Chapter 2
Brielle Shaw?
I ease down onto Mr. Coyle’s couch, slow like an old woman, careful not to jostle anything. My back’s been aching for weeks, deep and dull like a bruise under the skin. Probably the car. Probably the cold. Probably everything.
Leon’s asleep, finally—spread out on his little mat like a warm loaf of bread, cheeks pink, his breathing soft and even. So I figure… what harm in closing my eyes for a bit too? Just a little rest. Just until he stirs.
It’s been a long time since I slept anywhere with four walls that weren’t mine only in theory.
This couch, even if it’s sagging in the middle and smells a little like sweat and old laundry, feels like a damn hotel suite right now.
Better than the backseat of a Toyota Corolla stuffed with everything I own—blanket rolled up tight, duffel bag half-broken, toiletries in a grocery bag knotted at the handles.
That car’s been more of a home than anything I’ve had in years.
I don’t mind. Not really. Not anymore. It’s been six months since I fled. Again.
The story’s not exciting. It never is. I had a couple hundred bucks to my name, a phone with a cracked screen, and nowhere safe to point the car.
So I kept driving. One town to the next, hoping I’d feel something when I landed.
Peace. Relief. Direction. Something like a sign.
All I really got was mileage and a slow bleed from my savings account.
Ironvale wasn’t the plan. My bank balance made the decision for me.
So… babysitting. That’s the play now. Forty bucks a day if I’m lucky, sometimes less if the mom’s got an attitude or the kid’s a screamer.
But looks like Mr. Coyle’s not like that.
And Leon—he’s a good baby, so far. Quiet.
Sweet. When he looks up at me and smiles, it’s like something warm breaks open in my chest.
And yeah, maybe it’s a little pathetic, but this couch? It’s safe. Quiet. No one yelling. No hands too tight around my wrists. No words sharpened to cut me just right.
Life doesn’t have much kindness left for people like me. People who make dumb choices and keep making them like it’s a hobby. Over and over again. I don’t even know what it feels like to make a good call anymore.
My curse has always been men. It sounds dramatic when I say it in my head, like I’m looking for sympathy, but it’s just the truth. I carry it like some kind of invisible tattoo, etched into me before I even understood what it meant.
It started with my mom’s boyfriend—the one who came around when I was still young enough to believe in good guys. He moved in, married her, acted like he was part of our family. Then one night, when I was twelve, he decided I was part of the deal, too.
I remember the first time like a blur you can’t quite unsee.
I didn’t even cry. Not until later. Just froze up and learned the lesson quick: stay quiet.
Stay small. Disappear if you can’t fight.
My mother never saw it—or maybe she did and chose not to.
Either way, the house never felt safe again.
My body wasn’t mine. My silence was the rent I paid to survive.
Then came the boyfriends. After I got out, after I ran, I thought love might feel different.
It did, at first. They were always sweet in the beginning—charming, thoughtful.
The kind who brought gas station flowers or cooked you boxed mac and cheese with a proud smile.
The ones who looked you in the eye like they meant every soft word they said.
But sweetness doesn’t mean safe.
You never really know someone until they’re angry.
That’s when it changes. The voice raises a notch too loud.
The jokes dig just a little too deep. The hand tightens around your wrist during a fight and doesn’t let go.
Suddenly you’re backed into a wall, flinching at a tone, apologizing for things you didn’t do just to keep the air from turning electric.
And when you cry? They say you made them do it.
That’s the cycle. Every time I thought I learned.
Thought I got smarter. I told myself I’d see it coming next time—the temper, the control, the way affection turns into something that feels more like a leash than love.
But it never comes all at once. It’s a slow drift.
You blink and it’s already wrapped around your throat.
That’s why I left. Again. No destination. No job lined up. Just packed my shit, grabbed the keys, and drove until the last of my money barely filled the tank.
I don’t have much to my name now. I sleep in my car, curled sideways in the back seat with a hoodie for a pillow.
I wash my hair in gas station sinks when I can.
I rotate laundromats so no one notices I’m wearing the same things too often.
I eat cheap and stretch the money as far as it goes.
It’s not pretty. It’s not easy. Some nights I cry in parking lots with the windows cracked and the heater running low, just to hear something other than the silence.
But no one’s touching me. No one’s raising their voice at me, throwing their fists, calling me names that stick like grease in my skin. I’m broke. I’m exhausted. But I’m free, in a way I haven’t been since I was a kid.
And yeah, I’m showering in rest stops, taking babysitting gigs for cash, and calling a dented Corolla my home. But somehow… somehow it’s better.
----
Desmond Coyle
I come back dragging my feet, bone-tired and smelling like scorched metal and sweat.
Another long-ass shift at the plant—this time on some new aerospace parts that require finesse, like threading a needle with a blowtorch.
Not the usual slap-and-weld jobs. We’re talkin’ hairline seams, pretty beads, the kind of work where if your hand so much as twitches, you gotta grind the whole thing down and start over.
My forearms ache. My eyes feel like they’ve been sandblasted. My boots weigh a hundred pounds apiece.
I open the apartment door bracing for chaos.
Usually when I come home after leaving Leon with a sitter, there’s a trail of disaster waiting—bottles left in the sink half-rinsed, a soiled diaper rolled up like a crime scene on the coffee table, toys scattered like landmines.
Once found one of the girls passed out with a bowl of cereal in her lap and cartoons on full blast.
But not this time.
This time, I open the door and everything’s… still.
No crying. No mess. No TV buzzing in the background.
Just soft light through the blinds and the low sound of someone talking in a voice too cheerful to be real. I step in, blink, and there she is.
Brielle. Sitting cross-legged on the floor like she lives here, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair falling in her face, and this ridiculous little baby book in her hands—the kind with a sock puppet stitched through the middle.
