Page 13 of Yours to Keep
The weekend passes too quickly, and Adrian is attentive the entire time. Not in a way that feels loud or performative. More like a constant awareness of me. Where I am, what I’m doing, what I might need before I realize it myself.
He takes me to dinner at his favorite restaurant on Saturday night. On Sunday, he has friends over for lunch, all polished conversation and easy laughter that fills the house as if it belongs there.
The rest of the time, we stay inside. He disappears into his office, and I stay in the kitchen.
I bake to breathe. One of my foster mothers taught me when I was fifteen. It became something I could hold onto when everything else felt uncertain, the measuring, the mixing, the steady rhythm of steps that always led to something warm and predictable at the end.
So, for a while, the kitchen gives me what the rest of the house doesn’t. The peace, and the space to breathe freely. A version of time where I’m not anticipating anything.
Adrian never interrupts me when I bake, so I stay there longer than I need to and make his favorite cupcakes. I made them without thinking too hard about why.
By the time I’m finished, the kitchen smells like sugar and cocoa and something almost like comfort. I set one on a plate for him after he comes out of his office, and he takes it with a small smile and thanks me with a kiss to my cheek.
Later, I found the cupcake untouched beside his coffee. Cooling.
* * *
Monday arrives too soon.
I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror and let out a quiet breath that almost becomes a sigh. The towel sits low around my waist, barely doing its job.
Bruises still map my body in layered color. Keeping my expression neutral, I reach for the makeup kit I keep hidden (foundation first, then concealer, applied in careful layers for mornings like this). It’s almost empty, but I work with what’s left anyway, reminding myself to pick up more today.
The bruising softens under it, but it doesn’t disappear. Nothing really disappears. It just becomes easier for other people to ignore.
My eye is still swollen, and my cheekbone sits slightly wrong. Ree will notice. She always does. I pause, the brush hovering for a second longer than necessary.God, I hope she doesn’t ask.
She never actually says anything, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t see. Ree has always seen too much. Her eyes meet mine across the room, and she gives me that look again. It’s not exactly pity; as the corners of her mouth tighten, I know she’s trying to hold something back. Frustration flickers first, then something heavier settles in behind it.
Sadness.
Not for what she thinks she knows or for what she can’t change. I know she wants to help; I just don’t think she knows where to begin. Or maybe it’s worse than that. Maybe she knows exactly where to start, and she’s waiting for me to be ready to survive the consequences of it.
The metal door swings with a familiar squeak as I open my locker. I’m busy storing my gear when a voice sounds from behind the open door.
“Morning, Eli.”
I close my eyes for half a second. Too late. I shut the locker and turn.
Ree.
She takes one look at my face, and her expression shifts immediately. It’s subtle and controlled, but unmistakable. Concern settles in like it’s found a permanent place to sit. The makeup does its job in some places, softening the worst of it, but it can’t hide everything: not the swelling under my eye, nor the split in my lip that I’ve been careful not to stretch. Ree notices all of it.
“Morning, Ree,” I say carefully.
“Have you eaten?”
I blink. Once. Twice.
“Huh?”
It comes out before I can stop it. Of all the things I expected, that wasn’t one of them. A faint smile touches her mouth.
“Pretty simple question, Eli. Have you eaten?”
“Um… yeah. Breakfast.”
“Good.”
