Tom crouched beside me.
“Her legs don’t listen to her brain,” he said calmly. “But she can beat you at cards.”
The girl laughed. “No, she can’t.”
That girl was Mia.
My first real friend.
Tom had a way of stepping into awkward moments and softening them.
When I was about ten, I found a chair in the garage with yarn taped to the back, clumsily braided.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he muttered. “Don’t touch it.”
That night he sat behind me on the bed, hands trembling.
“Hold still,” he said, trying to braid my hair.
It looked terrible.
But I thought my heart would explode.
When I hit puberty, he came into my room holding a plastic bag and looking incredibly uncomfortable.
“I bought… stuff,” he said while staring at the ceiling.
Inside were pads, deodorant, and cheap mascara.
“You watched YouTube,” I guessed.
He grimaced. “Those girls talk very fast.”
We never had much money, but I never felt like a burden.
He washed my hair in the kitchen sink, one hand supporting my neck while he poured warm water with the other.
“It’s okay,” he’d say quietly. “I got you.”
Sometimes I cried because I’d never dance or simply stand in a crowd.
He’d sit beside me, jaw tight.