Kimberly | Brix

The trunk sat unopened, but Kimberly felt it breathing at night.

Val was everything Kimberly had trained herself not to be: loud, impulsive, covered in grease from her after-school job at her father’s garage. She had a laugh that bounced off the Franklin Mountains and a habit of showing up uninvited. When she first saw Kimberly sitting alone in the high school courtyard, sketching cacti in a worn notebook, she didn’t whisper or tiptoe. She plopped down on the bench and said, “You draw like you’re afraid the paper’s gonna bite back.” kimberly brix

“Maybe I am,” Kimberly said.

Val took her hand. Her palm was calloused, warm, smelling of motor oil and honesty. “Then unfold,” she said. “Just this once.” The trunk sat unopened, but Kimberly felt it

And for the first time, that didn’t feel like a bad thing. When she first saw Kimberly sitting alone in

Kimberly’s voice was a thread. “I don’t know how to be someone who opens things. Letters. Trunks. Hearts. I just know how to fold.”