Chapter 1
“What’s it like?” Ivy asks through the phone as I sit on the floor, surrounded by the few belongings I managed to bring with me when I moved here.
“It’s nice,” I say, glancing around. “Small and cozy. It could use a lick of paint, but… it’s exactly what I needed.”
I take in the bare walls and pale curtains. Everything about this place is unfamiliar—the smell, the quiet, the way the floor creaks under my weight—and yet, somehow, it’s comforting. Maybe that’s the point: that something can feel strange and welcoming at the same time.
There’s a pause on the other end. Ivy’s always been good at silence, the kind that waits without pressure.
“Have you slept?” she asks gently.
I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve. “A little.”
“You know you can call me anytime. Day or night, right?”
I nod before remembering she can’t see me. “I know. Thank you.”
“You never have to thank me, Liv. I’m here for whatever you need.” Her voice is soft, steady, the kind that doesn’t ask for anything in return.
Her kindness pulls something loose inside me, a quiet ache that’s been lodged there for months. I press my palm to my ribs, where the last of the bruises still fade beneath my skin.
“I’m scared,” I whisper, barely trusting my voice. “What if I don’t know how to start over? What if he finds me? What if—”
The words catch in my throat, rising like panic.
Before I can spiral, Ivy cuts in.
“It’s okay to be scared,” she says, firm but gentle. “It’s okay not to have it all figured out yet. You might feel alone right now, but I’ll do anything I can to help. You have my support. You’re free.”
I draw in a shaky breath, the weight of that word, free. The word tucks itself into my chest, warm and trembling, like a secret wish I’m afraid to say aloud.
“And you’re sure your parents won’t say anything to mine?” I ask quietly. “They run in the same circles.”
“My parents aren’t like yours, Liv.” There’s steel beneath her warmth now. “They might share a social calendar, but they’re nothing like the rest of them. The difference in our childhoods says enough.”
She’s right. I know she is.
We may have grown up in the same world of designer clothes and private clubs, but her home was something else entirely. Her parents loved her. They listened. They gave her the kind of freedom I wasn’t even allowed to imagine.
I used to pretend it didn’t matter. That I didn’t care.
Now I wonder how I ever survived without it.
The silence stretches just long enough for Ivy to shift tones.
“How’s your lip?” she asks softly.
I lift my fingers to it instinctively. The split is healing, but the skin still feels tight and sore.
“Better,” I say. “Still looks worse than it is.”
She’s quiet for a beat. Then, “I hated seeing you like that.”
I swallow. “I hated being like that.”
The memory crashes in before I can stop it, thick and heavy, like fog rolling in over water.
***
It’s past midnight by the time I knock—once, twice, then again, harder. My hands shake as I knock, panic clawing up my chest. I don’t even notice the tears spilling until the door opens.
Her eyes widen. “Liv?”
I nod, but the words catch in my throat. My bottom lip is split; blood dried at the corner of my mouth. My coat hangs crooked off one shoulder, one sleeve torn. Everything I own is stuffed into a single battered tote bag.
“I didn’t know where else to go,” I whisper, my voice raw.
She doesn’t ask questions. She just reaches out and pulls me inside, arms wrapping around me like I might shatter.
She leads me to the couch, switches on a soft lamp in the corner. The sudden light makes me flinch.
“Can I…?” she motions to my coat, her voice gentle.
I nod. My fingers fumble at the buttons, my grip unsteady. She helps me out of it slowly, her eyes scanning over me carefully, noticing the bruises across my cheekbone, the dark smudge near my collarbone, the tremor I can’t seem to stop.
“Liv…” Her voice catches.
“I’m okay,” I lie, barely audible.
She doesn’t push. Just slips into the kitchen and comes back with a warm washcloth, a glass of water, and that quiet kind of care I didn’t even know I needed.
She kneels in front of me and starts gently cleaning the dried blood from my mouth. I wince. She freezes.
“Sorry.”
I try to smile, but it’s weak. I don’t have the words to say I’m fine.
She keeps going. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. She knows. She knows exactly who did this.
Later, she helps me change into one of her oversized hoodies and a pair of soft leggings. When I come back from the bathroom, she’s already laid out blankets on the couch.
But instead of walking away, she sits beside me and pulls me close.
