CHAPTER 2
T he morning sun streams through the front windshield as I guide our beat-up Honda down another unfamiliar backroad. My eyes dart between the rearview mirror and the empty road ahead.
“Just keep moving,” I whisper to myself, taking another turn onto a gravel road.
Sophie’s been quiet in her car seat, clutching Mr. Hoppy and watching the scenery change from highway to farmland. My face continues to throb where Matt hit me, and I know without looking that the bruise has darkened overnight.
My mind starts racing through the possibilities. Would Matt report the car stolen? The thought sends ice through my veins. But then I remember the empty bottles scattered across the coffee table when we left, how he was passed out cold on the couch. He probably hasn’t had the time to sober up let alone realize we’re gone. Matt’s not exactly a mastermind, but if he does call the police…
“Mommy, I’m hungry,” Sophie says softly from the backseat.
“Me too, baby girl. Let’s find somewhere to eat, okay?”
And as if on cue, a sign appears: “Welcome to Pine Grove—Population 1,147.” Below it, there’s a smaller sign advertising a gas station and “Lucy’s Diner—Best Breakfast in Town!” My stomach growls, making its own contribution to the decision.
The diner sits on the corner of what appears to be the town’s main street, its chrome exterior gleaming in the morning light. I pull into a parking space out front and put my car in park and make my way around to Sophies door, she’s already unbuckled herself and jumps out still clutching the stuffed rabbit. Shutting her door, I catch my reflection in the car’s window and quickly pull my hair forward, trying to cover the worst of the bruising.
“Can I have pancakes?” She asks.
“We’ll see what they have, sweetie.” I take her small hand in mine, and together we walk into the diner.
A bell chimes above the door, and the smell of coffee and bacon wraps around us like a perfect hug. The place has a decent amount of people in here for a Wednesday morning, filled mainly with what I figure are regulars, ranchers with weathered cowboy hats placed on the bar top next to them; a pair of elderly women sharing their morning meal side by side at a table for two; and a small family with a little boy with the cutest curly brown hair, who’s parents seem to be looking at some type of document and crossing things off it while the little boy is happily eating his crunchy bacon.
“Sit anywhere you like, sweeties!” calls a voice to our right at the checkout counter, and I turn to see a short elderly woman with soft green eyes and silver hair pulled back into a loose bun. Her name tag reads “Ms. Lucille.”
I choose a booth near the back, where I can keep an eye on the door, a new habit I guess I’m forming. Sophie slides in next to me instead of across, pressing close to my side and she props Mr. Hoppy right next to her.
Ms. Lucille appears with menus and a genuine smile that makes the corners of her eyes crinkle. She peers over her glasses and happily says, “Welcome to Lucy’s Diner. Coffee for mama and maybe some chocolate milk for this little one?” Her southern accent is thick.
Sophie peeks up shyly, and I manage a small smile. “Umm, just the chocolate milk, if you don’t mind.”
I can’t afford to spend too much money here; we still need to find a place to sleep tonight.
“Absolutely not, every parent needs their coffee fix. Back in a flash, honey.” She returns moments later carrying our beverages and brings along some crayons with an activity sheet that has the kid’s menu on it.
“There you go, darling, this should keep you busy until your food arrives.”
“What do we say?” I prompt softly.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Sophie whispers, already reaching for the crayons.
“Now, what’ll it be, honey?” She asks, holding her notepad in front of her.
I give our order, pancakes for Sophie, just toast and an egg for me, I notice her eyes lingering on my face. I turn slightly, letting my hair fall forward again, but she doesn’t look away.
“You know,” she says quietly, leaning in a bit, “I’ve got some arnica gel in my office that would help with that bruise.”
My chest immediately seizes, and I struggle to find words. “Oh, I… I’m fine. I just ran into a door.”
Shame washes over me, almost more than I can bear. I wish I hadn’t argued back with Matt—now this woman who I don’t even know is staring at me with sympathy written all over her face.
“It’s alright, honey,” she says, her voice gentle. “You don’t have to explain anything to me. But I know that look. Many years ago, I was sitting in a diner just like this one, with a bruise just like yours, wondering where I was gonna go next. Someone showed me kindness when I needed it most, and it changed my whole life. Sometimes the good Lord puts people in our path for a reason.”
This woman’s small admission makes my heart seize. Her words hang in the air between us, carrying the weight of shared experience I’m not ready to acknowledge. My fingers tighten around my coffee mug, seeking its warmth as I struggle with the realization that my situation might be more transparent than I’d thought. Someone who’s been where I am can recognize the signs—the flinching, the excuses, the careful way I’m holding myself.
I glance at Sophie, but she’s absorbed in her coloring. Tears prick at my eyes, and I blink them back hard. “We just needed… a fresh start.”
