“Noya! Noya Dawn Taylor! What are you going to do now that you’re free?”
“Noya! Why didn’t you leave? Did you like it when your dad beat you?”
My eyes widen, and my insides turn to jelly.
“Fuck off,” Conner snaps.
Mrs Jones opens the door, and Conner and I shuffle into the car. The traumatic voices and desperate questions cut off. I exhale a deep breath, hoping it will wash away what they said. Do they thinkIliked it when Dad hurt me?
I feel sick.
Leaning against Conner’s shoulder, I wrap my arm around my stomach, and the layers of fear slide over me again. Why do they feel the need to bombard me? Why is it okay for society to attack and attack when I only want to be free and live my dream?
“You and Noya should lie low for a week,” Mrs Jones declares. “Once I drop you at the apartment, I will grab some groceries so you don’t have to leave.”
“Thanks, Mum.”
“Thank you, Mrs Jones.”
“There’s no need to thank me.” She turns her head toward me and asks, “Do you use tampons or pads?”
“Uh…” I glance up. Conner gazes out the window, pretending to ignore the conversation. “Liners and pads with wings, please.”
“It’s a nice day outside,” Conner announces. “There’s a lot of… sun and… trees.”
Mrs Jones parks out the front, and we get out quickly, worried that some news outlet vans are following us. We head inside the confines of the apartment building. Conner pushesthe button for the elevator. Outside the building, two long white vans pull up, and my stomach drops when the reporters step out and set up their recorders.
I feel safer once we are inside the apartment. I feel safer knowing the bedrooms have no windows for news reporters to view and subject me to more pain than I’ve already felt over the past few days.
“Is it all right if I can have a shower?” I ask Conner. “I want to remove this hospital smell from me.”
“Noya.” Conner places his hands on my hips, what little of them I have. “This is your home, too. You don’t need to ask permission anymore.”
My throat constricts. As I glance around the apartment, my heart beats faster, but in a good way. This is my home, too—a secure place. Where there’s no screaming, shouting, and, most of all, there’s no pain. There’s just him… the Noble Knight I fell for so quickly–too quickly, some might think.
“I’ll need clothes… at least for today. Then, I need to go back to that place to get–”
“Forget about them. I will get my mum to get you some new clothes.” He pulls away, digs into his pocket, and takes out his phone. “What size are you?”
“Conner, stop. You’ve all already done too much for me.”
“Then you can pay me back,” he replies, brushing off my words. “What size are you, baby?”
I bite my lip, knowing Conner will do what he deems right. However, by saying that, don’t I want the clothes at that place? Every piece holds a memory I don’t want to be reminded of. And the smell… It’s hard to get the stench off them once they attach.
“I’m a size eight, or an… extra small,” I admit, disgusted with my body.
Conner nods while pressing the phone to his ear. “Hey, Mum. Are you at the shops? Can you do me a favour?” There’s a slightpause. “Can you get some clothes for Noya? A few size eight, some size nine… yeah, ten. I meant ten.” He blushes. “Bra size? Mum, how would I know that? Oh, yeah.” Conner turns to me. “What bra size are you?”
“I’m an A,” I squeak.
“Did you hear that? Good. Shoes? Uh…” He smiles apologetically at me. “Here, I will give the phone to Noya.”
I tell Mrs Jones my shoe size and the size of my underwear. I thank her repeatedly, but she brushes it off every time I thank her. This family is too generous and kind. It’s hard not to cry once I hang up and hand Conner the phone. He asks if I’m okay, but I shake my head before stepping into the bathroom and closing the door.
I take a few minutes to start the shower. I sit down on the toilet and cry. I’ve never felt this much kindness before. How easy it is for the Jones family to care for and treat me the way I wished my parents would care for and love me. How easy it is for Mrs Jones to think of me as her child more than my parents thought of me as their own. It is easy for Conner to love me when I’ve questioned whether my parents—my blood—ever loved me or if I was nothing but a problem they created but couldn’t get rid of without going to jail.
Conner hands me his shirt and boxers when I leave the shower. “I’m going to have a shower now. After I get out, maybe we can watch something.”