Chapter 4
MAYA
Day three at Emma's house, and I've almost convinced myself I belong here.
Almost.
I'm in the kitchen making scrambled eggs for Ethan when Emma stumbles in, looking green. She makes it to the bin just in time to throw up whatever's left in her stomach from yesterday.
"Morning sickness is a fucking lie," she gasps, gripping the counter. "It's all-day sickness."
I wet a dish towel and hand it to her. "Nine weeks is usually when it peaks. It should start getting better in a few weeks."
"Should, being the operative word." She presses the towel to her face. "With Ethan, it lasted until fourteen weeks."
"Sit." I guide her to a chair. "I've got breakfast."
She doesn't argue, which tells me how bad she feels. Emma hates being taken care of, always has. But pregnancy doesn't care about pride.
Ethan's in his high chair, banging a spoon against the tray. "Mama sick?"
"Mama's okay, buddy." I plate his eggs, cutting them into tiny pieces. "Just growing your baby brother or sister."
"Baby!" He shoves eggs in his mouth with his hands, ignoring the spoon entirely.
Emma watches me move around her kitchen.
We've had a lot of practice at living together.
I spent two years with the Andersons after Mom died, then we ended up as roommates in Pinewood for a few years after that.
We know each other's rhythms, the way people do when they've shared space long enough that it becomes second nature.
That was before. When I was whole.
"You don't have to do all this," Emma says. "You're a guest."
"I'm unemployed and staying in your house rent-free. The least I can do is make breakfast."
Unemployed.
The word slips out before I can stop it.
Her eyes sharpen. "Wait. Unemployed? Maya, what happened?"
Fuck.
I turn back to the stove, but there's nowhere to hide in the kitchen. "It's nothing. Budget cuts."
"Budget cuts?" She sounds incredulous. "You're one of the best pediatric nurses at that hospital. They'd be idiots to let you go."
"Well." I force a laugh that sounds hollow even to my ears. "Apparently, they're idiots."
"When did this happen?"
"About two and a half months ago." The timeline makes my stomach turn. Two weeks after I reported the rape. Two weeks of them building a case to fire me while pretending to investigate.
The silence behind me is heavy. I can feel her staring, putting pieces together. The way I showed up unannounced. Everything I own in bags. The fact that I haven't mentioned work once since I arrived.
"Maya. Turn around."
I do, reluctantly. Emma's watching me with that expression I know too well. The one that says she sees straight through my bullshit.
"Is that why you're here? You lost your job?"
"And my apartment. The lease was up. Couldn't afford to renew it without income." I grip the edge of the counter. "I tried to make it work with what money I had, and I was too much of a coward to ask for help. Now I'm out of options."
Emma stands up, crosses the kitchen, and pulls me into a hug. I freeze for a second before hugging her back, my throat tight.
"You're family," she says firmly. "You always have been."
The kindness almost breaks me. I pull away before I start crying.
"It's temporary. I'll find something else soon."
"I'm calling them." Emma's already looking around for her phone. "This is bullshit. What hospital lets go of someone like you because of budget cuts?"
"Emma, don't—"
"No, seriously. You've told me about the kids you've helped, the lives you've saved. What's the number for HR?"
"Don't!" The word comes out too sharp, too panicked. "I mean, don't. Please."
She pauses, frowning. "Why not? If this is some kind of discrimination or wrongful termination—"
"It's not. They followed all the rules. Gave me severance. It's done." I'm talking too fast, desperation leaking through. "Just let it go. Please."
Emma studies me for a long moment. I can see her weighing what to push, what to let slide. Finally, she nods slowly.
"Okay. I won't call. But for the record, I think they're making a huge mistake."
"Yeah, well." I grab the dish towel and wipe down the counter even though it's already clean. "It is what it is."
"You can stay here as long as you need to. Seriously. The guest room is yours." She reaches over and squeezes my hand. "We'll figure this out together, okay?"
The lump in my throat is back. "Thanks, Em."
Ethan chooses that moment to dump his entire cup of juice on the floor, and the conversation shifts to damage control. I'm grateful for the distraction, even if it means cleaning up apple juice while Ethan thinks it's the funniest thing in the world.
After breakfast, Emma announces we need groceries.
My stomach drops. "I can stay here if you and Ethan want to have some time together."
