Chapter 2
Octavia
“Are your parents delusional?” Cheyenne sighs dramatically as she throws herself onto my bed, boots and all.
The mattress dips under her weight, springs groaning in protest. Her blonde hair fans out around her face in a chaotic halo, strands tangled from sleep or from wherever she stumbled out of this morning.
She’s wearing something far too thin for the kind of chill that drift through the air, which tells me she didn’t come from her own house.
Emotional support, Cheyenne-style. Delivered straight from some booty calls sheets.
“Delusional is definitely one word for it,” Maria mutters from above me. She threads her fingers carefully through my hair, separating strands with slow precision as she starts another tiny braid. “Maybe they’ve just never watched an episode of Criminal Minds.”
I’m sprawled in front of Maria in my rocking chair, head tipped back into her lap, my spine curved as I press into her legs for warmth.
The chair rocks faintly with each shift of her weight.
Maria smells like vanilla and coconut oil, her brown curls spilling forward every time she leans over me.
Her skin still holds the kind of golden tone most people fake in winter.
Right now she looks almost painfully calm compared to the storm brewing in my chest.
“Your dad said he was at St. Augustine for what again?” Cheyenne asks, finally rolling onto her side so she can look at us properly. The dark smudges beneath her eyes suggest her night ran long.
I hesitate.
Maria’s fingers tug a little too sharply on one braid. “Don’t you dare say you don’t know,” she warns.
“I don’t want to say,” I admit softly.
“Spill,” she snaps, sharper now.
The rocking chair creaks as I sit up, pulling away from her lap.
I slide away from Maria and onto the floor, crossing my legs in front of me.
My palms come up to rub at my face, fingers dragging over the raised scar along my left cheek.
The familiar ridge grounds me. Anchors me.
I trace it without thinking whenever I’m overwhelmed.
I know what kids from places like St. Augustine are like.
I know.
I’ve heard the stories. The rumors. The whispered warnings parents give their children about boys who grow up in facilities instead of homes.
It’s never framed as anything hopeful.
“He um…” I swallow, the words sticking. “He killed his father when he was fourteen.”
Cheyenne jerks upright so fast the bed squeals under her. “Come again?”
The last of the fog leaves her face instantly.
Dropping my hands into my lap, I smooth them over my skirt, focusing on the clashing patterns of the thrifted fabric so I don’t have to meet their eyes.
“H-he stabbed his father,” I say, my voice quieter now. “Multiple times. The police ruled it insanity. They said there were years of abuse involved. St. Augustine was supposed to be rehabilitation. Or punishment…or both.”
The room feels smaller after that.
Maria goes very still. Cheyenne swings her legs off the bed, planting her feet firmly on the floor.
“And your mom and dad think bringing this psychopath into your house is a good idea?” Maria demands, her voice losing its softness entirely. “He’s eighteen. He can go figure himself out somewhere else.”
The word psychopath lands harder than I expect.
I flinch.
“It wasn’t that simple,” I say quickly, even though I don’t fully understand why I’m defending him. “There were reports. CPS calls. They said his father-”
“That doesn’t erase what he did,” Cheyenne cuts in, her tone no longer playful. “Abuse doesn’t magically turn you into someone who stabs a man to death.”
Silence stretches between us.
My fingers drift back to the scar on my cheek. I know what people assume when they see it. I know how quickly a story can be written about you before you ever speak.
“I just…” I exhale slowly. “I know kids from those homes can be unpredictable. Angry. Detached. I’ve seen it.”
“And you think that’s something you should live with?” Maria asks.
I don’t answer right away.
Because the truth is, what unsettles me isn’t just what he did.
It’s that part of me understands what it takes to reach that point.
And that scares me more than anything they’re saying.
I pull my legs up tighter against my chest, wrapping my arms around them until my chin disappears into the collar of my sweater.
The fabric presses against my mouth, muffling my breathing.
I make myself small without thinking about it, shoulders curving inward, back rounding as if I can fold into myself and disappear from the conversation entirely.
“I came from a home too,” I say quietly.
The words feel important, even if they don’t carry the same weight in their minds.
Cheyenne exhales slowly, her tone shifting from sharp to cautious. “Not one like his, Octavia,” she says. “Mrs. Marrow… your mom… she knew you for years before they asked to take you in. Before your bio mom…”
“Before my mom killed herself,” I finish for her.
