Chapter Ten
New Start
T
urning eighteen gave me something I never had—an exit. A real one. I didn’t have to return the next time she kicked me out. That place never wanted me, and I’ve stopped wasting the energy to care.
After hearing her accuse me over and over, I finally realized I was done trying to convince her of anything and letting her run my life.
I grabbed my shit and moved in with Arina.
My circle dissolved until it was just her and Jacob. But honestly? They fill the space better than anyone else ever did.
Arina and I have been tight since sixth grade and she’s nothing like the temporary people I grew up around. She’s never loved me halfway. Even when basketball swallowed her whole, we didn’t drift. She would’ve gone to play in college if her ACL didn’t betray her.
Our birthdays are two days apart, so it always feels like fate tied us together long before we even met. Only thing stopping us from being actual sisters is our skin color.
Her piercing blue eyes and porcelain skin makes her look like she got hand-picked for a Twilight reboot.
Small, yet plump, light pink lips, dark silky hair stopping just shy of her ass.
Body stacked in a kind of way that hits every category at once: plus-size curves, gym-girl confidence—without the gym—and D-cups that put in overtime.
And she owns every bit of it. That’s what I love about her most—she carries herself like she’s the prize. Hell if I was a guy, I’d shoot my shot first glance.
During high school, I would crash at Arina’s whenever my mom and I blew up. But last year, her mom married her rich boss and moved out. So now, the house is ours.
Two girls playing house, pretending we’re grown while the world presses down harder than we can handle.
Her uncle rents one of the spare rooms, but he’s basically a ghost. In and out, hardly ever noticed. If anything, him being there makes the place feel safer—like no matter what happens, at least we’re not completely alone.
And through everything, Jacob’s still here.
Even when’s dragging himself home from long shifts or answering my texts with half-sleeping replies, he keeps choosing me.
We hold onto whatever little pockets of time we can steal—an hour here, a few minutes there—trying to convince ourselves it’s enough.
Sometimes it really does feel like the old us.
But other times, it feels like we’re tiptoeing around something neither of us wants to name. A feeling I’m scared to stare too closely at, because I’m not sure I’d like what I see.
The distance is eating at us. Or maybe it’s just me—jealousy crawling in my chest like it pays rent.
This isn’t high school anymore, where we saw each other every day and the girls eyeing him were just background extras.
This is the real world—new jobs, new faces, and new people I’ll probably never meet.
? ? ?
It’s been three months living with Arina, and already it’s chaos. Her mom’s gone for good, leaving the house in our hands—free to decorate however we want. Cute in theory. But in reality, it’s a total nightmare.
What should’ve been a three-day flooring job dragged into two weeks of dust, crooked tiles, and contractors who clearly got their training off YouTube.
With both our rooms torn apart, we end up camping in the living room—Arina on the couch, and me on the air mattress. Not glamorous, but at least the place is ours. No moms breathing down our necks. No rules but the ones we make.
Technically, the house belongs to Arina’s great-grandfather, so the repairs are on her family. But the day-to-day cleaning is all me. Cooking, cleaning, laundry—basically everything.
Arina’s an only child who’s never had to lift a finger.
And it shows. Her room is a hazard zone. Clothes everywhere. Clean and dirty blending into one giant textile swamp.
I once walked in there and couldn’t even see the carpet.
The kitchen’s no better—dishes piled so high they looked like they were auditioning for the Leaning Tower of Pisa. If I don't step in, she’ll just pay her other friend to come clean.
I’m not her maid. But as much as I love her, I don’t trust her with the plates I eat from either.
We fall into a rhythm—figuring out who handles what, how to keep the place from collapsing into a disaster, at least make it look halfway presentable on the daily. It’s comfortable in a strange, grown-up way.
Like we’ve somehow slipped into being real adults—managing bills, pretending we’ve got life under control even when we’re mostly just winging it.
Meanwhile, I’m still stuck working at Eddie’s, crawling through every shift like it’s slowly killing me.
