Parker barks out a laugh, returning a handful of expletives that don’t reach me as I focus on a tire track from one of our bikes that the truck missed. Moving to the passenger side door, Parker releases another loud laugh that finally focuses my thoughts. By the competitive yet friendly way his eyes are turned up, I can tell King delivered a few more verbal punches. Parker unlatches the back door of the truck, and without instruction, I climb in.

The reason for the familiarly darkened skies begins to descend as the doors are shut. Rain splatters across the windshield and over the roof in a harmonious melody that encourages me to nestle farther into the seat and close my eyes for a nap.

“Good timing,” Parker says as he cranes his neck to the side, attempting to look up into the patches of darkness. King puts the truck into gear without comment. Extending an arm behind him, he grips the passenger headrest, invading my space, followed by his even more invasive gaze. His eyes move from mine to the back window before moving his foot so that we’re reversing.

I hadn’t considered how we’d get out of here, yet backing up the entire way still comes as a surprise. I feel like I should offer to help, or turn and look as well so that I’m not so close to him, but I keep my composure and remain facing forward for the short distance back to the house.

While they unload the bikes, I head inside and immediately move to the bathroom where I lather and rinse my hands three separate times, careful to clean under each of my nails and scrubbing the sections of my skin that never return to their naturally pale tone.

“Let me see.” I avoid Summer’s gaze and move closer to where Mercedes is lying on the couch with a small piece of gauze pressed against her jaw while watching something on TV.

“It’s not so bad.” Her eyes are still rimmed with red, and her voice is shaky. I’m not certain if she’s just recovered from crying or if she’s working to hold it in.

“Let’s go to the bathroom where it’s brighter.”

She doesn’t argue, confirming it’s the latter. I push the door closed, allowing only a small gap for her privacy. She sits on the closed toilet seat and peels the cover back to reveal her wound. It’s swollen and already bruising. The gash is fairly long but not deep. With any luck, it will only leave a tiny scar if any.

“Did you guys clean it?”

Mercedes nods and a small tear falls down her cheek. “Summer got a wet rag.”

“Okay, that’s good. Let me see if there’s something else. If we can get this really clean and put a little medicine on it, you won’t even know it happened in a couple of weeks.” Her tears increase with my assurance.

My knees hit the tile floor and instantly plea for me to sit back on my heels, but I ignore the protests and lean closer to Mercedes, my hands resting on her thighs. “I promise I’ll be really careful and gentle. You’ll barely feel anything.” There’s still dirt and moss and twig debris on her clothes and in her hair, catching my attention for brief seconds before I focus on her face.

“You aren’t upset because it hurts, are you?” My voice is soft. Although I’ve broken many of Mercedes’ barriers, she still has many more that prevent us from discussing a multitude of things I don’t think either of us knows how to breach.

“They’re going to tease me.” With her words, I realize it’s a multitude of things that will inflict physical pain on me to possibly hear one day.

A chill runs down my arms still resting on her legs, and I blink back tears I want to share with her. “If someone says something to you about this, Mercedes, they’re going to rack up some serious points against karma, and let me tell you, karma returns with interest.”

She doesn’t respond, making me feel like my small bit of advice is neither helpful nor assuring. “People can be really mean. I wish I could tell you that they’ll stop, or that you won’t have to deal with this in a few more years, but unfortunately, you’ll have to deal with bullies forever. You can’t stop them or control what they say or do; you can only control what you do. Don’t give them the satisfaction of letting their words hurt you. If they want to say something rude and mean, let their souls be scarred with that hatred. Let them drown in their own unhappiness. You’re better than that. Don’t even look their way. Don’t allow their words to carry weight or merit. I know it’s hard, I do, but you do it a couple of times, and they’ll stop because without your reaction feeding them, that darkness that they’ve created—it starts to drown them.”

Her green eyes are wide, heavy with tears, making my own itch with the return of moisture. “Did someone tease you?”

The desire to look away and keep my pride intact is my initial reaction. Ugly memories and taunts dance through my head before my eyes return to hers and I nod.

“How could anyone tease you?”

“I wonder that very thought a thousand times a day about you,” I say before pressing my lips together, watching as her fears become sympathy.

“Let’s clean you up and we’ll make a kick-ass bandage for you to cover it with.”

One edge of her lips quirks up, making her look more like King than ever before, and I turn to the medicine cabinet, which is well stocked with multiple sources of disinfectants and bandages.

“What are you making?” Mercedes asks again, this time more insistent, her patience worn.

I look over to where she’s sitting on the couch again, seeing her eyes are vibrant and challenging. Involuntarily, I smile. Her eyes stretch with a growing frustration in return. “Watch your show. I’m almost done.”

The front door opens as I’m capping my marker, but I don’t turn. For several weeks instinct had me turning each and every time it opened when I first started, concerned about who was coming, but now it’s become the norm to hear it open and close throughout the day as people come for food, supplies, to chat, or whatever else. I thought they were checking in on me since they can do most of this in the shop. Recently, I’ve realized that sometimes they leave the shop in order to think. I can turn away from my drawings—flip on the TV, go into the kitchen—but when they’re in the shop, they’re immersed in their world.

“Don’t tell me you got road rash on your beautiful face!”

My eyes snap up.

“Isabelle!” Mercedes cries.

She’s beautiful, and I’m nearly positive she isn’t a fellow rider. She carries herself with a gracefulness that almost makes her appear like she’s dancing. Her jeans are tight, too tight to ride a bike, and her shirt is a designer blouse that would likely tear if she stretched to reach the handlebars. Isabelle walks over to the couch where Mercedes is now standing with a giant grin, and hugs her.

“What are you doing back?” Mercedes asks.

“I’m just up for a long weekend to visit.” She releases Mercedes and drops her hands to her thighs, rubbing the pads of her fingers across the material as though she’s nervous. “Where is everyone?”

“The new shop.”

“It’s finished?”

Mercedes nods proudly, a smile spread across her face.

The front door opens again, and almost as if called, the three traipse back into the house with Summer in the lead. She smiles, but it isn’t sincere. However, it still seems far more welcoming than the ones she greets me with.

“Hey, guys!” Isabelle calls.

King’s gaze moves up from where he’s following Parker into the house. A myriad of emotions passes over his face, ones that I focus on with the selfish hope of finding confusion, uncertainty, or disgust. There’s definitely a shade of confusion, but joy is brighter.

They each greet one another with friendly hugs, further proof that they’re all close.

“How is Seattle treating you?” Summer asks, standing taller as she faces Isabelle, making me wonder if Isabelle is an ex of Kash.