Chapter 7
SEVEN
LUCY
I wake up smiling before I even open my eyes.
My room is still dim as early light slips through the curtains in pale lines across the wall.
My hand brushes against my phone where it’s lying beside my pillow, and the memory of last night comes back all at once.
Tiny’s messages. His ridiculous comments.
The way he somehow made me laugh after one of the most uncomfortable dinners of my life without even knowing how badly I needed it.
I roll onto my side and unlock my phone.
Our conversation is still there, and I read through it slowly, even though I remember almost every word.
It shouldn’t make me smile this much. He was sick and dramatic, and most of what he said made very little sense, but I can hear his voice in every line—rough and playful and easy in a way I’m not used to.
Tiny does not seem to measure every word before he lets it leave him.
He just says things. Maybe that’s why I keep rereading them.
Maybe that’s why the last message makes my stomach flutter all over again.
Goodnight, Lucy.
It’s just my name. Two simple words. But seeing them on the screen makes me feel like he placed something gentle in my hands and trusted me to keep it.
The feeling lasts until guilt slips in beside it.
Dad would hate this. He would hate that Scarlett gave Tiny my number, even though she asked first. He would hate that I said yes, and he would hate that I’m smiling at my phone before I’ve even gotten out of bed.
I know exactly what he would say. But I don’t delete the messages.
I lock the screen instead and set my phone on the nightstand, because I don’t want to pretend yesterday never happened just because it would be easier for everyone else.
Downstairs, breakfast smells like bacon and coffee. Mom is at the stove in one of her faded aprons, moving eggs from the skillet to a serving dish while Dad sits at the table with the newspaper spread open in front of him. He barely glances up when I come in.
“Morning,” Mom says, giving me a tired smile over her shoulder.
“Morning.” I pour myself a glass of orange juice and sit at the table, trying to focus on buttering a piece of toast.
“I spoke with Daniel last night,” Dad says after a sip of coffee.
My knife stills against the toast. Tiny asked me. The thought flashes through my head before I can stop it.
“He enjoyed dinner,” Dad continues. “He’d like to take you out Friday evening. He called to ask my permission, and I told him Friday would be acceptable.”
I look up slowly. “I’m sorry, you already told him yes?”
Dad frowns like my confusion is unreasonable. “He asked my permission, Lucy. That’s what a respectful young man does.”
“I understand that, but he didn’t ask me.”
The kitchen goes quiet except for the faint hiss of the stove as Mom turns off the burner. She keeps her back to us. Dad sets his coffee down. “He doesn’t need your answer before he asks mine.”
The words land hard. He means it. In his mind this is natural. Daniel asks my father. My father approves. Then I step into the plan.
“It’s me he’s asking out,” I say quietly.
“And you’re my daughter.” Dad’s answer comes without hesitation. “As long as you live under this roof, men approach me first. That is proper, and Daniel showed respect by doing it the right way.”
I glance at Mom, but she stays facing the counter. I have a test, I want to say. And work. But I already know how that conversation ends.
“You’ll make time,” Dad says, opening the newspaper again. “Daniel is a good man from a respectable family. You should be grateful he’s interested in you.”
I look down at my plate. Tiny asked Scarlett to ask me. Daniel asked Dad. I can’t stop thinking about the difference.
By the time I leave for work, my head is spinning. I sit in my car in the clinic parking lot for a minute with both hands wrapped around the steering wheel. Friday evening is already waiting for me now, placed neatly in my life by two men who never asked if I wanted it there.
Inside, the front desk is already busy. I step behind it and let the rhythm of work take over—answering calls, pulling charts, handing out forms. It’s easier to be useful than it is to be upset.
Scarlett appears from the hallway about an hour later and stops the second she sees my face. “You okay, hun?”
“I’m okay. It was just a weird morning.”
She studies me for a second, then her mouth curves. “Did a certain dramatic giant text you last night?”
Heat climbs into my cheeks. “A little.”
“A little?” Scarlett repeats, delighted. “What does that mean?”
“It means we texted for a while.” I straighten the appointment cards even though they’re already straight. “He said he survived barely, and then there was something about soup respecting the performance.”
Scarlett laughs. “That sounds painfully accurate.”
“He’s strange,” I say, but I’m smiling when I say it.
“He is. But in his defense, he’s usually a little more coherent when he isn’t actively losing a battle against cold medicine.” Her expression softens. “Did he make you laugh?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” Scarlett taps the counter. “You deserve to laugh more.”
The morning keeps moving until Sophie steps out for a chart. I hesitate, then ask, “How’s Tiny feeling?”
Sophie’s eyebrows lift. Scarlett makes a quiet sound like she’s trying not to laugh. My face warms again.