The place looks rundown as hell—cracked tiles, peeling booths, sticky tables—but the people inside act like it’s five-star dining.
Privileged assholes snapping their fingers, looking right through me until they need a refill.
Half of them don’t even glance at me when they order, like the food just appears out of thin air.
God forbid they say thank you.
It’s the kind of job that eats at you slow. Every fake smile, every yes, ma’am I choke out, chips away at something inside me. And the worst part is, it makes me feel just like my mother always did—small and invisible.
Yet you’ll find me there, five days out the week, wiping tables in a dump full of people who think they’re too good for fucking manners.
It’s been almost a year since I last spoke to her. And I don’t plan too. Every conversation ends the same—her bitching, talking shit, and acting like I need lessons I never asked for.
All I ever wanted is a mom who can guide me, not one who tries to own me. Someone who can love me without strings, without control. But she can’t. She’ll probably never be able to.
So, I cut that cord—I’m done giving her chances to show me she isn’t going to change.
? ? ?
I wake up earlier than usual for work. I showerd last night, so all I really have to do is pull myself together.
I decided to design my room in white and gray, with everything set up neatly in its spot to give me some sense of calm.
My dresser sits perfectly beside my vanity, my bed centered just right, the rug soft and comforting under my feet.
Perfume bottles in perfect rows, makeup arranged just the way I like it.
I drag myself into the stiff white uniform they swear is professional. Yet all it does is remind me I’m just a body here, filling a shift I already despise.
I already know how will today go. Another shift. Same faces. Same routine. My only hope is nothing pushes me over the edge enough to finally quit—because God knows I want to.
Every fucking day.
I pull into the lot with five minutes to spare, parking in my usual spot by the side door.
The smell hits me first; fry oil, grilled onions, and last night’s bleach, clinging like they gassed the place.
Marco’s already at the grill, Tia’s perched on register when I slide into the back to clock in.
8:01. Whatever. They’re lucky I even showed up.
Two years at this dump, and I swear it’s draining the life out of me.
Apron on. Hat adjusted. Hair tucked. Hands washed—twice, because I’m refuse to be in any type of kitchen with dirty hands. I check the prep list, and get moving.
The first hour’s light. Black coffees. A couple breakfast sandwiches. A dad with two kids who take forever to pick between pancakes or fries. I slap on the customer-service smile, count change, and wipe counters between orders. Nothing worth remembering.
Exactly how I like it.
By mid-morning, lunch prep kicks in. Tia’s in her own world, spilling the latest chapter of her messy dating life—loud enough that if HR heard her, they’d choke. Meanwhile Marco’s murdering whatever’s on the radio, sounding like a dying cat auditioning for American Idol.
And my manager’s doing her usual patrol. Clipboard in hand, eyes scanning for mistakes she’ll never find, hunting like it’s a blood sport.
I duck into the walk-in for more pickles, sucking in the blast of cold air. Thirty seconds of peace. My little secret hideout. No customers, no managers, no frying oil clinging to my skin—just a unforgiving chill. I’d stay longer if I could, but the line calls.
Back out, I reset the cutting board, glance at the clock and zone out. The shift’s running so smooth I almost believe my morning prayer might actually stick for once. But four-thirty hits, and like clockwork, hell breaks loose.
Orders come in one after another, my body moves on autopilot; call, build, wrap, hand-off. Smile for the assholes who roll their eyes and laugh with the regulars who pretend to care about my day.
After a rush that feels never-ending, the orders finally start to slow down. The noise fades, and for a second, the lull almost feels peaceful. I grab a rag and start wiping down the counter, dragging it in slow, lazy circles—more out of habit than effort.
The door swings open, and the bell above it lets out its usual half-hearted jingle—sharp enough to make me look up even though I don’t want to.
My hand freezes over the register, cloth hanging midair.
Well would you look at what the cat dragged in—fucking Samantha.
Because why wouldn’t she walk into my workplace on the one day I begged for peace?