"What's ya name, darlin?"
His smile was charming, cowboy hat pushed back but still shading his face, dark eyes sparkling like he thought he might do more than just sell a newspaper to her. It had been years since she'd seen him, years, a lot of alcohol, and time she wanted to erase, but she knew him, of course she knew him. Francis Sullivan.
"Cowboy. What the hell're ya doin here? Last I heard, ya'd gone to Brooklyn."
His eyes narrowed for a moment, before widening in recognition. And then, they narrowed again, and and she could see in his face how much time had passed, that a lot had happened since they'd last seen each other. She could see he wasn't exactly happy to see a childhood friend, one who had caused him, and his family so much trouble.
"Goldilocks. Thought the hair color looked familiar. What, Andy lets his girls wander, now?"
He had never been cruel, as a child. He had never spoken to her in that clipped, cold way, as a child. He had never looked at her like that, the way men looked at her at the Dove, before she'd run away. A look that said he knew what she was, what she did, what she was worth. It was a look she had learned to ignore, but on his face, on Frank's face, it killed her.
"I left. Ma died. Overdose. So, I left."
There was so much to tell him, so much she wanted to explain. It hadn't been her choice, and his father hadn't been the only one who paid, when Francis Sr came barging into the Dove and demanded Andy hand her over, that he was going to take her home, that she didn't belong there, she was only thirteen. Andy had made sure she knew that he was paying his buddies to lock the man up on charges of crimes he hadn't committed. Andy had a lot of friends on the police force, men who frequented the Dove, and paid for the women there. Only, when Andy said he was paying for it, what he meant was that she was paying for it, that he was giving his friends free reign, with her, for days.
"I'm sure Andy's lookin for ya, then. He said ya were gonna make him rich."
His nose wrinkled a bit when he said it, lip curling into a sneer. It was an ugly look, and it hurt. He knew how Andy had planned to make that fortune, what it meant for her, what it would cost her, and he still seemed to think she had agreed to it, that it had been something she wanted. It made her insides curl, and she almost bolted, right then. But she'd been through so much, and it had left her so angry, that she couldn't just endure his bitterness.
"Yeah, well, I didn't. It wasn't like I wanted to be there, Cowboy. It wasn't my choice. And the moment I knew he wouldn't hurt ma to get to me, I left. So, I'm sorry ya and ya ma got thrown out of ya apartment, but it ain't like I was sittin on a pile of money, sippin champagne and eatin truffles. Ya don't actually wanna know what it was like. What I've lived through. What I survived. Get off ya goddamned high horse."
She had always stood her ground with him, even as a child, but he was clearly surprised by her reaction, his cheeks turning a bit pink, even as he glared at her. Without realizing it, her nails were starting to dig into her palms, fingers balling into fists, ready to hit the look off his face if she had to. She couldn't understand why he was being so horrible to her, it didn't make sense.
"High horse…? Get off my high horse…? Ya boss's friends, they did a bit more than throw me and my ma out of our apartment. They killed her. Butchered her, when we had finally thought we'd gotten far enough away. Tracked us down, and killed her. Ya boss did that. So, don't tell me to get off of any goddamned horse."
It hit her, hard, like a bag full of bricks, almost knocking the air out of her. She could feel the blood draining from her face, she felt almost dizzy at it's sudden movement. His mother, the woman who had all but adopted her, who had fed her, and given her clothing, presents, who had made sure she was warm in the winter, who had cared for her when she had gotten sick and her own mother hadn't even noticed. Ada Sullivan had been an angel, to her young mind, a guardian angel, beautiful, and kind. And men she had been forced to endure, all the time, for the last several years had actually killed her.
"Frank, I didn't know. Oh, god, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
The sneer had come back to his face, and his eyes narrowed again as tears welled, and quickly started tumbling down her cheeks. He backed away when she stood from the park bench she'd been sitting on, and took a step towards him, stepping back again when she reached for him, intending to hug him, or put a hand on his arm, something. He kept a physical distance between them, and it stung, badly.
"Save it. I don't need ya sympathy. Why don't ya just go back to the Dove, huh? It's all ya good for. Whoring, and destroying people's families."
She flushed, when the words spilled out of his mouth, like poison. That was what he thought of her, it was clear. And her first instinct was to punch the look off his face, hit him hard enough to knock the tone from his voice. Her fists were already balled up, jaw tense, bracing herself for doing it, for hitting him, square in the jaw.
But she couldn't hit him. He was right. Of course he was right, and he was hurting, too. He'd lost his mother, his father was locked up, all because he'd begged his father to help her. Her. It was her fault, she had destroyed his family. He was right.
Without another word, she forced herself to turn around and walk away. Walk away from the man who had been her best friend as a child, who she'd thought of, every day, since the last time they'd spoken. She had daydreamed about him, what he would be like now, grown up. How he kissed, how he'd feel under her fingertips, how he would move. What it might be like, to be with him. Would he kiss her, like a lover, would he hold her when they were done, when there was just a moment of silence, as their hearts slowed, and the heat of passion cooled. She had always been half in love with him, but the years in between had done her in. And knowing that he would never think that way about her, that he hated her, that he thought she was trash…
That killed her.
As she continued walking away, for a split second, she thought she heard him say her name, softer, a little kinder. But when she turned around, to look at him, he was walking in the other direction, his hands in his pockets, shoulders slumped, moving quickly. She had just imagined it.