"I'd rather have the company. Besides, you know how he gets in the store. Extra hands are always good."
I can't say no without raising more questions I don't want to answer. So I nod and help clean Ethan up, wiping juice from his hands while he squirms and laughs.
The grocery store is twenty minutes away.
Emma talks the whole drive about how exhausted she is, about whether the baby will look like Chase or more like her, about how Jackson's been weird lately.
I make the right noises in the right places, but I'm too focused on keeping my hands from shaking to really listen.
I haven't been in a crowd since the rape.
Not really. Going to the store with Jackson for Ethan's stuff doesn't count—he was there the whole time, acting like a buffer between me and everyone else.
Plus, we bickered through the entire trip, which helped distract me from the fact that strangers surrounded me.
Other than that, it's been the courthouse for the police report and the hospital for the rape kit. Even driving here from Pinewood, I stuck to back roads and only stopped for gas when I absolutely had to.
The parking lot is packed when we arrive. Saturday morning shopping rush.
"Ready?" Emma asks, already unbuckling.
No.
"Yeah."
Getting Ethan out of his car seat takes both of us. He wants to walk instead of sitting in the cart, so Emma compromises and lets him hold onto the side while she pushes.
Inside, the lights are too bright. The store is full of people: families, couples, and solo shoppers weaving through aisles. The instrumental version of a pop song plays overhead. Everything's too loud, too close, too much.
"Produce first," Emma says, heading left.
I follow, keeping my eyes on Ethan. He's babbling about apples, pointing at everything red. Emma lets him pick out the ones he wants, praising his choices.
I'm doing fine until we turn down the cereal aisle.
A man reaches past me for a box on the top shelf. His arm brushes my shoulder.
And suddenly I'm back in the supply closet. Hands on me, breath caught in my throat, body frozen. The shelves press in on all sides, and the lights become the harsh overhead bulb from that night. I can smell the antiseptic, feel the cold metal digging into my back.
My chest tightens. Can't breathe. Can't think. The cereal boxes blur together, colors bleeding into each other.
"Maya?"
Emma's voice sounds like it's coming through water. The aisle tilts, vision narrowing to a pinhole. I grab the shelf to keep from falling, my fingers digging into the metal until it hurts.
People are staring. A woman with a toddler gives me a wide berth. Someone asks if I'm okay, but I can't answer because there's no air, there's nothing but the memory of hands and the smell of that closet and the feeling of being trapped—
"Maya, hey." Emma's in front of me now, Ethan secured in the cart, both of them staring. "What's wrong? Talk to me."
I force air into my lungs, but it feels like breathing through a straw. One breath. Two. The man who triggered it is already gone, oblivious to what he's done.
"Nothing. I'm fine."
"You're not fine, you look like you're about to pass out." She studies my face, concern deepening the lines around her mouth. Her hand hovers near my arm but doesn't touch. "What just happened?"
"Just tired," I manage, though my voice shakes. "Didn't sleep great."
She doesn't look convinced, and I can see her trying to piece together what she just witnessed: the way I froze, the panic in my eyes, how I'm still gripping the shelf like it's the only thing keeping me upright.
"Why don't you grab us some coffee from the shop in the front?" she says carefully. "I'll finish up here, it's just a few more things."
It's an out. I take it gratefully. "Sure. What do you want?"
"Decaf latte. Pregnancy is bullshit."
I leave her with the cart and make my way to the front of the store, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. My legs feel weak, unsteady. The line for coffee is five people deep. I stand at the back and count my breaths. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.
It's a technique my old therapist taught me, one of the few things that actually helps when the panic hits.
By the time I order our drinks, my hands have mostly stopped shaking. The barista gives me a concerned look when I fumble with my wallet, but doesn't comment.
I find Emma in the checkout line, Ethan happily clutching a box of animal crackers she's clearly bribed him with. She glances at me, assessing, but just takes her coffee with a quiet "thank you."
We load the groceries in silence. Ethan chatters about his crackers from his car seat. Emma starts the engine and pulls out of the parking spot.
She glances over at me. "Thanks for coming. I know shopping isn't exactly thrilling, but I appreciate the help."
"Anytime."
She drives in silence for a few seconds before asking, "Are you sure you're okay?"
"I'm fine, I promise."
Emma doesn't push, but the silence that follows says she doesn't believe me.
