Chapter Twelve Freedom Over Fear
Chapter Twelve
Freedom Over Fear
T
hree years. Three fucking years of clocking in and out, swallowing insults from privileged assholes who can’t even say thank you, babysitting a manager who cared more about the store’s reputation than her actual people—and I’ve got nothing to show for it.
Truth is I never wanted to work there in the first place. But it’s all I know since sixteen. It pays the bills—well paid.
And now?
Gone.
Just like that.
I try telling myself to calm down—but it doesn’t work. My hands wont stop shaking, my chest tightening like my body’s trying to catch up to something I have no choice but to except.
I pull into the driveway, and my chest still feels like a brick’s sitting on it. Inside, Arina’s stretched across the couch, face buried in her phone. But the second she sees me, she sits up like I just set off an alarm.
“What happened? You okay?” Her voice slices sharp with worry.
I don’t sugarcoat it. “Girl, I quit. Fuck that place. Samantha showed up running her mouth, so I told her ass off—I’m so sick and tired of seeing her fucking face.
“Then my manager comes sniffing around, overhears us, and was about to fucking fire me! So, I said fuck it, I grabbed my shit, and bounced. Again, fuck that place.”
Shock flashes on Arina’s face, then quickly flips into fury. She jumps up, pacing like a storm.
“What the fuck—no way. Do you want me to go find her? I’ll handle that bitch. She’s not about to keep trying to ruin your life and walk around like she’s untouchable. This ain’t high school anymore—I got the time today.”
Her rage mirrors mine, but I catch her arm before she launches herself into a full-on homicide plan.
“It’s okay, Arina. She’s not worth it. She only acts tough with an audience.
She knows she’s soft as a damn marshmallow.
And plus if we drag her ass like I want to—we’ll end up in jail.
And she’s not worth our freedom. Or our reputation.
I don’t know about you but I’m way too cute for prison bitch. ”
Arina freezes, jaw tight, fists balled. She exhales hard, collapsing back onto the couch. “Damn. You’re right. “I wouldn’t go to jail over her if my life depended on it,” she mutters, eyes still sparking like she’s ready to light something on fire.
“Trust me, I know.” I drop beside her, my body limp from the weight of it all—but for once, the silence between us feels good. Not crushing; but lifting.
“Come on.” She stands, nudging me like she’s trying to reboot my mind. “We’re going to the store. We need snacks before this night gets too depressing. Or worse, I start Googling her address and we actually pull up.”
She knows food is my love language, but between snacks and attempted murder, we both know which one’s smarter. “You’re so right. Food is the perfect distraction I need right now.” I lace up my shoes, purposely ignoring her second idea.
Ten minutes later, we end up at the corner store, filling a cart with essentials—hot chips, chocolate, ice cream, sour candy, sodas.
Comfort food, the same shit we lived off during middle school sleepovers.
I grab my usuals—Sour Skittles and Hot Fries.
I could eat those religiously, and yeah, it’ll probably take a few years off my life—but honestly it’s worth it.
Back home, one of our favorite horror movies fills the screen, shadows flickering across the room while we scream at jump scares we’ve seen a hundred times. I dig into the ice cream first, before it melts all over the place, laughing at the mountain of junk we somehow justified buying.
Neither of us cares. Tonight isn’t about control—it’s about distraction. And nothing distracts a girl better than sugar, salt, and laughter. Yeah, I’ve got no job, no clue what comes next, but I’ve got her.
And for now? That’s enough.
? ? ?
Walking into the living room the next morning, Arina’s still knocked out on the couch, wrapped tight in a blanket, her low snores filling the room. She passed out before I did, and I didn’t have the energy to move her, so I just left her there.
Seeing her like this kind of reminds me of when I first moved in—we used to crash out here together every night until our rooms were ready.
Back when everything adulting felt new but strangely comforting.
Somehow it’s already been six months of figuring shit out and surviving every curveball, making this place feel like ours.
The table’s covered in candy wrappers—a graveyard of last night’s attempt to bury my rage in snacks and horror movies. I start to wake her, then I remember—I never told Jacob I quit. Hell, I didn’t even talk to him at all yesterday after I walked out of that miserable place.
Where the fuck is he? And what’s so important that he hasn’t sent one damn text? I trust him… but let’s be real, the doubts are creeping in a lot more lately.
Boys will be boys, they say.
My chest aches just thinking it, a sharp pain that always comes when the doubt starts winning.
How the hell did I forget to tell him I quit? And how did he forget to check on me? He’s supposed to be the one person I shouldn’t have to ask to be there for me.
He sometimes works late, but let’s be real—he could’ve been anywhere, with anyone, doing anything. I roll my eyes at my own paranoia, muttering, Get it together, Jaine.
But deep down, I know it’s not paranoia—it’s fear. It’s anger. Fear that the distance, and the late shifts, are prying us apart. Angry that the crack between us is just wide enough for someone else to slide in.
I feel it in my bones that he was doing something.
But, I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me doubt him—let alone us without any proof. So, I send him a message, hiding all my distrust under measured words.
Me: Hey babe, I quit yesterday. Things got too messy at work, and honestly, I couldn’t do it anymore. I’m still trying to process it all. I’m okay, but fuck them. Just wanted to let you know. Sorry I didn’t message you last night, this shit is just a lot to process, you know.
It sounds fine on the surface, but underneath is the ache I’ll never admit—the sting of giving three years to a job that never valued me, the panic of rent looming over my head, and a savings that’s already being stretched too thin.
Honestly, if it weren’t for Arina, I’d either be homeless or living with him—and the way I’m feeling right now, I don’t even know if that would’ve been better or worse.
A few minutes later, my phone buzzes. His name flashes on my screen, my stomach twisting with something that feels a lot like hope.
Jacob: Damn, that sucks baby. But honestly, you’ve been complaining about that job forever. Maybe now you’ll actually find something better. Don’t overthink it—you’ll be fine.
I stare at the words, the air evaporating from my lungs. Don’t overthink it? I’ll be fine? What the fuck is that. Like I didn’t just tell him I walked away from the one thing that kept my bills paid. The one thing I had stable.
No what happened? No are you okay? Just a cold dismissal—like I’m some girl at a party oversharing for attention.
Anyone else would’ve heard reason in his words, not the sting underneath—but to me, it sounds like distance. Like he’s already halfway out the door, patting me on the head instead of holding me when I need him the most.
I message him back quickly before my anger spills into the words I’m typing.
Me: Yeah, you’re right. Thanks, babe.
I toss the phone aside, swallowing down every word I really want to scream.
I shouldn’t have to teach my boyfriend how to show up for me.
He used to do it naturally but lately he’s been making this relationship feel surface level.
While my world is slipping, his is steady—and he doesn’t give a fuck to notice.
He doesn’t ask questions anymore. Doesn’t catch the things I don’t to say. It’s like he’s drifting somewhere I can’t reach, and I’m stuck here holding on to the memory of a man who used to be obsessed with just the thought of me.
I’m starting to wonder if he even realizes the difference.
Or worse—if he does, and he just doesn’t care.