Zoie

It was almost 10 p.m., and Zoie was getting ready to crash from a long day of note-taking and flashcard writing. Her mom had fallen asleep on the couch downstairs, and the house was wrapped in that deep, post-holiday quiet. Her phone rang just as she was brushing her teeth. It was Ryin. 

“Hello?” Zoie answered, mouth still minty. 

“Can you come get me?” Ryin’s voice cracked on the other end—dry, hoarse, and hollow. 

Zoie’s stomach dropped. “Ryin?” Her voice sharpened. “Where are you?”

“Bus stop. Near Westview Plaza.”

“Are you okay? What happened?”

“I—I just really need you to come get me,” Ryin whispered. “Please.”

“I’m on my way.” She said without hesitation. 

The line went dead before Zoie could ask anything else. She didn’t bother changing clothes—just grabbed a hoodie, slid into her mom’s nursing Crocs, and tiptoed past the living room. Her mom was still curled up under a blanket, TV on mute, the air thick with the scent of sweet potato pie and Jamaican Fruit incense. Zoie eased the front door shut behind her, slipped into her mother’s Jeep, and drove.

***

Westview was half-closed by the time she got there. The parking lot was dim. Most of the storefronts were dark. She spotted Ryin immediately. Curled up at the bus stop. Head down. Arms wrapped tight around her midsection like she was trying to hold herself together with nothing but willpower. 

Zoie threw the car into park and jumped out.

“Ryin, what the hell happened?”

     Ryin looked up slowly. Her eyes were red-rimmed, puffy. Red marks could be seen along her neck and jawline. Her tan puffer vest was torn at the shoulder, cream long-sleeve stained with blood and dirt. Brown sweatpants shredded at the knees. Her Air Maxes—one lace dragging—looked like they’d been through hell.

  “I’ll explain later,” Ryin said hoarsely. “Can we just go?”

   Zoie didn’t argue. She helped her up—gently and slowly—then got her settled in the passenger seat. Ryin winced with every movement.

  The drive back was silent. Ryin stared out the window the whole time, her good arm across her stomach. Zoie’s eyes kept flicking toward her, heart pounding, trying to make sense of the scene she'd walked into.

 ***

When they pulled into the driveway, Zoie parked and helped Ryin carefully into the house. Her mom was still asleep on the couch, mouth open slightly now, the TV flickering soft light across her face. Zoie motioned for silence, guiding Ryin past the creaky step out of instinct, upstairs to her room. They closed the door behind them, and for a second, everything was still. Then Ryin spoke. 

“I think he was trying to rob me.”

Zoie froze. “What? Who?” 

Ryin sat on the edge of the bed, eyes low. “Some guy. Behind the store. I—I don’t know what he wanted, but he attacked me.”  

Zoie’s heart cracked. “Ryin. . .”

“I’m fine,” Ryin cut in quickly.

“No. You’re not.” Zoie knelt in front of her. “You need to go to the hospital. Or the police. We can file a report. There might be cameras—” 

“No!” Ryin’s voice was sharp and sudden.

“Ry—”

“I said no, Zoie.” Then, softer— “Please. I just. . . I just want to sleep. I don’t want to deal with my parents. I don’t want anyone asking questions. I don’t want anyone to know.” 

Zoie blinked fast. Her throat tightened. “Okay. . . Okay.”

But as Ryin shifted to remove her vest, Zoie reached for her phone, turning away like she was adjusting the lamp. She angled the screen, heart thudding, and took a few discreet photos—quick, quiet shots of the bruises across Ryin’s neck, the swelling on her jaw, the dirt and blood on her shirt. Just in case. 

She didn’t know what Ryin would decide tomorrow. 

But if Ryin ever wanted to press charges—if they ever found her attacker—Zoie would be ready.

She helped Ryin undress slowly, piece by piece. Lifted the long-sleeve shirt and helped her ease out of the sweatpants. Her voice stayed calm. Her hands careful. But inside, Zoie was unraveling. The second the shirt came off, she saw the full extent of the damage—dark purple bruises down Ryin’s ribs, a long scrape along her shoulder, blood dried at the waistband of her underwear. Her wrist had started to swell, fingers stiff and tinged red.

Zoie kept her face neutral and swallowed hard. She tried her hardest not to let her real emotions show. She snuck a few more pictures, then went to her bathroom to prepare a bath with warm water and Epsom salt.  

“Get in slowly,” she said, as she helped Ryin into the bath, being as gentle as possible. “This’ll help.” 

Ryin nodded slightly. 

Zoie sat on the edge of the tub, carefully gathering Ryin’s hair into a high bun. Her fingers worked gently, slowly and deliberately as they finger-combed strands together, securing them with a black scrunchie from the counter. 

Ryin sat hunched in the bath, knees pulled to her chest, steam rising in soft curls around her bruised skin. The Epsom salt water was doing its job—relaxing her body, loosening the tension in her muscles—but it couldn’t touch the storm in her eyes. 

“You okay?” Zoie asked quietly, smoothing back a loose strand of hair at Ryin’s hairline.

There was a pause.

Then, Ryin cleared her throat and said, “I, um. . .  I broke up with Dorian this morning.”

The words sounded stiff. Too rehearsed.

Zoie blinked. Her hands froze for a half second, then continued tying off the bun.

“Oh.” She kept her voice light. “That was sudden.”

“Yeah. . . ” Ryin said, but her tone wavered. “I just. . . I couldn’t do the distance anymore.” 

Zoie didn’t respond right away. She glanced down at Ryin’s face—half-turned, unreadable. But Zoie knew her. They’d been best friends since the beginning of sophomore year, and Ryin had tells. Little ones. 

