Just For Now (A Flirting With Trouble Novel) (4 page)

I flop down into my desk chair and cover my eyes. Maybe I should take something for the migraine that’s threatening at the edges of my eyes. Maybe I should take the rest of the day.

I shake it off—or at least attempt to. Tonight, I’ve got the dinner with Owen and then drinks with Cyn and her boyfriend, Smith. I’d made a contingency plan, which makes me a total dick, but I didn’t want to be stuck with Owen for hours on end in an awkward boss/employee exchange over burgers. I convinced Cyn that she needed to meet me after Trivia Night and, goddess that she is, she agreed.

“But you owe me since you’re missing trivia,” she’d said reproachfully. I snorted into the phone.

“Please. I’m not playing this week, which means you’ll probably win. You’ll be thanking me later.”

But right now, going out feels like the last thing in the world that I want to do. I press my fingers against my temples for a long moment, then release. I manage to start sorting through the papers on my desk. We’ve got all of the enrollment forms for toddler swim lessons and morning preschool. When it comes to organization, the younger kids are the only ones we really get to commit—and that’s their parents, not them.

There’s a light knock on my door. Sighing, I call out, “Come in.”

Wendy pokes her head inside. “Hey—you busy?”

I shrug. “I’m just doing enrollment. What’s up?”

She glances back behind the door and speaks to someone in a low voice. Then she looks back at me again.

“Charlie’s here,” Wendy says slowly. “She really wants to talk to Remy.”

As expected, many of the kids were upset about hearing that Remy was gone. At the same time, just as many were sort of surprisingly unaffected. I didn’t really get it at first until Derrick reminded me of the difficult truth—most of them are used to adults coming and going in their lives. It isn’t anything new.

But Charlie?

Charlie is different.

She and Remy are incredibly close. Close enough that she’d come do errands in the office when she was here sometimes just so that she could be around him. I think he’s the first person she told about her issues at home with her parents. Ever since she told her parents she identified as a girl, not the boy they’d known for a decade and a half . . . well, she started spending more and more time at BYC, even during hours where we normally kicked kids out so we could close up.

Now, Wendy runs a hand through her dark hair, biting her lip and looking back and forth from me to, presumably, Charlie outside my office. It takes a LOT for Wendy to look nervous. I can feel a pit of something deep and difficult forming in my stomach.

“I don’t think I can get Remy for her right now,” I say slowly, glancing at the clock. “I might be able to call him a little later. Does she want to come in and talk to me for a while?”

Wendy ducks back behind the door, and I can hear some muffled whispers. She pops her head back in and nods.

“If you have the time, I think that would be great.”

“Of course.” I nod. I plaster on a smile. I don’t want to let Charlie in on my frustration or stress about money and grant programs. She’s got worries of her own.

As Wendy widens the door, however, I realize that I just identified the understatement of the century.

The first thing I notice is the blood. It’s dry and at the hairline—an obvious dark mark on Charlie’s pale skin and almost-as-pale blond hair. As I let my eyes travel down, the bruise along her jaw and another on her collarbone stick out like exclamation points on her skin.

“Oh.”

That’s what I say. That’s the enlightening, helpful, comforting response I come up with. Remy was so much better at this than I am.

“Charlie, come sit down,” Wendy says gently.

Charlie drops into the chair in front of me with a grace that is far beyond her years. She places her purse on the floor, then clasps her hands together and presses them between her knees. I try not to stare at her wrists. I try not to stare at her bruises.

“I’m going to leave you with Rainey for a little bit, sweetie,” Wendy says softly. She barely touches Charlie’s shoulder, but still the teen flinches. Something deep in my body—my heart, I think—cracks in half.

As the door shuts behind Wendy, Charlie looks back down at her lap. I duck my head and try to catch her gaze.

“Hey,” I say in what has to be the lamest opening line ever.

“Hey.”

Charlie still looks down. I follow her gaze to her hands, where she’s tugging her sleeves down, clearly trying to hide something she doesn’t want me to see.

I come around the side of my desk and sit on the chair next to her. Charlie gives me a wary look. Her ordinarily perfect eye makeup is gone. She can do eyeliner with a skill that most grown women would kill for.

“You’re not wearing your eye makeup,” I say, trying to smile despite my distinct desire not to. Charlie’s eyes go wide, then fill with tears.

“He took it.”

I frown. “Who took it?”

