I continue to vacillate between annoyance and fear. Of course his uncle sharing a golf outing once makes him an expert on all things Joe Kitsch. And I wonder how many women he’s referred to as “that bitch” in his lifetime. My best guess ismany.
“Get out of my way,” I say, ramming my forearm into his side in an effort to create enough space to escape.
At this, he raises his hand, and it looks as though he might grab me.
Fuck this guy. I will absolutely knee him in the groin.
“Syd?”
The man and I both turn to find Damon behind us, his large build creating even less space in the narrow bathroom hallway. I have never been so relieved to see a familiar face.
The man is noticeably smaller than Damon—most everyone is. Despite this, he doesn’t flinch, and he remains stationed between me and the exit where Damon stands.
Damon and I make eye contact, and he must see my concern because he doesn’t hesitate. He presses his shoulder into the man and steps between us, and I’m immediately staring at the broadness of his back. “Is there a problem?” he asks, taking on his Secret Service–esque stance—legs spread wide, arms wrapping behind him. I look down at his hands, clenched into fists.
“No problem,” the man says, as flat and even as before, seemingly unfazed.
Damon reaches his right arm behind him, placing his open palm against my elbow, ensuring he knows my exact location.
“Great,” Damon responds to the man in the hallway, encircling his fingers around my arm, squeezing slightly.
It’s an uncomfortably familiar scene to us at fourteen, Damon stepping in when my father turned his frustration on me after an argument with my mom. I don’t remember the particulars of that fight—about one of his affairs, I assume.
I do recall, however, Damon and me in my room, door closed, his eyes filled with compassion I didn’t know what to do with as my parents’ voices speared into the room. He knew this happened, had heard it play out from outside or through my recounts. But this was one of his first times serving as a close-quarters witness. When my father called for me, anger seething from his lips, Damon was to his feet in a heartbeat. When my father burst into my room, Damon said nothing, just stood between us.
My father never hurt me physically, though I cannot say I wasn’t fearful of it happening. I stood in my bedroom, staring at Damon’s back—thinner then—thankful for him but equally mortified. My father glowered at him, part daring, part viciously angry, part amused. But Damon didn’t budge. My father eventually huffed and stormed out, though not before flicking his hand toward Damon in a show of dismissal. And not before Damon reached out for me, his hand stretching backward and cupping my forearm, as it does now.
I press my other hand against Damon’s lower back, leaning to look around him. Finally, the man says, “Right. Good night then.” He eyes me for a long while until Damon steps to block his view. When he finally exits the hallway, Damon immediately follows, stopping in the archway that leads into the main dining area. I watch his eyes move to the far right and stay there—the direction of the restaurant’s entrance. I observe the tight muscle straining along the side of his neck, his fisted hands at his side. The angry red that extends from the tips of his ears down through the lobes.
After what feels like several minutes, satisfied, he turns and takes two long steps to me.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yes, fine,” I say, forcing a smile.
“What was that?” he presses. “What did he do?”
“He just... he was drunk. He put two and two together that we are the Margot Kitsch jury.” I hadn’t intended to tell him this last part, butI trust Damon. I didn’t know I did, hadn’t even thought about whether I needed to until now, but it’s a decision already made.
His eyes narrow and then release once he processes the words. He looks over his shoulder at the archway and back at me. “We should tell the bailiffs.”
I shake my head. “No, it was just some random guy.”
His concerned eyes search my face, disbelieving.
“It was nothing,” I say, shrugging a shoulder, attempting to sound far more flippant than I feel.
His eyes narrow in question, and if he hesitates to believe my levity he doesn’t show it. “We should tell George. Just in case.”
My hand is cuffing his forearm before I can stop it. “No,” I say.
He looks down at my hand, then back to my eyes. I stare at him and see the boy who used to be my best friend, and sharp, glass-like flecks scrape through me. Up until this point, he has been, in many ways, a man I just met. Someone with hints of a boy I used to know—same bright eyes and dimpled chin, same affinity for written words over spoken ones. It’s taken until now to see them as the same, to reconcile the two. But looking into his eyes, feeling his concern and protection, he’s every bit my old best friend.
I release his arm. “It was nothing,” I repeat. “Just some jerk who took his opportunity to voice his opinion about the case. Everyone has an opinion.” I hope I’m putting on a convincing act. The thought of what might have happened had Damon not shown up—it leaves me far more than flustered, wanting to seek Damon and his safety more than ever. But if we let the guards know, who knows what could happen to the case. I’m not sure if this incident would be enough for Judge Gillespy to call a mistrial, but I don’t want to risk it.
He’s momentarily thoughtful, then says, “Yeah, but the guards should know. Let them decide whether it’s important or not. That guy threatened you, Syd.”
“Look,” I say, then release my breath. “It was nothing. I promise you. Let’s not get everyone riled up for no reason. This whole thing is stressful enough.”
