Chapter 16
The days blur.
It's not that I don't hear from Jordan. I do. A lot. I'm just too caught up in the hell that's now my reality.
The last four months were a pipe dream and life just threw a bucket of cold water on me. Now I'm awake to find my reputation in tatters.
The small-town Cinderella who turned the billionaire heir into a golden retriever, is now the gold-digging slut who—along with the rest of her thieving family—tried to leech her way into wealth.
The untouchable employee who clearly didn't need her job but deigned to show up for all her shifts is now the one her co-workers wouldn't even speak to for fear of being labelled with her.
The perfect daughter who brought home the perfect son is the prodigal daughter who didn't listen.
Mom tries to defend me to her friends, but I see it in her eyes sometimes, that subtle shift in her gaze. If only I'd listened to my father and never gone near Jordan.
Finally sick of the bullying from Murphy, and the jeers from Madeline, I hand in my notice at Pizza Fiesta.
Bills still need paying, though, and within a week I'm lucky to find work with Mima's—the same diner Jordan and I used to escape to. It's farther from home than Pizza Fiesta, but the tips are better, and I can borrow Dad's old bike.
Jordan calls me every day but I don't pick up. Reality is too sharp, too painful. Reaching for Jordan feels like reaching for a dream.
My only hope is that he'll keep his word. That he'll come through for Dad.
My graduation is today but I don't attend because it's the same day as Dad's arraignment.
My only hope is that Dad is granted bail. That Jordan keeps his world.
Father was denied bail. Jordan didn't come through. Again.
Now, I sit frozen at our kitchen table, watching Mom with her head in her hands while the local news plays the court decision on repeat.
Drew paces the living room like a caged animal, muttering about lawyers and appeals and "those bastard suits."
My phone lights up every few minutes. His name. Then darkness. Over and over until the sight of it feels like sandpaper dragging across my heart.
Part of me wonders if I'm punishing him.
The truth is simpler: I'm just trying to survive.
How do I talk to the man who made you feel safe and warm, when he was actually holding a match to dynamite? Who turned his back the moment everything exploded?
Eventually, I shove my phone under a pile of textbooks and pretend I've moved on.
Days become weeks.
Dad remains in custody. The evidence piles up in the court of public opinion: stories from coworkers who "always knew something was off," commentators calling him greedy, reckless, stupid. Calling me a pathetic gold digger.
Mom stops watching the news.
Drew starts drinking more on the porch.
I throw myself into work. My friends stop reaching out. Or maybe I stop answering. Either way, the silence becomes permanent.
The engagement ring stays buried in the backyard. I've taken to sipping morning coffees while I stare at the spot I buried it.
Celebrating the implosion of my life and telling myself it doesn't get worse.
Turns out I'm wrong. It does get worse.
It's nearly ten when my shift at Mima's ends.
The diner's almost empty—just old Mr. Chen nursing his third coffee at the counter and the cook scraping down the grill in back. I'm counting tips, sorting crumpled bills by denomination, when the bell over the door chimes.
I glance up, my hands stilling over the money.
Molly.
She looks different. Uncertain. Like she's not sure she belongs here.
"Hey," she says quietly.
"Hey." The word scrapes out of me. We haven't talked since the whispers started.
"Can I get a coffee?"
I glance at the clock. "We're closing in—"
"Please, Bree."
Something in her voice stops my refusal. I nod, pouring her a cup with hands that shake just enough to notice. When I set it on the counter, she doesn't sit. Instead, she carries it to the corner booth—our booth, the one Jordan and I always claimed—and waits.
"Molly, I really need to finish closing—"
"Sit with me." Not a question. "Please."
The cook waves me off before I can protest. "Go on, kid. I got this."
So I slide into the booth across from her, still wearing my grease-stained apron, exhaustion pulling at every muscle.
We sit in silence.
Then Molly reaches across the table and grabs my hand. "I'm sorry."
The words crack something open inside my chest.
"I should've called." Her voice breaks. "Should've checked on you. I didn't know what to say, and then it had been so long, and I felt like such a shitty friend—"
"It's okay," I whisper.
"It's not." Her eyes shine. "You're going through hell and I disappeared."
The dam breaks.
I don't mean to cry. Don't want to. But suddenly I'm sobbing—ugly, gasping sounds that shake my whole body—and Molly slides around to my side of the booth, pulling me against her shoulder.
"I've got you," she murmurs, one hand stroking my hair. "I've got you."
And I let myself shatter.