Charlie looks up at the ceiling, and I realize then that she’s not wearing any makeup at all—no foundation, no lip liner, nothing. Part of Charlie’s self-identifying has always included experimenting with different colors and shades and types of cosmetics. She has an eye for the art of the face. At one point, she was talking about going to school to be a makeup artist.

“My stepdad,” she says softly. “He said . . . he said if I hadn’t been wearing it, that I wouldn’t have gotten in trouble.”

I blink at her. “In trouble?”

I feel stupid. I wonder if she’s already told Wendy the details of what happened.

“The boys in gym,” she says, pulling one hand out from between her knees to reach up and touch the scab along her forehead. “We were running the mile and they—they cornered me by the storage shed.”

I inhale through my nose slowly to try and prevent the sharp sound it could potentially make. Carefully, I reach out to touch Charlie’s arm.

She yanks up one sleeve of her thermal shirt and I stop breathing.

A thick white bandage peeks out from the cuff at her wrist. Hell,
bandages
.

Fuck.

This isn’t just a classroom scuffle—this is serious.

“What happened here, Charlie? Did that happen before or after the boys attacked you?”

She sniffs. “After. I went home and my mom cried and my stepdad told me that I was . . . that I was a faggot and that someone needed to toughen me up.”

Something inside Charlie flares up then. I can see it in her eyes and it gives me something like hope that the girl I know is still in there. She straightens her back and shakes her shoulders as though to redistribute the weight she’s been carrying on them.

“So I went upstairs, grabbed a razor, and showed him how fucking tough I can be,” she half snarls. She’s got her arms free now and she looks so fierce and beautiful that I want to hug her small, thin body.

Instead, I do something different. I do something Remy would have done, I think, if he’d been here.

I fall on my knees in front of her chair and hold out a hand.

“Can I see?” I ask quietly.

Charlie is reluctant, but after a few long beats, she holds out one of her arms. Gently, I peel back the tape and the stacked pads of gauze beneath it.

The wounds are superficial. It’s not that they aren’t still alarming—of course they are. But this was clearly not a suicide attempt. And, from what it sounds like, it was more payback than anything else.

“Is that when your stepdad took your makeup?” I ask her, reaching for the other wrist. She nods.

“Yeah. I thought he’d just put it in the garbage at home or something, but I guess he took it with him when he left for work in the morning. I looked through all the trash cans, even the outside ones.”

I chew on my bottom lip, thinking about what my best course of action should be. I know I have to explain this to Owen. This is the kind of thing we have to document and report, and I’m pretty sure Charlie knows that. But that can’t be all I do—because, in the end, that’s as much about protocol as it is about Charlie. Maybe even more about protocol than it is about Charlie.

So I lead with what I think is my best possible recourse.

“How about a makeover?”

Chapter Five

“I’ve got a makeup bag in my purse,” I offer to Charlie. “I’m not nearly as talented as you are, but I’d be happy to help you put it on. If you need help, that is.”

Charlie’s face—so fresh and delicately featured—brightens in a clearly visual way.

“I would love that. I tried to lift some eye shadow at the CVS by my house, but everything’s got sensors on it and I didn’t want to deal with getting arrested for snagging CoverGirl off the rack.”

“Yeah, let’s try not to shoplift as a general rule,” I suggest, going around the side of my desk and grabbing my bag from the bottom drawer. I pull out my compact and mascara, then dig a little further until I find some lipstick.

“This might be it . . .” I purse my lips. “I wonder if someone else has a makeup bag with them.”

I consider the potential options and end with Shannon, who wears at least as much eye makeup as Charlie on her most artistic, experimental days. I step out into the front.

“Hey, Shan, do you have makeup with you?”

She looks up from the day schedule, then nods. “Of course. Never leave home without it.”

Shannon’s arsenal is far more full than mine is—foundation (which is a little too dark for Charlie, but whatever), eyeliner, every color eye shadow known to the free world. I set up a makeup station along my desk, scoring a mirror from one of the locker rooms and a wad of tissues from my jacket pocket. The more elaborate I make the setup, the more genuinely excited Charlie looks. The smile on her face is priceless. It’s worth every second I spend away from my paperwork.

As I move toward the door, I stop for a second and turn to face Charlie.

“Hey—I don’t want you to get in any trouble at home if we do this. Should we maybe do this another time? When you aren’t going home as soon?”

Charlie shrugs. “I’ve got baby wipes in my bag. I always remove my makeup before I go home. I can do that today, too.”

I nod slowly. “Okay—if you’re sure.”

She grins. “I’m sure.”

