She snorts softly, putting one folded hand to her face. I can’t help but chuckle softly in return. Her eyes sparkle, catching the light, making them dance. For a second I don’t see her. 

I see you.

I see you sitting in front of me with that same look, your hand up by your mouth trying to cover a grin you know shouldn’t be there but you can’t help, that same twinkle in your blue eyes. 

My smile fades and my chest clenches as I look away. I can’t see you…you’re not here. My fist clenches on the tabletop and I can feel myself start to shake. Maybe it’s from the sudden rush of pain thinking of you gave me, maybe it’s the need for more booze. Either way, I’m hurting and I want to go home.

“TBI.”

I’m jolted from my thoughts, Windy’s face coming back into focus. She’s smiling at me.

“What?”

“Traumatic Brain Injury,” she clarifies, tapping the side of her head. “The short and dirty version is I got hit in the head several years back and my mind got stuck. Physically I’m twenty-three. Or, wait, no…” she rolls her eyes. “Chronologically, I should say. Mentally, I’m around sixteen, maybe younger. It’s a range of about two years, at least that’s what my doc tells me.”

I gape. “Wait, seriously?”

She nods. “I can’t process information like adults my age do, making it very easy for people like Nikki to manipulate me.” She shrugs. “Technically, I don’t know any better.” She chuckles. “Teenagers are stupid, as you know.”

I blink. “Teenagers don’t have enough self-awareness to know when they’re being used and lied to, though.”

“That’s the beauty of it. Most of what I deal with is in hindsight. In the moment, that’s where I am; in the moment. I don’t consider all the ramifications of my actions or if what I’m being told is the truth or not. I just accept it and act accordingly. I also deal with depression, anxiety, and explosive fits when I get too frustrated or something doesn’t work the way I want it to. Before I started stitching, my mom tried to teach me to do other things. Painting, music, dance, sports.” She shrugs. “I couldn’t pick them up, couldn’t understand them enough to get them down. I’d get frustrated and act out.”

“Like how?”

“Throw things around, scream, cry. To be fair, it isn’t like I want to do any of that, but in the moment, my impulse control is shot. I’ve even…” She shuts her mouth suddenly, averting her gaze. “Well, it doesn’t matter,” she mutters. “If I get too stressed out or my anxiety gets out of whack, I’m a holy terror, as my dad says.” She gives a small grin. “I’m in therapy and I take meds, but they aren’t always enough. Stitching helps. Mom was hesitant to teach me, but when she saw how quickly I got it, and how calm it made me, she got into it. Now she’s my enabler.”

Therapy. 

Chevy and my parents have been throwing that word at me for months. Abigail has offered to give me names of some good shrinks she knows, but I won’t do it. I don’t need it. What can telling all my problems to a stranger do for me? They don’t even know what I’m dealing with. They don’t know what losing you has done to me, so how can they possibly help? I’d rather drink and be alone.

But a friend…maybe…maybe I can allow myself that. You seem to like her well enough. She’s not a bad girl, either. Sure, she’s different, but she’s not a bad person. Maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible to hang out with her again.

I shift in my seat, my hands going into my hoodie pockets. “M-maybe I can see them sometime,” I mutter. “If…that’s cool.”

She sits straighter. “You want to hang out with me?”

There’s something in her tone that makes me look up. She genuinely looks surprised that I even offered. Not just surprised…there’s something in her eyes, something I’ve only ever seen in you. 

Hope.

She said no one wants to be her friend, and I’m guessing it’s because of her TBI. Dumbass reason not to be someone’s friend if ever I’ve heard one. Fuck, I’m a stupid, selfish moron and you fell in love with me anyway!

“Yeah,” I nod. “I do. I mean, if you want to. If not, I get it, I didn’t exactly show you my good side at Jackie’s. And it isn’t like I’ve been all that nice to you now.”

She tilts her head, furrowing her brow. Her ponytail drifts to the side as she studies me. 

“I’m retarded,” she says simply.

I roll my eyes. “No, you’re not, don’t say that about yourself. A bad judge of character with terrible You-Can-Pick-’Em Disease, but you’re not retarded.” I shift in my seat. “I’m an alcoholic with major depression. I’m a fucking mess and I can’t guarantee I won’t flake on you from time to time but…I still would like to hang out with you. If you want.”

“You mean…” Her voice shakes a bit and she swallows. “You actually want to be my friend?”

I stare at her, wondering where in my little speech she got the impression I didn’t want that. It hits me at the same time, however, just how unusual this must be for her. People have been nice to her, pitied and accommodated her needs, and some people, probably more than just Nikki, have used her. To have someone actually want to befriend her has to be surreal for her.

I must have been staring at her a moment too long because her expression shifts and she folds her arms over her chest. “I’m not a bug, Harley.”

A smile twitches my lips. “Oh, I don’t know,” I say with a shrug. “In the right light, you kind of look like a moth.”

“Okay, first of all,” she says, waving a finger in front of her. “That’s an insect. And second, rude!”

I laugh, a sound that rattles even me since I don’t do that anymore. “Whatever you say, Mothgirl.” I reach out. “Give me your phone.”

She hands it over without a second thought. She doesn’t have a lockscreen on it and that worries me. I go to her contacts and enter in my info before googling a picture of a luna moth. A few clips and clicks later and she not only has a new wallpaper, but a code for a lockscreen. I hand her the phone and tell her four numbers.

“Memorize them,” I say, “and don’t write it down, either. This should prevent anyone you don’t want from getting into your stuff. And don’t just hand over your phone to anyone that asks, dummy,” I say, poking her in the forehead. She rubs at the spot and narrows her eyes at me. I smile. “I put in my contact info.”

Her eyes widen and she taps in the four numbers I gave her. She smiles at the image that pops up. “What is that?”

“A luna moth.”

Her lips twitch. “It’s pretty,” she says softly. I don’t respond as she finds my name and number. She glances at me a second and, with a tiny smile, taps out a message on her phone.

A second later my own phone buzzes. I pick it up to see a message from an unknown number. Obviously, it’s hers. I open it and snort. 

hi friend 🙂

I reply, Hi, friend. 🙃

I save her number under Mothgirl.

My phone buzzes again and it’s the guy from Jackie’s. I groan and go to set the phone down.

“Who is that?” she asks.

I shake my head. “Some dude that thinks I’m pretty.”

“You told him no, didn’t you?”

“Not responding is the same thing.”

She shakes her head and holds out her hand, a devious grin on her face. 

“What are you plotting?”

“Evil things.”

I hand it over and she begins tapping out a message so fast I can barely see her thumbs moving. When she’s done, she hands it back to me with a smile. 

“I gotta get back to work,” she says and stands up. “I’m off at eight if you want to hang out.”

“You assume I’ll be sober.”

“I know you won’t be. Let’s hang out anyway.” She waves and walks away. I watch her disappear behind the counter, her cheerful voice coming back to me as she talks with Brit. My phone buzzes and I can’t help but grin.

Little devil moth.

hi, this is harley’s friend. he’s busy and has no time for fuckboi’s. suck your own dick off if your so desperate. 

Damn bitch, that was fucking rude. If he’s got a friend like you, he ain’t worth my time. 🖕

This is going to be one beautiful friendship.

*