Sweet Soul (Sweet Home 4)

“It’s okay,” I said and held up my hands. “Calm down.” I watched her close in on herself, her body contorting like she was a small child: terrified and afraid. As she did her scarf fell, revealing her face. Something in my heart broke and cracked in two.

She looked like she could be pretty. But her face was sunken, dark circles shadowed like coal smudges around her eyes. Her hands were joined over her chest in a rigid vise. When I slowly moved the blanket covering them, I noticed they were trembling. She was either terrified or freezing. As I looked up at her haunted ashen face, I thought it could be both.

Her gaze never wavered from mine. “Please. Let me help you. You’re not well and y’all need help.” I watched her slowly shake her head in refusal. But as she did, I saw the tears build in her eyes and her bottom lip quiver.

I looked away, frustration mounting in my chest. “Please,” I whispered, feeling helpless. When I faced the girl again, her glazed eyes were back to looking at the ground, and her wheezing had become worse. Her head had flopped to the side and she had pulled the wet blanket up to her chin, searching for warmth.

The rain came down heavier.

Realizing that it would take more from me than to simply offer help, I got to my feet. The girl didn’t even flinch. I glanced down the alley, it was clear. Turning back to the girl, I said, “I’ll be back in two minutes. I’m getting you some food and a coffee.”

I waited for a response, but none came; her head stayed firmly down.

Without hesitating, I jogged to the end of the alley and walked quickly through the Starbucks entrance. I threw back my hood and shook off the rain. I approached the barista, instantly seeing a young brunette, about my age. She smiled as I approached the counter.

“Two venti dark roasts with room,” I ordered, then searched the pastry cabinet. I grabbed a few bottles of water and a bunch of sandwiches. I put them on the counter. “These too. And a few of those chocolate cookies.”

I reached into my pocket to pull out some cash. When I looked up, the brunette was smiling at me. Her eyebrow was raised in a way I’d come to recognize. She wanted to talk to me. She liked me. The minute she giggled, I could feel my cheeks flood with heat.

“You hungry or something?” she asked in a playful voice, pointing to all the food.

She waited for me to reply. Instead I ran my hand through my hair, kept my attention on the counter and shook my head.

I shifted on my feet as she ran the sandwiches through the register. The brunette leaned forward. “You want these sandwiches warmed up?” I nodded my head.

I heard another flirty laugh come from the barista’s mouth, then my stomach rolled when she leaned down to rest her elbows on the countertop. She peeked up at me and, this time, I had no choice but to meet her eyes. She smiled again. “What’s your name?” I cleared my throat. The barista lifted up the cups and added, “For your order.”

“Levi,” I answered quietly and handed over a fifty. The girl took it. Before she could talk again, I muttered, “Keep the change.”

As I turned away to wait at the end of the counter, I caught sight of her face falling at my obvious rejection, but my guilt was short-lived as I thought of the girl in the alley. I thought back to her clothes, to her sodden and thinning blankets. The ache was back in my chest at how she was living. That this existence was her life.

Inhaling a deep breath, I stared out of the window, and immediately saw the light of a cheap Seahawks store open across the road. Turning to the barista, I laid my hand on the countertop. “I’ll be back in five minutes.” She frowned, but shrugged.

Throwing my hood back up over my head, I left the coffee shop and ran across the road. As soon as I entered the cluttered store, I searched around for what I could get. Shirts, hoodies and tacky mugs reading ‘12th Man Pride’ littered the space.

I pushed through the racks and racks of clothes. Grabbing three smaller more non-descript hoodies, I then rushed to a corner section housing Seahawks fleece blankets. I grabbed two then took everything to the register. I paid and, in no time, I had picked up the coffees and food.

Ducking down the alley, I searched all around for any sign that the attacker had been back. It was deathly quiet. Pushing forward, I squinted my eyes trying to adjust to the dark when I saw the girl, still hunkered down in the corner against the wall. Even from this distance I could see her small body was convulsing.

She was getting worse.

“It’s me, I’m back,” I said loudly as I approached, trying not to startle her. The girl didn’t move, and for a minute, pure panic surged through my veins that something was very wrong.

But when my feet stopped before her, she jumped, a hoarse cry leaping from her throat. I stepped back, as those huge blue eyes fixed on mine. Her breathing was erratic. Droplets of sweat ran down her cheeks.

“Sorry, I called out that it was me. You didn’t hear.”

The girl weakly pulled the scarf off her neck, the skin underneath flushed and red. When she looked at my handful of goods her eyes widened. Taking it as my chance to explain, I crouched down and held out the coffee with cream and sugar. The girl’s brow furrowed, causing me to prompt, “It’s for you.”

She swallowed, and my cheeks heated with nervousness at the look of sheer gratitude on her face. Clearly seeing I wasn’t lying, she fought to straighten her weak body and sat further up against the wall. I resisted the urge to help her as she fought for breath. But I stayed back. She’d just been attacked. She didn’t want my touch, even if it was kindly meant.

The girl’s hand lifted up. I thought she was taking the coffee, until her hand landed on her large hood and she slowly pulled it back to reveal her face.

She kept her eyes downcast and ran her tongue over her broken lips. My breathing was held captive in my throat, until she looked up and I released the pent up breath. I could see that she wasn’t as young as she looked. Something in her eyes told me she was near my age, which I quickly realized would make it almost impossible to get her help. She wasn’t underage. I couldn’t make her go anywhere she didn’t want to.

The silence between us became thick and stagnant. I pushed the cup forward to her hand. The girl, regarding the cup like it was a lifeline, slowly reached out and took in her frail grasp. For a moment I thought she might drop the large cup and I steadied the bottom so it didn’t spill.

As my hand balanced the coffee, I could feel the magnitude of her trembling. Placing my coffee down on the ground, I shuffled forward helping her bring the coffee to her lips. As the first taste of the liquid hit her lips, her eyes closed and she took in a stuttered labored breath.

“You okay?” I asked quietly. The girl opened her eyes. Her head tipped to the side, studying my face. She hadn’t heard me. Clearing my throat again, I repeated, “Are you okay?”

The girl watched my lips, and flickering her focus back on my eyes, she gently nodded her head. Helping her rest the coffee on her bent knee, I leaned back, then passed over the bag of food. I realized that she was intently watching my mouth as I lifted the bag and deliberately said, “Sandwiches and cookies.” My cheeks blazed under her attention, and my stomach tightened with nerves. This was the most I’d ever spoken to a girl in my life, and it seemed that she was even more introverted than me.