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: : : ON MONDAY DENISE COMES IN to manage the evening shift. She walks through the store and goes into the back. Freya's sitting at the desk, her shift is over, she's getting ready to leave, shoving shit into her purse.
Denise is taking off her coat when Freya says —So we missed you on Friday.
—Friday? Denise says.
—At Joshua's party, Freya says.
—Oh, yeah, that, Denise says. She hangs her coat on the rack. —I couldn't make it. I had— and she drifts off, trying to think of an explanation that will sound plausible. —I just… something came up.
—Uh huh, says Freya. She's fiddling with some scrap of something, turning it over and over in her hands. —I think Joshua was kind of disappointed.
—He was? says Denise.
—Yeah, says Freya. —A bit? He asked about you.
—He did?
— You sound surprised.
—I guess I am, says Denise.
—This might be none of my business, Freya says. —And if I'm like intruding you can tell me. But weren't you two a thing for a while?
—Not exactly, says Denise. —I mean, I guess—but that was a long time ago.
—I see, says Freya.
—We hadn't really been—I don't know, says Denise. —Not since before the summer.
—Oh, says Freya. —I didn't know.
—Yeah, says Denise. She stands there. She's twisting her scarf around her fingers. Freya goes back to putting things in her purse.
—Hey, Freya? Denise says.
—Yeah, Freya says.
—Can I ask you a question?
—Sure, Freya says.
—Have you ever been in a relationship that you knew you needed to get out of?
A bitter sort of smirk crosses Freya's face. —Yeah, she says.
—How did you do it?
She remembers Mike, and the way things played out that final evening, and she smirks again. —I don't know that I would exactly, uh, recommend the strategy that I used.
—Why? Denise says. —What did you do?
—I hit the guy in the face with an aluminum bat, she says.
Denise stares at her. —Really?
—Really, Freya says. She mimes her swing. —I broke his nose. Then I hit him again right here—she indicates a spot over her ear. He needed five stitches; at least that's what I heard later.
Denise covers her mouth with her hand.
—Don't get me wrong, Freya says. —The guy was a fucking asshole. He used to hit me, kick me, shit like that. It was getting to the point where I knew one or the other of us was going to end up in the hospital. And I was like it ain't going to be me, you shitbag.
Denise stands there, covering her mouth.
—Even so, Freya says. — I still felt bad about it like immediately afterwards. I can remember the whole thing so vividly—he was on his hands and knees, and blood's like raining down out of his head, and he's trying to get back on his feet and he keeps falling back down, his hand keeps going out from underneath him—I thought I'd like scrambled his brain or something.
—What did you do? Denise says.
—I called an ambulance, Freya says. —Then I got him sitting up in a chair. I gave him a roll of paper towels and he just held the whole roll up against his nose to blot up the blood.
—Weren't you scared? asks Denise.
—Fuck yeah I was scared. I was scared shitless. I thought maybe I'd given him some kind of permanent damage; I thought he was going to tell the cops and I'd get my ass thrown in jail—
—But weren't you scared that he'd—I don't know, retaliate?
—Was I scared that he'd retaliate? says Freya. She frowns, thinking it over. —Actually, I wasn't, she says. —You know why?
—Why? Denise says.
—Because I won, Freya says.
: : :
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