it’d been too long since Isleen had experienced motherly affection. Without thinking about Row being a stranger with lavender hair and covered in tattoos, Isleen hugged her back, earning an even tighter squeeze.
Row shifted away and Isleen didn’t mean to stare, but her gaze roamed over the vivid colors inked onto Row’s skin.
“This one—” Row pointed to the beautiful cameo-esque tattoo in the middle of her delicately wrinkled chest. Shades of gold, orange, and sepia colored the image. Isleen moved closer to take in the intricate details. “—is a portrait of my Granny Maude. She swore like a sailor, smoked like a chimney, drank like a fish, and was kind as a saint until she died in her sleep at ninety-eight years old.”
Isleen straightened from her examination of Row’s tattoo. “You’ve got the swear-like-a-sailor thing down.”
A smile fired on Row’s face, but it was no ordinary smile. It was the kind of smile that surpassed age and transformed her wrinkled visage into timeless beauty. “That’s a great compliment. Granny Maude refused to grow old gracefully—said that was for the unimaginative. So like her, I’m growing old fabulously.” She laughed and ran a gnarled hand through her lavender hair. “One of the gifts of age is not caring what anyone thinks.”
This woman was exactly what Isleen needed. Someone to care for her. Someone to care about. Someone it was easy to be around. “Thank you, Row.” Isleen’s vision got a little watery. “For being so awesome, so nice.”
“Aww…” Row snatched her up in another hug and Isleen clung to the older woman, soaking up the affection.