She’s got two fingers inside the thing, wiggling it around like it’s a worm, doing voices.
Not just a half-assed “boo-boo” thing either, real character shit.
Something between a British butler and a squeaky mouse.
Leon’s laid out in front of her on a blanket, fists clenched with excitement, kicking his legs like he’s trying to fly. He’s laughing so hard he hiccups.
I stop just inside the door, one hand still gripping the doorknob. It takes me a second to register what I’m seeing.
She hasn’t even noticed me yet. She’s in it.
Talking to the damn puppet like it’s alive, grinning at Leon every time he squeals.
She’s got this soft look on her face—gentle, open, nothing fake about it.
Not the forced smile you wear when you’re trying to clock hours and get paid. This is something else.
I scan the room out of habit—clean. No trash. Bottles rinsed and drying on the rack. Diaper bag zipped, organized. The place looks better than I left it.
I clear my throat.
She looks up, startled for half a second, then gives me this little smile. The kind that says you caught me doing something good and embarrassing and I don’t regret it one bit.
I don’t say anything.
Because right then, I don’t trust my voice.
Something about the way she’s sitting there—on my floor, with my kid, like it’s the most natural thing in the world—makes something shift behind my ribs. Not a crack, not yet. But a creak.
She sees me and scoops Leon up in one fluid move. He lets out a high-pitched squeal, arms flailing like he’s been waiting all day just for me to walk through that door. My chest tightens. He reaches for me and she doesn’t hesitate, just passes him over like we’re handing off something sacred.
I kiss his fat cheek—warm, still a little damp from drool—and he gurgles, grabbing a fistful of my collar. I swear, the kid’s got a grip like a damn vise.
“Was he good?” I ask, voice still scratchy from welding fumes and too many hours keeping my mouth shut around idiots.
Brielle nods. “An angel,” she says with a soft smile. “Didn’t fuss, didn’t cry. We read, played, took a walk down the block in the wrap. He even let me trim his nails while he was napping.”
I blink. “You cut his nails?”
She shrugs like it’s no big deal. “They were getting long. He scratched his cheek earlier, so I figured—why not. He didn’t even wake up.”
I haven’t even been able to do that without a screaming match.
She gestures to the coffee table. “I wrote everything down—feeding times, how much he took, how long he napped, how many diapers. He wasn’t gassy or anything today, but…” she pauses, glancing at me like she’s unsure how far to go.
“But?” I echo, shifting Leon to my shoulder.
She clears her throat. “I think his poops are veering into the too mushy territory. Not full-blown diarrhea, but kind of suspiciously… swampy.”
I huff out a laugh before I can stop it. “Suspiciously swampy. That’s a hell of a diagnosis.”
She grins, relaxed now. “It’s a technical term.”
I glance at her again. She’s far too pretty for her own good. She looks a bit tired, yeah—but not the bad kind. The good kind.
“I appreciate it,” I say. “All of it.”
She nods once. Doesn’t say you’re welcome. Just looks at me like she’s not used to being thanked and isn’t quite sure what to do with it.
“Was it… alright? Today, I mean,” she asks, eyes flicking to the side for a second before settling back on me. “I know I’m new, I just—hope I did okay.”
I glance at Leon. Still clinging to my shirt, drooling like a faucet, but happy. Peaceful. I haven’t seen him this chill after a sitter shift since… hell, ever.
“You did better than okay.”
She exhales like she’d been holding her breath. Then gives a quiet, grateful kind of smile. The kind that tugs something loose inside me.
“Good,” she says. “That’s good.”
I shift Leon higher on my hip. He lets out a grunt like he’s offended I moved him, but then immediately rests his cheek against my shoulder, drooling into my shirt like it’s his full-time job.
“I should pay you for today,” I say, patting my back pocket for my wallet.
Brielle nods, quiet again, and starts sliding her shoes on.
Beat-up sneakers—black, or maybe they used to be black—laces frayed, rubber peeling at the sides.
The kind of shoes that’ve seen too many miles and too few paychecks.
I notice a hole near the toe, just a little one, like her sock’s trying to peek through.
She moves quick, like she doesn’t want me to see.
I don’t say anything.
Not my place.
I’m broke, too—I get it. Can’t afford a proper sitter. She can’t afford proper shoes. Life’s a tug-of-war and we’re both holding the same frayed rope.
I fish out my wallet, thumb through the receipts and crumpled bills, and pull out the forty I promised her. Hand it over without fanfare.
She nods, takes the cash without hesitation, folds it tight and stuffs it into the kangaroo pocket of her hoodie like she’s done that exact motion a hundred times before.
“Thank you,” she says. Not loud. Not bright. Just real. Her voice’s got that raw edge again, like she’s not used to being on the receiving end of good things. “Uhm, if you ever need a sitter again—just call me.”
I pause.
Glance down at Leon. He’s already half-asleep, limp in my arms.
Then I look back at her.
“You free tomorrow?”
She looks up, surprised, like maybe she expected a one-and-done.
“I… yeah. I am.”
“Same time?”
She nods. “If you want. I can be here. Seven-thirty sharp.”
I nod once, final. “Alright. Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She smiles—small, but not the polite kind. This one’s got something behind it. Relief. Maybe a little pride.
“Okay. Goodnight, Mr. Coyle.”
“Desmond,” I say.
She stops at the door, fingers on the handle. Turns just enough to glance back over her shoulder.
“Desmond,” she repeats. A little softer. A little warmer. Then she slips out the door.
I stand there for a second with Leon pressed to my chest, the apartment quiet except for the soft hum of the fridge and my son’s steady breathing.
And for the first time in a long while, it feels like maybe tomorrow won’t be quite so heavy.