I recruit Shannon to do the actual makeup application with a promise to answer all the phone calls that come in through the main line. Really, I wouldn’t have minded playing dress-up with Charlie, but I know that I need to touch base with Owen. I find Wendy in the break room, sitting alone in a chair. Her eyes look red.

“Hey, you—you okay?”

She looks up, then manages a weak smile.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Wendy takes a swig from her diet soda, then scoots her chair back and stands up. “Do you need me?”

“Actually, yeah, if you don’t mind—I need you to come talk to Owen with me.”

She nods. “I figured we’d need to file a report at the very least. You think we need to call CPS, too?”

I cringe. I hate, hate, hate getting Child Protective Services involved—not because they’re bad people or bad at their job. On the contrary, they’re sort of amazing. They’re thorough and no-nonsense and badass. But nine times out of ten, the parents know that we’re the ones who referred them for neglect or abuse or whatever other reason there is to report. And then they’re fucking pissed. They’ll prevent the kids from coming. Sometimes, the kids come in the next day with more bruises. Bruises we caused by proxy.

“I don’t know. I’m going to see what Owen thinks.”

Ordinarily, when Remy was here, I would bound right into his office without even considering knocking. Now, I stand at the door in hesitation. I look at Wendy and she looks back at me. Then she reaches past me and raps her knuckles against the closed door.

“Come in,” is the muffled reply. I swallow hard, then, taking a page from Charlie’s book, square my shoulders and stride inside.

Owen is sitting at his desk with a stack of papers in front of him. I recognize the red budget binder—Remy never had that thing too far from hand. He’s got several open folders with receipts and shipping orders spilling out the sides. His hair is mussed as though he’s been running his hands through it over and over.

I clear my throat, then look back over my shoulder at Wendy, who I’m pretty sure Owen didn’t notice. She raises an eyebrow at me.

“Wendy and I need to run something by you,” I say pointedly, moving to the side so I’m sure Owen sees her. When he does finally look up, he blinks at her, then at me. He puts down his pen.

“Sure. What’s up?”

Wendy grabs the closest chair and drops into it. I lean up against the nearby bookshelf, my arms crossed over my chest.

“Charlie is over in my office with Shannon—she’s had some difficulties at home before, but this is the first time she’s come in with evidence of self-harm.”

Owen leans back in his desk chair. “Define ‘self-harm.’”

I shove a hand back through my messy blond curls. “She has some fairly superficial wounds on her wrists that have been bandaged, but she’s pretty well knocked around. She’s got bruises on her upper body and a cut in her hair. She says it was boys at school. The wrists were just a reactionary result.”

Abruptly, Owen stands up. His eyes are wide. I can tell he’s never dealt with this kind of situation before. The senior citizens probably weren’t nearly as outwardly troubled, at least when it came to their personal identity and their desire for acceptance.

“We need to call someone immediately. There’s a protocol for this.”

I look from him to Wendy and back again. “There is . . . a recommended plan, yes. But Charlie’s special, Owen. We can’t just report her situation and keep her safe at the same time.”

Owen cocks his head, his brow furrowed. He looks back at his desk, then pushes aside a stack of papers, revealing his notebook from our meeting. He starts flipping through his notes.

“Charlie—he’s the transgender teen?”

“She,” I say, trying to keep my tone from being too defensive. Pronouns are hard for the uneducated. “She was assigned male at birth, but she identifies as female. She’s been living as a female for a year, but it’s taken time to find exactly who she is and how she feels. She’s really come into her own in the last few months. I wonder if it might be safer to figure out other alternatives rather than immediately call CPS.”

Owen continues to scan his notebook, then looks up.

“I don’t understand. Why would that be a bad solution?”

I sigh, not sure how to make him understand. “Essentially, CPS isn’t as quick as a pissed-off parent. If she goes home tonight and they find out we reported them, Charlie could pay for it in some really horrible way.”

“Jesus.”

Owen shakes his head, his eyes wide. Clearly this isn’t something that happened on the regular at the senior center. I wait for him to demand that we call anyway, to decide that Charlie will be safe and that following protocol is more important.

And then, instead, he completely blows my mind.

“Can I see her?”

I stare at him. “Charlie?”

“Yeah . . . will she talk to me, do you think?”

I look back at Wendy, who, up to this point, still hasn’t said a word. Now, she stands back up.

“Let me go check and see how she is doing,” she says softly. She smiles at me, then at Owen before walking out the door. Seconds later, the door swings shut behind her. I’m not sure if she meant to close it or not.

“I—um, I know that it’s probably not typical to wing these kinds of situations. I just think that calling CPS is a really bad idea right now,” I say, tugging at the bottom of my shirt. Owen shrugs.