I tell her everything. How Dad won't defend himself. How people look at me like I'm something dirty they stepped in. How I miss Jordan so much it's a physical ache in my chest. How every morning I wake up and forget for one perfect second, then reality crashes back and I remember all over again.
Molly doesn't tell me it'll be okay. Doesn't offer empty platitudes. She just holds me and lets me break.
Eventually, the sobs slow to hiccups. My breathing steadies.
"Here." She pushes the coffee toward me. "Drink. You'll feel better."
I'm too wrung out to argue. The cup is lukewarm now, slightly bitter on my tongue, but it's something warm and real in my hands. Something to anchor me.
We sit like that—her arm around my shoulders, my head against her collarbone—until my breathing fully evens out. The cook's disappeared into the back. Mr. Chen must have left at some point. It's just us and the hum of the ancient refrigerator.
"Thank you," I finally whisper.
"Always," Molly says.
I take another sip. Then another. By the time I drain the cup, something feels... off.
My head feels light. Floaty.
Heat blooms under my skin, spreading from my chest outward. My clothes feel too tight, too warm. There's a restlessness building in my body, something I can't name.
I shift in my seat, suddenly uncomfortable.
Then—with a flush of mortification—I realize what this is.
I'm aroused.
Oh God.
It's been a month. A whole month since I've seen Jordan, touched Jordan, been held by anyone except my grieving mother. The floodgates must have opened when I let myself cry about him. When I let myself feel for the first time in weeks.
My body doesn't care about context. Doesn't understand that I'm sitting in a diner booth with my best friend. It only knows I talked about Jordan, thought about Jordan, remembered what it felt like to be wanted—
And now every nerve ending is screaming for something I can't have.
Heat crawls up my neck. My pulse pounds in places it shouldn't.
This is humiliating.
"You okay?" Molly pulls back, studying my face.
"Yeah." Too high. Too tight. "I just—I need to go. I'm sorry—"
I stand abruptly, grabbing my jacket off the booth.
The dizziness from moments ago vanishes, replaced by a jittery energy that makes my hands tremble.
"Bree—"
"Thank you for coming." I can't meet her eyes. "Really. I'll call you soon, okay?"
I don't wait for an answer. Just grab my bag and push through the door into the night.
Outside, the air is warm and dry against my flushed skin. I unlock Dad's bike from the rack with shaking hands.
I should feel better after crying. Lighter. Less alone. Instead, I feel wrong. Overheated. Wired.
It's fine, I tell myself. It's just been too long. Just your body being stupid.
I swing my leg over the bike and start pedaling, trying to outrun the buzzing under my skin.
The streetlights blur past. The warm air rushes against my face. For a moment, I almost feel free.
Then—headlights.
Bright. Sudden. Wrong.
I don't even have time to swerve.
I wake up with my skull trying to split in half.
The light is too bright, stabbing straight through my eyelids. My mouth tastes like metal and cotton. Every inch of me aches—shoulders, hips, knees, ribs—as if I've been used as a human pinball.
I try to move and something tugs at my hand.
I blink my eyes open.
White ceiling.
White walls.
A plastic bag of clear fluid hanging from a pole.
A beeping sound, slow and steady.
I'm in a hospital.
"Bree?"
Mom's voice.
I turn my head too quickly and pain flares in my neck, making me groan.
She's there, slumped in the chair by my bed, face creased, hair a frizzy halo. Her eyes are red-rimmed, but she tries to smile. "Hey, sweetie. You're awake."
"What… happened?" I croak.
"You were in an accident." Her voice breaks on the last word. "Some kind soul found you on the side of the road, just a block from the house. You'd been thrown from your bike—"
She presses her hand to her mouth, steadying herself. "You're bruised badly, but thankfully there are no broken bones. Do you remember what happened after you left work last night?"
I search my memory.
Molly appeared just as I was closing. We talked. I cried.
Then there was this weird feeling—an ache I couldn't explain between my legs.
I tried to rush home.
Headlights.
Then—nothing.
"No," I whisper. "I don't— I don't remember much. Just that..." I touch my head, wincing. "I felt strange, though."
"Strange how?" Mom asks carefully.
I try to find words for it. "Dizzy. Hot. I thought—" My face flushes. "I was thinking about Jordan, I think. I'm not sure."
Mom's jaw tightens. "The doctor said confusion is normal with a concussion." But there's an edge in her voice. Something she's not saying.
I let it go and focus on breathing through the pain.
"How long was I out?" I croak.
"Not long," Mom says. "Because of the concussion, they've been waking you up every couple of hours to check on you. You kept cursing at the nurses."
Despite everything, a tiny chuckle escapes me. "Really?"