Chapter 1 #2
I stare at the screen until my vision blurs, then lock it and toss the phone onto the bed. No. I’m not staying. Not after tonight. Not after he looked at me like that and said “be grateful.” Not after he proved that anything I build, he can take.
I stand up and start moving, because if I stop, I might crumble.
I grab a duffel bag and begin packing like I’m in a race.
Jeans. T-shirts. Hoodie. Underwear shoved in without folding.
My toothbrush. The worn paperback my mom loved.
My birth certificate and social security card from the little lockbox under my bed, because I learned early to keep my important papers close.
The photo of Mom, finally pulled out of the book and tucked into my wallet where it belongs.
I pause at my nightstand and open the drawer.
There’s a Valentine’s Day card in there from years ago.
Mom bought it for me. Pink glitter hearts.
A stupid joke about being her favorite girl.
I never threw it away. I never could. My fingers hover over it, then I slide it into the side pocket of my bag.
If I’m leaving, I’m taking the pieces of me with me.
I don’t sleep. I lie on top of the covers fully dressed, listening to the house. Every creak makes my muscles tense. Every sound feels like him. At some point, the sun starts to lighten the edges of my curtains. Birds chirp like the world is normal.
I wait until I hear Alex’s truck start. I hear the garage door rumble. I hear him back out. Then silence.
My hands are steady now. Not because I’m calm. Because something in me snapped into place.
I carry my duffel and my backpack to my car in two trips.
I keep looking over my shoulder expecting him to be standing in the driveway, smiling like he caught me.
But the driveway is empty. The air is cold.
My breath puffs out white as I shove my bag into the backseat.
I don’t leave a note. He doesn’t deserve one.
I start my Honda and it coughs like it hates me, but it turns over.
The engine rattles. The check engine light is on like it always is, a tiny glowing warning that feels personal.
“Just get me out,” I whisper, hand gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles pale.
I back out and point the car toward the road, toward anywhere else.
My phone is at twenty percent. I turn it on airplane mode immediately.
No tracking. No calls. No messages that can hook into my fear.
The highway blurs by. Trees. Gray sky. The kind of winter day that looks like it’s holding its breath.
The further I get, the more my body slowly unclenches, like it’s realizing it might live.
I drive for hours. I stop once for gas, using the last of my debit card and a few dollars in cash. I buy a bottle of water and a granola bar because my stomach hurts from emptiness and adrenaline.
When I get back in the car, my hands shake as I start it again. I keep expecting my phone to light up with a text from Alex. I keep expecting to see his truck in my mirror. Nothing.
By the time the landscape starts to change, I’m exhausted. The flat stretches give way to rolling hills, then sharper rises. The air looks different. Cleaner. The trees thicken. Pines, dark and tall. Mountains. I’ve never been to the mountains.
The thought should feel exciting. It doesn’t. It feels like stepping off a cliff and hoping there’s ground.
My phone is at nine percent when I see it.
A small town tucked between ridges, like it’s hiding. A wooden sign on the side of the road with the town name painted in white letters. I barely register it because my eyes catch something else.
Mae’s Diner. It sits on the corner with big front windows, warm light spilling out, and there are paper hearts taped up everywhere. Pink and red, some glittery, some obviously cut out by hand. A banner drapes across the top of the window, VALENTINE’S SPECIALS in chunky marker.
I pull into the lot like I’m on autopilot. My car rolls to a stop and I just sit there with my hands on the wheel, staring at the windows, at the couples inside, at the warmth. My stomach growls. I don’t remember the last time I ate a real meal.
I check my phone. Eight percent. “Of course,” I mutter. I shove it into my bag, yank my hoodie tighter, and climb out of the car. The cold bites my cheeks. Snow dusts the edges of the sidewalk like the town is already preparing for a storm.
When I open the diner door, a bell rings overhead. Warmth hits me immediately. Heat, coffee, butter, bacon. The smell is so comforting it makes my throat tighten.
It’s busy but not chaotic. People in flannels and beanies.
A couple of older men laughing at the counter.
A woman in a red sweater carrying a plate piled with pancakes.
Country music playing low. And hearts. Everywhere.
Heart garlands. Heart confetti on tables.
A little vase with fake roses at every booth.
I hover just inside the door, suddenly unsure. I’m wearing jeans and a hoodie and my hair is a mess. I look like I crawled out of a wreck.
A woman behind the counter glances up, and her face softens immediately.
She’s older, maybe in her sixties, with silver hair pulled back and reading glasses perched on her head. Her cheeks are rosy from the heat of the kitchen. She has flour on her apron like she’s been in the middle of baking.
