Though I remained obscured from her view, waiting in the shadow of the doorway, her pace slowed considerably as she neared. Perhaps she could sense my presence the same way I could sense hers. A hint of her flowery perfume wafted in my direction, and for the briefest of moments, I fought the urge to take a deeper breath.
What exactly was she waiting for out there?
The instant before I stepped out to give her directions back to the lobby, those heels started up their engines again. But this time as she strutted down the hallway past my door, she balanced her purse on her right shoulder . . . as if . . . as if she were a 1980s rapper sporting a boombox. I barely managed to bite back a laugh, half expecting her to moonwalk her way to the stairs.
As a youth advocate and advisor for the last several years, I’d seen my fair share of dramatic displays, but this stunt rivaled for the most amusing of them all—a grown woman using her duffle-sized handbag like an invisibility cloak.
I stepped out of my concealed spot in the doorway. “I don’t advise taking that spiral staircase without full use of your peripheral.”
She lowered her purse and seemed to take an extra beat to fill her lungs with whatever dragon fire was about to be spewed in my direction. Yet the instant she faced me, something in my chest opened and cracked. Stripped of her superficial charm and practiced pretense, she was absolutely . . . stunning.
“I was wrong,” she said, jabbing a sparkly pink-tipped finger in my direction. “I do know what Wren needs.”
“I highly doubt that.” There were few things I tolerated less than a stranger telling me what I didn’t know about the kids I’d served for years. Especially someone more in touch with the two-dimensional world of social media fans than the connected world I’d worked so hard to create at The Bridge.
“She’s sharp—at least, she’s a lot sharper than her insecurity lets on. She told me she wants to learn how to talk to people.” She shook her head. “I didn’t get that at first, thinking it was a comment about words or vocabulary. But I actually think it has very little to do with that and everything to do with having the courage to speak up for herself. To speak her mind when she feels belittled and overshadowed.” She paused, her eyes turning more intense. “And don’t even think about telling me that’s not a critical life skill. Because that might just be the most critical life skill she could possess as a female living in our world today.”
Heat flared in my gut. Who did this woman think she was, telling me about Wren’s true needs? I’d been the one to refer her to The Bridge after she’d aged out last winter. I’d been the one to ensure her younger sibling remained in-state with a foster family I’d personally referred. And I’d been the one to arrange transport for her weekly grief counsel after school. “And who do you suppose is belittling her? Because if you’re going to start throwing around accusations based off the assumptions you made from a four-minute conversation with her, I hope you have evidence to back them up.”
Her laugh was an enraged cackle. “Assumptions? You’re one to talk about assumptions. Though your website certainly makes a huge deal about your program being a”—she framed her fingers around her face with air quotes as she spoke—“‘judgment-free zone,’ you’ve done nothing but judge me from the moment I told you my name. I’d be willing to bet you made your mind up about me before I stepped on campus. And still, for some insane reason, you decided to waste both of our time by continuing with an interview I never had a chance of passing no matter what my answers were.” She held her arms out, her purse swinging back and forth. “So why don’t you tell me the real reason, Silas? And don’t bother holding back, because there’s honestly nothing you can say that could be worse than what my online trolls post on the daily. So what is it . . . am I too blond? Too mouthy? Too strong-willed for a female?”
“Don’t insult me,” I gritted out.
“Then don’t insult me by saying I’m not the right fit to work with your young women and then offer me zero reason to back it up.”
“I don’t trust you.”
Her lips parted in an inaudible gasp, and I felt an odd sensation, like knuckles digging into my ribcage, as I glimpsed beyond her carefully constructed facade.
I took one step closer to her, only one, and yet it felt too close. “I have little respect for social media or for those who make a profit from its false realities. But I would have been willing to overlook that for the sake of my residents if I hadn’t caught you breaking our privacy policy in your first ten minutes inside our lobby without a second thought.”
“I . . . what?” All the tightness in her face relaxed as my words hit their intended mark. “But that was just an Instagram story, not even eight seconds long. And it was mostly just of my face.”
“You were videoing inside a private residence where many of our young adults have chosen to reside because it’s the only place they can find solace from their dysfunctional family ties. The Bridge is a safe harbor, one that provides security and confidentiality for those who wish their location to remain anonymous during their time here.”
Her gaze drifted to the floor, and I wondered if she was calculating her next comeback or her next dramatic exit. But after a full ten seconds of silence, she simply reached into her bag, took out her phone, and swiped and tapped several times on the screen. “Okay, it’s gone.”
“What is?”
“The video. I deleted it.” She pulled on an expression yet to be determined—perhaps the kind of face that could cry on camera without ever losing composure? I wasn’t sure, yet it was impossible to look away from her nonetheless. “I wasn’t aware of your privacy policy or your rules regarding social media, but I apologize if my actions put the house or any of its residents at risk. That certainly wasn’t my intention. I’m sorry.” For the briefest of moments, her voice strained with a sincerity I would have doubted her capable of during our interview.
She swallowed, recovered, and then retreated a full step back, gripping the wooden handle of her purse with both hands. “I appreciate you telling it to me straight, though. I value learning from my mistakes.” She stopped suddenly and studied the intersection at the end of the hallway. “I’d also value you telling me how I might find my way out of this maze before my brother reports me as a missing person.”
“Two lefts and a right. The staircase will take you to the lobby. Glo can let you out, or . . . I actually have a minute now. I can walk you out.” I started toward her when she shook her head and waved me back.
“That’s okay. I got it.” Her smile left no doubt in my mind of how she’d attracted over half a million followers. It was worth that much, maybe more. “I’ll make sure to tell Miles you said hello.”
“Thanks,” I said, unsure of what else to say but positive I should be saying more than a monosyllabic word. Yet I couldn’t seem to wrap my mind around what had just happened. I’d prepared for a defensive outburst, a vent of frustration at the very least. But not an apology. Not remorse.
A familiar tug of intuition surfaced as she walked away, one that had no right to be there. Not when I’d already crossed her name off as a mentor candidate.