She touched her collarbone when she lied. Bit the inside of her cheek. And avoided eye contact. 

Right now, she was doing all three. 

Zoie knew there was more to the story. That whatever happened this morning wasn’t just a clean break. And with the haunted look in Ryin’s eyes, it wasn’t hard to put together that things had spiraled deeper than she was letting on. 

But instead of pressing, Zoie gently adjusted the bun and whispered, “Breakups suck. Even when they’re necessary.”

Ryin nodded faintly, shoulders curling in.

“I’m sorry it happened like that,” Zoie added. “But I’m proud of you for walking away. You’ll be okay.”

Ryin didn’t answer, but her eyes closed, and Zoie saw the tension in her jaw soften just a little. She dipped the loofa into the water, then gave it a gentle squeeze over Ryin’s shoulder.

No questions.

Not yet. 

Sometimes, being a best friend wasn’t about demanding the truth. It was about giving someone room to say it when they were ready. Zoie quietly gathered up the dirty clothes, trying not to think about what they’d been through. As she was stepping out and closing the door behind her, Ryin quietly called out. 

"Hey, Zo?" 

"Yea?" She replied through the cracked door.

Ryin was quiet for a second. Zoie could hear her slight sniffles and her struggle to steady her voice. "Thanks." 

"No problem." She replied softly.

***

In the laundry room, Zoie turned on the washer and went to drop Ryin’s shirt, sweats, and vest inside. That’s when she smelled it. 

Something faint. Something familiar. 

Masculine, subtle, and expensive-smelling. Not a scent that Ryin wore and not the detergent. 

She leaned in and sniffed again. 

She knew that scent. She just. . .  couldn’t place it. 

Not right now.

She waved it off, heart too heavy to chase the thought. 

She took her time gathering a shakable ice pack, gauze, antibiotic ointment, and bandages from her mother’s stash. Back upstairs, Ryin had finished soaking and was curled up in Zoie’s queen-sized bed, wrapped in one of her oversized hoodies. Her face was turned toward the wall, her uninjured hand tucked under her chin.

Zoie had planned on tending to Ryin’s wounds, but she was already asleep. She shook the ice pack and carefully placed it on Ryin’s swollen wrist, then sat on the edge of the bed, watching her. Every part of her ached for her friend. She didn’t know the full extent of what had happened. But she knew Ryin was lying about something. And whatever the truth was, it was bad.

  She grabbed her phone to text Tony.

  Zoie: You up? I need your help with something.

   She sat there, waiting until the screen dimmed. The message was delivered, but she received no reply.  Eventually, her head dropped against the pillow. And somewhere between worry and sleep, Zoie drifted off — still waiting for an answer that wouldn’t come.

***

The next morning, the mood was lighter, but only just. The sharp edges of the night before had dulled, replaced by a heavy, quiet fatigue. 

Zoie’s mom had already left for work, which was a small relief—no questions, and no suspicious glances. But it also meant Zoie wouldn’t have the Jeep for the day. 

Ryin moved slowly, her body stiff and sore, and with every motion she made, she winced with pain. Her throat was raw. The bruising around her throat was more visible, and her voice came out more gravelly than air. 

“I have some black leggings and a grey turtle neck, and a bulky, oversized sweater you can wear over top. How’s that?” Zoie turned from her closet, holding up the clothes. 

“Perfect,” Ryin replied hoarsely.

“Then we can try something hot for your throat and an ice pack for your ankle.” Zoie gently took Ryin’s injured hand into hers and gave it a once-over. “I can try to wrap this for you, too, but I really think you should get it checked out.”

Ryin shook her head. “It’ll be fine with the wrap.” 

Zoie helped her dress, slipping the sweater gently over Ryin’s arms, wincing internally every time her friend flinched. The bruises were deep and dark in the daylight. Zoie bit the inside of her cheek to keep from reacting. 

They headed downstairs a little later, the air slightly warmer between them. They made tea and kept the conversation light. It almost felt normal. 

Until Ryin looked down at her cup and said, “I lied.”

Zoie glanced over, brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”

Ryin blew on her tea and spoke with forced effort. “About how Dorian and I broke up. . .  I lied.”

Zoie’s chest tightened. He wasn't the one who attacked her, was he? She thought. She couldn't imagine Dorian doing anything like that, but then again, she might not know him as well as she thought. Could he get that angry and do this? She set her cup down gently. “Really? What happened?”

“I didn’t break up with him. He broke up with me,” Ryin admitted. “He saw something on my phone yesterday morning — he found out I was talking to someone else at my school. He kicked me out.” She paused, face falling. “I didn’t have any intentions of ending things when I went over that night.” 

Zoie exhaled slowly, relieved that it wasn't her original thought. “Well. . . I already figured something had happened other than what you were telling me.”

“You’re not mad?”

“That you lied?” Zoie raised an eyebrow. “You’re my girl, but let’s be honest. You be lying.”

Ryin gave a weak, lopsided grin. “I’m sorry.”

“I think it’s Dorian that deserves the apology.” She said it lightly, but something gnawed at her still. Zoie could feel it—this sense that Ryin still wasn’t telling her everything. That whatever had happened last night was bigger than Ryin was letting on. But she still didn’t press. Not now.  Ryin had just gone through a breakup and been attacked—all in the same day. She needed support, not suspicion. So Zoie pushed the unease down and shifted her tone. “Hungry?” she asked, moving toward the fridge.

Ryin nodded. “I could eat.”

Zoie smiled softly. “Then sit down. I got you.”

As she pulled out the leftover Jamaican Pumpkin Soup, her mind wandered again. The bruises. The scent in Ryin’s clothes. The half-truths.

Something was off.

But she would wait.

For now, she’d just be there for her friend the best she could.