Chapter 34
Winnie
I force a bite of peanut butter toast into my mouth and chew in robotic fashion. I’m not hungry.
Far from it.
But I need nourishment to conquer another day with energetic kindergarteners all while nursing a bruised heart. I open the Uber app and see there are plenty in the area that can take me to the school. No way I’m driving my embarrassment of a vehicle.
There’s a knock on the door and I pause my next bite. It’s loud and insistent enough that Buttermilk bounds into the foyer like he’s going to defend our honor. Or maybe just pee on someone’s shoes.
I drop the toast and wipe my mouth with a paper towel. I’m not in the mood for visitors and besides… it’s too early to be genial. My head is still stuffy from crying on and off throughout the night, and my body feels like it’s been wrung out and left on the porch to dry.
Another knock.
I peek out the small side window expecting to see Lucky—because really, who else would it be—and my heart lurches in anticipation, in dread, in a hundred emotions that haven’t sorted themselves yet.
But it’s not Lucky.
It’s a stranger. A man in a navy work shirt with a patch on the front pocket. He’s holding a clipboard and a ring of keys.
I crack the door open, wary.
“Ms. Shaw?” he asks politely. “I’m here for the car.”
I blink, totally disoriented. “What?”
He gestures toward my driveway where my car sits. “Lucky Branson arranged to have the spray paint damage taken care of. Said you’d have the keys ready.”
I stare at him, speechless.
He consults something on his clipboard. “The plan is full repaint, same color. Quick turnaround. We’ll buff the surrounding panels, clean the interior. He said it’s urgent.”
I nod dumbly, still not believing what I’m hearing.
But I’m not shocked. Of course, Lucky would rush in to help me with this because that’s the type of man he is.
“Your keys, ma’am,” he prods.
“Oh, right… sorry. Hold on.” I nab my purse from the foyer table where I always leave it and fish out my keys. I take the car key off the ring and open the screen door to hand it to the man. “Here you go.”
In exchange, the man offers me a fob. “He also said to let you use this to get around today.” He tilts his head and points to Lucky’s Tahoe, parked half a block down in front of my house.
My chest caves in around my heart. What did I ever do to deserve this man?
I take the keys and whisper, “Thank you.”
He smiles. “You’re welcome. I’ll take good care of it.”
I nod again and shut the door slowly.
Leaning my back against it, I stare at the fob. It belongs to the man I told to leave me alone last night, and who, despite everything, still showed up for me in the quietest, kindest way possible.
There’s no note. No text. No phone call.
He’s giving me space like I asked for and still swooping in to be my hero.
I wander into the living room, barely noticing the shredded remains of magazines Buttermilk joyfully massacred last night. I collapse on the couch and stare down at my phone on the coffee table. I haven’t looked at it since yesterday afternoon. It’s like a bomb about to explode.
I want to ignore it, but I can’t. The fear of rejection and humiliation is so strong, but I know that I cannot hide my head in the sand.
I brace and pick it up.
Ninety-two missed notifications.
I frown, unlock it and swipe through them—and that’s when I see it.
Lucky’s face. On my For You Page. Lit up by a soft glow, eyes dark and solemn, voice serious.
I tap and watch, breath coming out in shallow spurts. He’s sitting on a stool, talking to any person who wants to listen.
He’s talking about me.
I listen with rapt fascination, butterflies zooming around my stomach. Lucky is telling the world I’m being bullied. He’s calling them out. He’s shaming them. He’s threatening to go after any who come after me.
He tells them to come after him instead.
He tells them he loves me.
My hand covers my mouth, but it doesn’t stop the gasp of surprise. The tears come fast, flowing in rivers down my cheeks. He loves me, his every word a balm. I’ve never felt so seen… so understood.
And most importantly… loved.
I blink through the tears and keep scrolling.
My mouth drops open as I see Mazzy and Foster in what might be their kitchen. “Kindness doesn’t cancel people—it lifts them.”
Bowie Jane sits on a counter holding a sign that says Be Kind Like Winnie.
I gasp when I see the hashtag: #BeKindLikeWinnie
Mila at her vanity, holding up one of my TikTok skin products, saying, “This girl made me love my face again. And now I love her too.”
Atlas and Kace at the workout facility, flexing their muscles and calling out bullies the way Lucky did. There’s the hashtag: #BeKindLikeWinnie
It’s everywhere.
Hundreds of videos. Thousands of comments. People talking about kindness, about bravery, denouncing bullies and extolling those who stand up to them.
@pittsburghgirl12: Winnie reminds me why I started posting in the first place.
@themomnextdoor: My daughter watches her every day. Thank you for being real.
@booknerdsquad: Don’t let them silence you. Your voice matters.
And then one that guts me—@shygirl5543: I’ve never met you, but I feel braver because of you.
I drop the phone in my lap and sob.
Because this? This is what hope feels like. This is what it means to not be alone.
And all of this is because of Lucky.
I push up from the couch and head into my bathroom. I blow my nose, wash my face and stare into the mirror. The girl staring back at me is still scared. A little bruised.
But I’m not broken.
How can I be when I have Lucky on my side? That man looked into the camera and announced to the world that he loves me. And I have so many others shouting love and kindness that I probably won’t stay scared for long.
I wipe my face, breath catching. I check my watch. I have to get going soon or I’ll be late for school. “Okay,” I say, staring myself down in the mirror’s reflection. “Time to get your shit together, Win.”
Something absolutely has to be done first, though.
I grab my phone again and swipe open my camera roll.
I find the clip I almost posted last week—the skin care one with the goofy lighting and my dumb voice cracking in the middle of it.
I hit edit. I add a caption: Still here. Still average. Still me.
Then I hit post.