She nods, her expression understanding. “And where are y’all headed?”
“I don’t really know,” I admit. “Just… away.”
She’s quiet for a moment, then says, “I’ve got a guest house out back of my place. Nothing fancy, but it’s clean and safe. It’s yours if you want it.”
My eyes shoot up to meet hers and I start to shake my head, my heart pounding at her unexpected offer. “Oh, no, we couldn’t—”
“Now, don’t you dare say no before you even give it a thought,” she interrupts, holding up a hand, her green eyes stern behind her dark glasses. “I’m not asking for anything in return. Just can’t bear the thought of you and this little angel staying in some unsafe motel when I’ve got a perfectly good space sitting empty. Lord knows I’ve seen enough young mothers trying to make it on their own to know when someone needs a helping hand.”
“But you don’t even know us,” I protest, my voice wavering with uncertainty. Sophie presses closer to my side, and I instinctively rest my hand on her small shoulder. “We’re complete strangers to you, Ms. Lucille. I mean… how can you be sure you can trust us?” Even as the words leave my mouth, I realize I’m really asking myself if I can trust her, this kind-eyed woman who’s offering us shelter when we have nowhere else to go. My free hand fidgets with the strap of my purse as I wait for her response, wondering if I’m foolish to even consider her offer or more foolish to refuse it.
Her eyes soften. “I know enough. I know you’re brave enough to leave, and that’s not nothing. Besides,” she adds with a wink at Sophie, “something tells me this little one could help me test out some new pancake recipes. I’m always looking for an expert opinion.”
Sophie peers up through her lashes, her eyes growing a little larger. “I like pancakes.”
Ms. Lucille beams. “Well, that settles it then.” She flips a page on her notepad and scribbles something down. “Here’s my address. Come by after you’re finished eating, and we’ll get you settled. Jake, my ranch hand, will see to it.”
Jake? A man I’ve never even met. The uncertainty hangs in the air, making my stomach tighten with unease. I glance at Sophie, who shifts her gaze up to me, and I can’t shake the discomfort crawling up my spine. Going to a new place is one thing, but following a strange man—even one who works for this kind-eyed Ms. Lucille—feels like stepping off a cliff blindfolded. My grip tightens around Sophie’s shoulder as I try to keep my expression neutral, but I feel her slightly tense underneath my grip. I’d just escaped one bad situation. The last thing I needed was to walk straight into another one with my daughter in tow.
She hands me the torn piece of paper and before I can form any words, she’s gone, moving to check on the other customers with that same confident stride that makes me think she’s been doing this job for decades. I sit there, stunned, staring at the address written in neat cursive on the paper in my hand while my daughter continues her coloring.
I can feel the turmoil churning inside me, like waves crashing against rocks. My thoughts race in chaotic patterns, unable to settle on a clear path forward. One moment I’m convinced we should keep running, the next I’m desperate to believe that this stranger’s kindness is genuine. My hands tremble slightly as I fold the paper with the address, tucking it into my purse pocket. I glance at Sophie again, so innocent with her crayons, unaware of the storm raging within me. How can I make the right choice for both of us when I can barely trust my own judgment anymore?
Ms. Lucille returns with our plates of food, setting a stack of golden pancakes dripping with syrup in front of Sophie and my simple breakfast before me along with some perfectly cooked bacon.
“Oh, I didn’t order bacon.” I start to hand her back the small tan plate.
“This is all on the house, honey.” She pushes the plate back in front of me.
The smell makes my stomach growl again, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. I’ve been trying to ration the food I packed sparingly to last us.
“Now then,” she says, sliding into the bench across from us, “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Lucille, but most folks around here just call me Ms. Lucy.”
“I’m Bailey,” I say softly, “and this is Sophie.”
Sophie gives Ms. Lucille a shy smile and turns her attention back to her pancakes, her little fingers already sticky with syrup as she studies them. I reach over and gently take her fork, slicing the pancakes into smaller pieces.
“Here you go, baby,” I murmur, setting the fork into her hand.
Ms. Lucille’s gentle eyes crinkle at the corners as she watches my daughter.
“And how old are you, sweet pea?” she asks, looking at Sophie
Sophie peeks up through her blonde waves, then looks at me for reassurance. I give her a small nod.
“Four,” she whispers, holding up four tiny fingers before quickly returning to her breakfast.
“My, my, you’re practically a big girl. Do you like pink, sweetheart? Or maybe purple?” she asks, leaning slightly forward toward Sophie without crowding her.
Her eyes flicker up from her plate. “Blue,” she whispers, a tiny smile forming.
“Blue. That’s a wonderful color. Like the sky on a perfect day,” Ms. Lucille nods approvingly.
