"You ungrateful bitch. I keep a roof over your head, and this is the thanks I get?"
"You could have killed her," I retort, trying to muster up confidence that I don't possess. "What if she goes to the cops, Dad? That bruise on her face is enough to...
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"You're still not over him, are you?" Layla inquired.
"Evan? Are you joking?" I shook my head. "I'm beyond over him. Contrary to the rumor he spread around school, I dumped him. He just... didn't take it very well."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Well... he, um, kind of... he kind of slapped me. Not hard enough to leave a mark, but hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to make me see stars," I whispered, shuddering at the memory. "You know, you're the first person I've told about that."
"And I won't tell anyone else," Layla promised.
To this day, no one except Layla knows that Evan hit me. It's my most safeguarded secret. As silly as it sounds, I'm ashamed. I know I did nothing wrong, but I can't shake the humiliation. I spent two years with that boy, just for it to end with a literal slap to the face.
When I told Layla, she didn't look at me with pity or empathy; she looked at me with understanding, like she had walked in my shoes. Being a naive fifteen-year-old, I assumed she had an aggressive ex who smacked her around a few times.
But I know better now.
It makes sense. Layla never talks about her family. She never invites us to her house. She flinches when people touch her. She never wears a swimsuit, even in the blistering heat of summer. Heck, she moved into Damian's grimy basement.
And the fact that her dad isn't here in the waiting room with us... well, that's the final nail in the coffin.
"Her dad hits her," I tell the doctor. "It's been going on for at least two years."
"Jessi!" Damian hisses beside me.
Dr. Ford raises his eyebrows. "How old is your friend?"
"Seventeen," I reply.
"But she'll be eighteen in two months. Less than two months, actually. She's basically an adult," my boyfriend adds, wiping sweat off his brow.
He knows. He's known this whole time.
"Look, as a physician, I can't hear claims of abuse and do nothing. I could lose my license," Dr. Ford says, a forlorn expression on his face. "I have to call Social Services. I'm sorry."
The doctor walks away. Moira follows suit, mumbling something about having to use the restroom. I'm left alone with a very pissed off Damian, and to make matters worse, I'm very pissed off myself.
"Let's talk outside," I suggest, not wanting to cause a public scene.
Silently, he nods his head. We exit the waiting room and step outside, too livid to care that the frigid December air is slapping our faces.
It's still Christmas. I almost forgot about that.
"What a day," Damian groans.
I turn to him, my eyes snake-like slits as I say, "You should have told me."