“Well, honey,” she says, voice warm as the air around me. “You look like you could use a cup of coffee and a minute to breathe.”
My eyes sting. I hate that kindness does that to me now, turns me into a cracked open thing.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, because that’s what I always say.
She doesn’t look convinced. “You can be fine after you sit down. Booth or counter?”
“Booth,” I manage.
She points toward a small two-top near the window. “Go on. I’ll be right with you.”
I slide into the booth and set my bag beside me. The vinyl seat squeaks. My hands are still cold, and I wrap them around themselves under the table.
A laminated menu sits in front of me, but I just stare at the little handwritten Valentine’s insert taped to it.
Strawberry cream pie. Heart-shaped biscuits. Love bug milkshakes.
It’s silly. It’s sweet. It feels like a different universe.
The woman comes over with a mug of coffee before I even order it and sets it down in front of me. “On the house until you tell me your name.”
My throat tightens again. “Wren.”
“Wren.” She smiles. “Pretty. I’m Mae.”
“Thank you,” I say, and my voice is too quiet.
Mae sits across from me like she has all the time in the world. Not in a creepy way. In a… human way. Like she sees me as a person, not a problem.
“You passing through?” she asks.
I hesitate. The truth feels dangerous. “I… I guess.”
Mae watches me for a beat, then nods like she understands more than I’m saying. “Well, you’re here now. Eat something.”
“I don’t have much money,” I blurt, then immediately regret it. I sound pathetic.
Mae waves a hand. “Coffee’s already down. Pancakes aren’t going to bankrupt me. Pick something.”
My stomach flips. “I can pay.”
“We’ll see,” she says, eyes kind but firm. “What do you do, Wren?”
The question lands differently than it would anywhere else. Like she’s not asking to judge me. Like she’s asking because she’s curious.
“I waitress,” I say. “Back home.”
Mae’s gaze flicks to my hands, to the way they keep clenching and unclenching. “You any good?”
A laugh threatens to slip out. It’s sharp and surprised. “I mean… I don’t get fired.”
Mae smiles wider. “That’s a start.”
I glance around the diner again, and that’s when I see it.
A help wanted sign in the window. Simple, handwritten. HELP WANTED.
My heart does something small and hopeful, which is terrifying.
Mae follows my eyes like she already knows. “You looking at my sign?”
I swallow. “Are you… are you actually hiring?”
“I am,” she says easily. “My girl went off to have a baby. Left me in a bind, the traitor.” Her tone is teasing, affectionate. “You want work?”
“Yes,” I say too fast. “I mean. If you need someone. I can start right away.”
Mae studies me, and for one awful second I’m sure she’s going to see through me. See the fear. See the mess. See the fact that I’m one bad moment away from falling apart.
Instead, she nods. “You got somewhere to stay?”
My mouth opens, then closes.
Because that’s the problem, isn’t it.
I have my crappy car. I have a bag. I have eight percent battery and a life behind me that I don’t want to go back to.
“No,” I admit.
Mae’s expression doesn’t change. She doesn’t pity me. She doesn’t ask a million questions. She just makes a decision like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
“I got a room upstairs,” she says. “It’s small, but it’s clean. Used to be for staff back when my husband ran this place with me.” Her voice softens for half a second, like a shadow passes, then she clears it. “You can rent it cheap. Week to week, if you want. No lease. No fancy paperwork.”
My pulse stutters. “I… I can’t afford much.”
“You can afford honest,” Mae says. “And you can afford showing up for your shift.”
I grip the edge of the table, because my hands need something to hold onto. “Why would you do that?”
Mae gives me a look like I asked why water is wet.
“Because you’re standing in my diner with winter on your shoulders and nowhere to go.
Because I’ve been alive long enough to know when a girl needs a safe place to land.
” Her eyes narrow slightly, but not unkindly.
“And because I need help. So it’s not charity, if that makes you twitchy. ”
It does make me twitchy. My pride is bruised and stubborn and exhausted.
I take a shaky breath. “Okay.”
Mae’s smile is quick and pleased. “Okay?”
“Okay,” I repeat, firmer. “Yes. I want the job. And the room.”
Mae pushes out of the booth. “Good. Eat your pancakes. Then we’ll talk details.”
As she walks away, I stare at my coffee mug and feel something unfamiliar bloom in my chest.
Not happiness. Not yet.
Relief.
It’s fragile and terrifying, like holding a lit match in the wind.
I lift the mug to my mouth and take a sip. It’s too hot, and it burns my tongue, but I don’t even care.
Because for the first time in a long time, the air around me feels warm.
And the door behind me jingles again, letting in a sharp gust of cold that makes the hearts in the window flutter like they’re alive.