I don’t mean to cry—not again—but the moment her arms wrap around me, everything breaks. Silent sobs shake through me as I cling to her as if I’d disappear if I let her go.
She doesn’t speak. Just holds me tighter, her chin resting on top of my head, her hand tracing slow, steady circles down my back.
“You’re safe,” she whispers. “You’re safe now, Liv.”
And somehow, somewhere between the tears and the warmth of her arms, I fall asleep.
***
I blink, my eyes landing on the chipped edge of the coffee table in front of me.
I’m not on Ivy’s couch anymore.
I’m in Mayridge, a small town in Indiana, far from the life I knew in Glenwood Hills, Pennsylvania, renting a tiny house and only three days into a new life that still doesn’t feel real.
“Liv?” Ivy’s voice pulls me back, grounding me in the present as I focus on the worn edges of the table.
I clear my throat, realizing I hadn’t responded. “Sorry,” I mumble, adjusting the phone against my ear. “I spaced out.”
“It’s okay,” she says gently. Her voice softens, and something in my chest tightens. Tears sting the corners of my eyes before I can stop them.
I shake my head, like I can physically toss the sadness aside. I’ve cried enough. Time to fake it until I don’t have to anymore.
“So,” I say, forcing a lighter tone as I tug the blanket further into my lap, “your friend Aubrey seems really sweet.”
There’s a pause, just a beat, before Ivy follows my lead. “She is. She’s got a good heart. I figured you two would get along.”
“She said she’ll stop by again sometime this week,” I add, glancing around the quiet room. “I think she’s checking to make sure I haven’t started talking to the walls.”
Ivy laughs softly. “That sounds like her.”
Just like that, the air between us lifts. Not fixed, not forgotten, just lighter.
“She owns the bakery in town, Little Strawberries Bakery,” I say, running my thumb over the frayed edge of the blanket. “Did you know that?”
“I did. Her baking is dangerously good. You have to get down there and try something. I promise you won’t regret it.”
“She said she might bring some treats next time she stops by,” I reply with a faint smile. “I’ll keep you updated on just how life-changing they are.”
“You better,” Ivy teases, and her laugh feels like a hug.
A comfortable quiet settles between us, one that only exists between people who’ve seen each other through the worst.
Then Ivy’s voice softens again. “You don’t have to pretend with me, you know.”
“I know,” I whisper. “But sometimes… I think if I pretend hard enough, maybe I’ll believe it.”
Her exhale crackles softly through the phone. “You don’t have to be okay yet, Liv. You just have to keep going.”
I nod, even though she can’t see me. “I’m trying.”
“I know,” she says. “And I’m proud of you.”
Those four words almost undo me all over again.
But instead of unraveling, I press the heels of my hands to my eyes and take a long, steady breath.
“You’ll come visit soon, yeah?” I ask quietly.
“I will. Once the storm of you leaving settles.”
“I’m sorry I left you to deal with all of that.”
“Don’t be silly.” Her tone sharpens just slightly, protective. “They don’t know I know anything, and they can assume what they want. Your parents and Caleb don’t scare me. Honestly, it should be the other way around.”
A breath of laughter escapes me, surprised, but real.
“I want to kick his ass for what he did to you,” Ivy adds, fire in her voice now. “But I promised I wouldn’t. So, I guess that makes him safer than he deserves.”
That makes me smile, small, but genuine. “Thank you.”
“Always.”
After the call ends, I sit there for a while, phone still in my hand, the quiet pressing in around me. But it’s not heavy the way it had been before. Not suffocating. Just… still.
Eventually, I get up and pad barefoot into the kitchen.
The wood is cool beneath my feet. I open a cupboard at random, half-expecting it to be empty, and find a chipped blue mug left behind by the previous tenant.
It’s not much, but it’s something. I rinse it out, fill it with water from the tap, and take a slow sip.
The faucet leaks slightly, a rhythmic drip that echoes in the otherwise silent room.
I lean against the counter and glance out the small window above the sink. The sun is just beginning to set, casting a warm, honeyed glow across the backyard. It catches on the dust motes in the air, making the kitchen feel softer somehow.
For a moment, just one, I let myself feel it.
The quiet.
The safety.
The flicker of something almost like hope.
It’s small and fleeting, but it’s mine.
And maybe, just maybe, it’s a start.