There’s no tremble in my voice. No sudden rush of emotion. The emptiness that settled in the day it happened has never really left. It just lives there now, dormant and constant.
“You don’t have to tiptoe around it,” I continue. “She’s the one who spiraled. She’s the one who took me from Brightside. And she’s the one who would have used me to survive if the fentanyl hadn’t taken her first.”
The room grows heavier after that.
I remember that day in pieces.
Somehow that makes it worse.
I remember thinking she looked better when she showed up at Brightside Adoption. Cleaner..focused. Like maybe she had finally chosen sobriety over everything else. I let myself believe she was there to do the right thing.
I should have questioned why she insisted we leave through the back.
I should have questioned why she didn’t want anyone seeing us together.
I should have questioned why she seemed so eager for me to meet the “friends” she kept mentioning.
Sometimes, when I let my mind drift too far, I wonder what would have happened if those friends had made it to the motel room before the drugs shut her down. I wonder how thin the line really was between what happened and something far worse.
Cheyenne shifts on the bed, her voice quieter now but still firm. “I’m just saying, not everyone deserves the kind of kindness your parents offer.”
I nod faintly. “My dad served with his,” I say. “He’s never explained much, but I know he carries guilt about this boy. I can see it in him. I just don’t know what for.”
Maria’s jaw tightens. “Does it matter? Once someone crosses that line…”
She doesn’t finish, but the implication lingers.
Cheyenne starts building again, her worry gaining momentum. “Your parents can’t just bring someone like that into your house. They can’t pretend this is some feel-good rescue story.”
Their voices overlap, concern feeding off concern. I let them talk.
My eyes drift toward the mirror on the wall.
I barely recognize myself for a second. I’m hunched over on the floor, wrapped in layers, hair falling forward around my face. Then I see it more clearly. The girl from the motel room is still there, just older now.
My body has changed. Filled out in ways that draw attention even when I try to avoid it.
I inherited my mother’s curves before the drugs hollowed her out.
I stare at the thick scar along my left cheek, the way it interrupts the smoothness of my skin.
It’s a reminder I don’t get to escape where I came from.
My hair falls down my back in loose waves, threaded with the small braids Maria made. The color is the same rich brown my mother had. My eyes are the same too. Sometimes that feels like a betrayal.
Covering myself has always felt necessary. Protective. In Spokehaven, it’s easy to hide under coats and sweaters. The cold makes it normal.
I tune back into their conversation as it swells again, something in me pushing forward before I can stop it.
“I could have ended up like him,” I say.
The room falls silent.
Both of them turn to look at me.
“If I wasn’t a coward,” I add, my voice steadier than I expect.
Rising slowly from the floor, I brush imaginary dust from my skirt. My hands tremble slightly, but I force myself to keep going.
“She did what she did because she knew I was there,” I say. “But I can’t pretend I didn’t think about helping her that night. I can’t pretend I didn’t feel trapped enough to imagine it. And I can’t pretend I wasn’t relieved when it was over.”
The admission hangs in the air.
Maria and Cheyenne don’t interrupt this time. They don’t argue.
They just look at me differently.
Not scared.
Not angry.
Just… understanding.
And that understanding feels far more exposing than any accusation ever could.
Maria moves first.
“I know,” she whispers softly, pushing herself up from the chair and stepping toward me before I can say anything else.
Her arms wrap around me without hesitation.
It’s not a careful hug or a hesitant one.
It’s firm and grounding, like she’s trying to hold me together for a second.
I lean into her automatically, my forehead pressing against her shoulder.
The familiar scent of her coconut shampoo fills the space between us, warm and comforting in a way that makes my chest loosen.
For the first time since the conversation started, I let my shoulders drop.
“I’m sorry we weren’t there before,” she murmurs.
Her voice is thick with something close to regret, even though there’s nothing she could have done back then.
“You can’t erase the past,” I say quietly, tightening my arms around her. “None of us can.”
The words come out as more of a tired acceptance than anything else. The past is something you carry, not something you fix.
Behind us, Cheyenne makes an exaggerated groan.
“God, now I want in on that,” she complains, her voice wobbling as if she’s trying not to get emotional and failing.