Page 15 of Devious Roses
“It was fine enough. But I won’t be returning.”
Sasha frowns. “Why not?”
Because you’re here.
“I don’t have much time in my schedule.”
“I hope it’s not because of me?”
I blink at her. “Of course not. It’s not productive for me.”
“Because I was relieved when I saw you,” she goes on softly. “It felt like finding a kindred spirit. Another woman who has gone through what I have.”
“We’ve been over this, Sasha. My experience seems very different than yours.”
A split second later, once the words have tumbled past my lips, I realize how crude I sound.
“What I mean is,” I say, “your ordeal was a lot more harrowing. You were given up by your own family, and you were… made to do things with men at the Mill. You were held captive foryears. My experience—it was terrible, but I escaped before anything could happen.”
Her frown deepens. “Then why are you here? Clearly, there was some damage done.”
“With all due respect, never refer to my so-called ‘damage’. It’s none of your business.”
It happens before I can stop myself. As irritation needles away at me and my skin warms, it’s a knee-jerk reaction. Breathing through my sudden frustration, I attempt to course correct again.
“Look, I’ve dealt with my experiences and come out on the other side. Others are still working through theirs.”
“Others like me you mean?” She pushes a sheet of her box braids over her shoulder and then gives a sigh. “I get what you mean. You’re okay now… but people like me, we’re not. It’s been hard. I cry at night. I can’t sleep. Does that ever happen to you? The nightmares?”
“Sasha… this isn’t the place to talk about this.”
“If group therapy isn’t, then where is?”
“We’re on a public streetoutsideof group therapy. There’s a difference.”
She stares at me for a second. “Does it make you uncomfortable talking about it?”
“Excuse me?”
“Talking about it. It seems to bother you.”
“I’ve talked about it ad nauseam. With people I trust.”
“Oh… right. I’m not one of thise people.” She shifts her gaze from mine and turns it onto the street surrounding us.
A pang of guilt hits me, prompting the urge to clarify. “I just met you. I didn’t even know you had a child.”
“Bryce,” she says. Her face fills with warmth and she digs into her bucket purse. “He just turned a year old. Want to see a picture?”
She shows me before I can turn her down. The boy is adorable. Tan skin and wavy chocolate hair with a bright gummy smile. I’m guessing a biracial blend of Sasha and whoever the father is.
Pity joins the guilt that’s swimming inside me as I can’t help wondering if the man is one of the elites at the Mill. If the boy is only a year, then the timeline would work out; Sasha would’ve been captive when she was impregnated.
She senses my thoughts, because the warmth in her face dies. “His father… he… he wants nothing to do with him. He tried to make me abort.”
“The father… it isn’t Bernstein, is it?”
Her eyes shine in the late evening sunlight, suddenly watery. “I’d rather not talk about that right now. I guess we all have our things. Anyway, sorry for bothering you. I won’t do it again.”