To my surprise, after a few minutes, Sophie’s one-word answers gradually become full sentences, her natural sweetness emerging under Ms. Lucille’s grandmotherly charm. My normally shy daughter is actually telling Ms. Lucy about a butterfly she saw yesterday and how she wants to draw it when we get home. Home, wherever that is.
Sophie carefully spears a piece of pancake and places it near Mr. Hoppy’s mouth. “Mr. Hoppy likes pancakes too,” she smiles.
Ms. Lucille’s eyes soften as she watches Sophie interact with her stuffed rabbit. “Well, we’ll have to make sure Mr. Hoppy gets his fair share then, won’t we?” She winks at my daughter before turning back to me. “If you don’t feel comfortable with heading down to the ranch with Jake, I get off work in about an hour and y’all are more than welcome to wait here.”
The anxiety rising in my chest is almost tangible, a familiar tightness that makes it hard to breathe properly. My fingers fidget with the edge of my napkin as I weigh my options. My mind is racing with the possibilities laid before me, each one carrying its own set of complications. I glance at Sophie, still feeding Mr. Hoppy, completely oblivious to my internal struggle.
“You don’t have to decide now,” she says gently, as she notices my hesitation. She casually slides a small tube across the table. “The arnica gel I mentioned. It really does work wonders.”
I pick up the tube with trembling fingers, the plastic cool against my skin. “Ms. Lucille, this is… this is too much. The guest house, the food, the gel.” I hold up the tube, my voice catching slightly as the enormity of her generosity crashes over me like a wave.
She’s quiet for a moment. When she speaks, her voice is soft and carries the weight of experience. My stomach twists with conflicting emotions—gratitude colliding with unease, independence wrestling with the undeniable need to run. The walls I’ve carefully constructed around our little world of two seem to be crumbling, and I’m not sure whether to frantically rebuild them or let them fall away completely. My pulse quickens as I realize I’m standing at a crossroads I never expected to find.
She extends her arm over the tabletop and gives my hand a gentle squeeze. I immediately stiffen at the contact.
“Besides, it looks to me like that little angel of yours could use a safe place to rest her wings for a while.”
The tears come back with a vengeance, and I try my hardest to blink them back again, watching as Sophie carefully wipes syrup from Mr. Hoppy’s pretend mouth with her napkin. “Still, I should at least pay for breakfast—”
“Don’t you dare,” she interrupts, and slides out of the booth. “Like I said, this is on the house, and I won’t hear another word about it.”
“Thank you, Ms. Lucille,” I manage to say around the lump forming in the back of my throat. “For everything.”
“Please, call me Lucy,” she says with a warm smile. “And Bailey? Sometimes accepting help is just as brave as asking for it.”
She turns to tend to the other customers again, leaving us to finish our breakfast. Sophie continues her elaborate pancake sharing with Mr. Hoppy and the diner buzzes with morning conversation around us, but for the first time in days, I feel like I can catch my breath.
I watch my daughter, so innocent in her play, completely trusting that everything will be okay because Mommy says so. The weight of that trust has felt crushing these past few days, but somehow, in this sunlit diner with the smell of coffee in the air and the sound of Lucy’s gentle southern drawl floating across the room, it feels a little lighter.
Sophie looks up at me, syrup dotting her chin. “Mommy, Mr. Hoppy says these are the bestest pancakes.”
I reach over with a napkin to wipe her face. “Is that so? Well, Mr. Hoppy has very good taste.”
“Can we stay here?” she asks suddenly, her big eyes looking up at me hopeful. “Ms. Lucy is nice.”
I smooth her blonde waves back from her forehead, thinking about Lucy’s words. ‘Sometimes accepting help is just as brave as asking for it.’ Maybe she’s right. Maybe, this is exactly where we need to be right now.
“Yeah, baby,” I say, feeling something settle in my chest. “I think we can stay here for a little bit.”
She beams and goes back to eating her breakfast. I catch Lucy’s eye across the diner, and she gives me a knowing nod as I apply the arnica gel under the cover of my hair.
The bell above the door chimes as new customers enter, and Lucy greets them with the same warmth she showed us. Just another morning at Lucy’s Diner, where lost souls can find their way over cups of coffee and plates of the ‘bestest pancakes’ in town. The familiar clatter of silverware and murmur of conversation feels oddly comforting after everything we’ve been through. As I take a bite of my bacon, my mind drifts to the possibility of finding a safe haven here, something permanent maybe, but Matt’s face flashes in my mind, uninvited and terrifying. The bruises hidden under my hair throb as if on cue. What if he finds us? The thought sends a chill down my spine despite the warmth of the diner. I grip my coffee mug tighter, trying to ground myself in this moment of peace while fighting back the constant fear that’s become my shadow.