“Miserable, I’m sure,” Sophie says with a knowing smile. “He texted Cole claiming he was on the edge of death, so I’d say he’s recovering exactly as expected.”
I let out a small laugh. “He said you called him dramatic.”
“I did, and I stand by it.” Sophie leans closer. “He’s a good one, though. Dramatic, stubborn, and entirely too big for my exam rooms, but good all the way through.”
“You’ve known him a long time?”
“Oh, honey, yes.” Sophie’s voice warms. “He used to come over when Cole was in high school. They’d pile into my kitchen like starving wolves.
Tiny was always the first one to help carry groceries in, and he’d stand there with four grilled cheese sandwiches on his plate and still ask if I needed help with anything before he sat down. ”
The image makes something soft unfold in my chest. “Four grilled cheese sandwiches?”
Sophie laughs. “That boy could empty my refrigerator before dinner and still ask what we were having later. He was short and scrawny back then, all elbows and awkward energy. He hadn’t grown into himself yet.”
I hesitate, then ask softly, “His real name is Jacob Wellington… right?”
Sophie nods. “Jacob Wellington the Third.”
That doesn’t fit him. Tiny fits him better.
“Money doesn’t always mean a child gets what he needs,” Sophie says quietly. “He found more love around this club than he ever found in that big house.” She pats my hand. “He has a heart about twice the size of the rest of him. Don’t let all that leather and noise fool you.”
My phone buzzes in my cardigan pocket just before lunch.
Tiny: Good morning, Buttercup.
Buttercup?
Me: Buttercup?
Tiny: Yep.
Me: Why Buttercup?
Tiny: Cause you're cute.
I roll my eyes and my entire face gets hot. It doesn’t stop me from smiling.
Me: I think you texted the wrong person.
Tiny: Nope. Definitely meant you, my Buttercup.
Me: That's a ridiculous nickname.
Tiny: Maybe. Still keeping it.
Tiny: How many patients today?
Me: Enough.
Tiny: Very helpful.
Me: I’m trying to maintain professional mystery.
Tiny: I respect that. I also respect snacks. Have you eaten?
I look at the untouched granola bar beside my water bottle. Nobody’s ever checked whether I’d eaten before.
Me: Not yet.
Tiny: Buttercup.
Me: I have a granola bar.
Tiny: Eat it before I tell Scarlett.
I laugh quietly, then eat the granola bar because suddenly not eating it feels like losing an argument. When I tell him I did, he sends back a string of celebratory words that makes me laugh again.
The rest of the shift passes with little messages here and there. He tells me Tessa threatened to bring more soup. I tell him Sophie said he used to eat four grilled cheese sandwiches. He accuses Sophie of exposing classified information. I tell him her secret is safe with me.
By the time I clock out, I feel lighter. In the car, one more message comes through.
Tiny: What are you doing tonight?
My heart races. I’m not ready for him to ask me out. Not yet. But I want to be.
Me: Nothing exciting. Studying for another test.
Tiny: Have a good night, Buttercup. Study hard, eat actual food, and don’t let the anatomy textbook win.
He doesn’t push. He doesn’t assume. Five minutes later another text appears.
Tiny: Sorry. Apparently I’m becoming everybody’s mom.
I laugh out loud in the quiet car, warmth spreading through my chest.
Home is quiet when I walk in, but not peaceful. Mom wipes already-clean counters. Dad looks up from his chair.
“Daniel confirmed Friday,” he says. “He’ll pick you up at six.”
My stomach tightens. “He still hasn’t asked me.”
Dad sets the remote down. “We discussed this already.”
“No, you told me.” My voice trembles but I don’t take it back. “That’s not really the same thing.”
Mom’s hand freezes. Dad’s gaze sharpens. “Lucy.”
“I’m going upstairs to study,” I say.
Dad watches me. “We’ll talk about your attitude later.”
I nod and go upstairs with my heart beating too fast. Once I’m in my room I close the door and sit on the edge of my bed. He still hasn’t asked me.
I open Tiny’s messages. He has no idea what happened at breakfast. He just answers like choosing for yourself is the most ordinary thing in the world.
Me: Can I ask you something?
Tiny: Anything.
Me: Do you always ask before making plans with someone?
There is a pause.
Tiny: Well, the alternative is kidnapping someone and I’ve been told that’s illegal. So, yeah.
Tiny: People get to choose where they go and who they spend time with.
Me: Even if someone else thinks they know what’s best?
Tiny: Especially then.
I stare at the screen until my eyes burn.
Me: Thank you.
Tiny: You don’t have to thank me for that.
I set the phone against my chest and lie back on my bed, staring at the ceiling. The house is the same. Dad is still downstairs. Daniel is still coming Friday. But something feels different inside me now.