“This is why I want to go to dinner, Rainey. I need to know how to deal with these situations. I’m not so big of an asshole that I think I’m going to be better at this job just because I’m one step higher on the ladder than you.”

I raise a brow. “You’re not going to be an asshole, then?”

He shrugs. “I’m not going to try to, anyway.”

He cracks a smile then—all lips and smirk and sexy. I’m taken aback by the heavy, immediate arousal moving through my core.

You cannot have a crush on your boss. You cannot have a crush on your boss. You cannot have a crush on your boss.

But I know the truth. So does my brain. It spits a snotty mantra right back at me.

Too late. Too late. Too late.

***

Owen Marshall is the last person I ever thought would be filled with undeniable compassion for anyone. He strode in here a few days ago and took over a job from someone I love.

Two days later, I’m almost in tears as he kneels down in front of a beautifully made-up but still shaken Charlie.

“Charlie, I want you to know that I think you’re really brave. I want that to be the first thing you hear me say this afternoon.”

Owen says the words gently while making constant eye contact. Wendy, Shannon, and I watch from other parts of the office, but we can’t turn away. It’s like the opposite of a train wreck. It’s like watching a flower bloom in time lapse. Or fireworks.

“But I want to make sure that letting you walk out of here tonight won’t lead to more bandages. More cutting yourself.” Owen tilts his head and leans closer. “I know you can’t control the acts of others, but you can control how you choose to react.”

Charlie chews on her bottom lip, but she doesn’t say anything at first. Owen glances at me and I make the “keep going” motion. He clears his throat nervously.

“If you can promise me that we don’t have to worry about you hurting yourself, I won’t have to call CPS tonight.”

Charlie immediately brightens. I jump in, holding up a hand.

“That’s true, Charlie, but if we see any further injuries—by you or anyone else—we’ll have no choice but to get CPS involved.”

She nods solemnly, looking back and forth between Owen and me.

“I’ll be careful,” she finally says softly. I swear, every sentence that’s come out of her mouth today has completely slayed me.

“But, there is one thing we have to do,” Owen says, rocking back on his heels. “Well, one thing I have to do and one thing you have to do.”

“Okay . . .”

“You have to talk to a therapist. We’re going to start bringing in a friend of mine from the city. I will call her and have her meet with you here once a week for free.”

Charlie frowns. She starts to shake her head, but I touch her arm.

“This isn’t a scary thing, I promise.”

I didn’t even know about Owen’s therapy plan, but I completely support it.

“In the meantime,” Owen continues, “I would like to set up a meeting with your mother. Alone. Without your stepfather.”

I can’t take my eyes off Charlie’s face. Partly because I’m terrified she’ll bolt. Or burst into tears. Instead, she looks unbearably sad.

“I don’t know if she’ll do that,” she says quietly. “I don’t know if he’ll let her.”

God, who does this fucking prick think he is? I can feel my rage begin to burst my carefully constructed seams. I’m often pissed at a kid’s parent. Parents are late all the time, leaving their kids to hang out on the street all night. Parents are neglectful. Parents are straight-up assholes. But Charlie’s stepdad is clearly cut from a completely different cloth.

“You know, honey,” Wendy says, coming around the side of the desk to focus on Charlie and hold her gaze, “sometimes talking to another adult is good for adults, too, not just kids. Your mom might be able to use a connection here, just like you.”

Charlie swallows, her throat working over the motion.

“You don’t understand,” she says, her eyes filling with tears. Hastily, I grab a tissue and hand it to her.

“Oh, no—don’t do that,” Shannon says, coming to Charlie’s other side. “Not when you look so damn fierce. You gotta preserve that makeup, girl!”

But Charlie just shakes her head.

“You don’t understand,” she repeats. “Nothing you do or say will make a difference.”

I glance up at Owen, who is frowning.

“What do you mean, Charlie?”

She closes her eyes.

“I can’t report him. I can’t call 911. I can’t get authorities involved. He
is
the authorities. My stepdad’s a cop for the county,” she whispers. “He’ll always win when it’s him against me.”

She opens her beautiful eyes and looks so childlike in her grief. I can feel my heart sink. In Baltimore, getting help from the authorities is so hit-or-miss already. What are we supposed to do for this girl?

Some days, I start this job feeling like I’m making a difference and end it feeling like I don’t know where to turn for help. Some days, it’s like the kids and I are out on the same buoy, waiting for help. Waiting to be saved.