"Liar," she mutters finally, almost under her breath.
Back at the house, we unload groceries while Ethan "helps" by pulling things out of bags and putting them in random places. Emma's laughing at him trying to fit a watermelon in the cabinet when a black cat appears from nowhere.
"Max!" Emma scoops him up. "Where have you been hiding?"
Max purrs, low and steady. Then he sees me and practically launches himself out of Emma's arms, meowing insistently.
"Whoa!" She laughs as Max winds around my legs. "Someone's happy to see you."
I crouch down, and he immediately headbutts my hand, demanding attention. His fur is soft, and the purring gets louder when I scratch behind his ears. He's gotten bigger since I last saw him. Chase has had him for four years now.
"He's such a traitor," Emma says, watching Max climb into my lap like we're old friends. "Chase is going to be so offended."
"Maybe he just prefers us girls."
"Poor Chase. Outnumbered in his own house." She puts the watermelon in the fridge. "Even Jackson doesn't stand a chance with you around."
Jackson. Right. He's still here, still in the basement. Still avoiding me as much as I'm avoiding him.
Max kneads my thighs, claws out just enough to sting through my jeans. The pressure hits right where I cut three nights ago. I suck in a breath but don't move. The pain grounds me. Reminds me I'm still here, still real.
"You okay?" Emma's watching me again.
I'm never okay anymore.
"Yeah. Just hungry."
"Let's make lunch. I'm actually feeling human for the first time today."
We make sandwiches and eat at the kitchen table while Ethan spreads peanut butter on his face instead of eating. Max sits at my feet, occasionally pawing at my leg for attention.
This is nice. Normal. The kind of afternoon I used to dream about having: hanging out with Emma, playing with Ethan, existing without the weight of everything crushing me.
But it's all temporary. A brief reprieve before reality crashes back in.
The afternoon passes in a blur of toddler entertainment and small talk. Emma puts Ethan down for a nap around two. Chase and Jackson get home two hours later, both of them sweaty from practice. Jackson nods at me, but heads straight for the basement. Chase kisses Emma and asks about her morning.
I excuse myself and go upstairs to the guest room.
It's a nice room. Blue walls, white furniture, and a window that overlooks the front of the house. Emma made it up for me the first night with fresh sheets and extra blankets.
I should be grateful. I am grateful.
But sitting here on the edge of the bed, staring at my bags still unpacked in the corner, all I feel is tired.
Tired of pretending. Tired of lying. Tired of flinching at shadows and fighting panic attacks in grocery store aisles. Tired of being in my own skin.
My journal is in the front pocket of my bag. I pull it out and open it to a blank page.
The pen hovers. I should write. Should get some of this out before it eats me alive.
But the words won't come. They're all stuck somewhere behind my ribs, sharp and cutting and too big to fit on paper.
I close the journal and set it on the nightstand.
Max appears in the doorway. He jumps onto the bed and settles in my lap, purring.
I pet him and stare at the wall, watching the shadows lengthen as the sun sets. Downstairs, I can hear Emma and Chase talking, Ethan's little voice joining in. The sounds of a family. A home.
I used to have that. Not a family like theirs, but a place where I belonged. A job I loved. A purpose that got me out of bed every morning.
Now I have a journal I can't write in, a cat that isn't mine, and a best friend I'm lying to every time I open my mouth.
Outside, someone's shooting a basketball. The steady thump echoes through the quiet. I get up and look out the window.
Jackson's in the driveway, alone in the growing dark, taking shot after shot at the hoop over the garage. His form is effortless, pure muscle memory. He sinks three in a row, misses the next, then grabs the rebound and tries again.
I watch him until Max meows, demanding attention.
"Okay, okay." I sit back down and let him climb into my lap again. "Just you and me, huh?"
He purrs in agreement.
I stroke his fur and stare at nothing. That's all I'm doing here, really. Taking up space. Waiting for the next disaster, counting down the days until I have to leave, and figuring out what the fuck comes next.
The journal sits on the nightstand, blank pages waiting.
I don't pick it up.
I can't write about Lily without seeing her face. Can't write about the rape without feeling his hands. Can't write about why I'm here without admitting I have nowhere else to go.
So I sit in the dark with a cat in my lap and try to remember the last time I felt safe.
The memory won't come.