There’s something about the end of the week that makes me feel a little lighter. Whether it’s because I don’t work weekends and can now stay at home with James, in our own cottage in the middle of nowhere, just doing our own thing, away from prying eyes. Or whether it’s because James and I get to explore the forest, learning about the animals, digging around in the garden, or just keeping things simple. Probably both.
“Nikki, take the leftover lasagna from today.” Rochelle’s already walking toward me with the plastic container holding almost a week's worth of food.
“Rochelle!” I rear back, surprised. She does this sometimes. I’ve never spoken to her about our circumstances. I’ve never asked for food or help from anyone. Even though I probably should at this point. Dad froze all my trust funds, and I’m almost out of the money I saved for our escape, which means I’m barely keeping James and me fed. But when my family has so much money that they could feed a small country, I feel conflicted, almost shameful.
Call it women's intuition, but Rochelle seems to know things aren’t normal with James and me. Hell, most of the town thinks he’s my son. Given I’m only twenty-three and he’s ten, I would’ve been way too young to have a baby. It happens. It’s not impossible, but it isn’t my story.
“It’s going into the bin unless you take it.” She shoves the container in my hand and walks away before I can say another word. Tears sting my eyes. Sure, I made some good tips this week, and certainly Sutton’s hundred dollars put us in a good position to buy some food and things we need that we haven’t had for a while. But this container will feed us for days.
“Yum, I love her lasagna,” James whispers, and I can almost see the drool running down his chin. I give him a close-lipped smile, resigned to accept the food. For him. Everything I do is for him.
“Let’s go. My feet are killing me, so it’s going to take forever to walk home tonight.” We grab our things and walk out the back. We’re both tired, after a big day for him at school and work for me even longer.
“We need to start on my school project this weekend,” James reminds me as we step out the back door of Delish, beginning the walk home. Just under two miles away sits our small run-down cottage, the one I use most of my saved cash for every month and silently thank fate for spotting on the Whispers community noticeboard, the moment the owner put up the small ad.
“What’s it on again?” I throw my bag over my shoulder, then help him with his heavy backpack. He’s diligent and his dedication to his schoolwork is unrivaled. Like me, we’re both studious. It was ingrained in us both from a young age. While Mom was a little more free-flowing, Dad was strict. Mom had us outside in the garden, learning by doing. Dad buried our heads in books, having had us pegged for positions in his oil company since birth. He made it clear to us how important grades were, that we needed to be successful to work at the firm, and luckily, it’s an area that James and I both succeed in. Yet the vision our father had for us, it’s not the vision we want for ourselves.
“I need to do a biography on a well-known person.”
“Who did you choose?” My lips purse as I try to think what person a ten-year-old should base their project on.
“I haven’t decided. But I need to research.”
“We can walk to the library tomorrow; it’s open in the morning.” It’s another long walk back to town, but we don’t have internet at home and my cell phone is an old one that barely works. I can’t risk anyone tracking us digitally or finding us in any way, so whenever I need to do any online searching, I do it at the library.
“Hey!” There’s a shout from behind us, and I swivel around quickly. I spot the group of men who come into the diner a few times per month. The ones who are usually rude, who offer me unwelcome advances and are generally just horrible.
“Can I help you?” My diner manners are hard to ignore as I shuffle James behind me. It’s comical; at ten, he’s almost as tall as I am.
“What you got there.” One of them nods to my bag.
“Nothing.” I frown, wondering what they want.
“I’ll be the judge.” His hand whips forward so quickly I almost miss it.
“Hey!” I shout as he pulls my bag from my arm, and I grip on to it just as tight. But with the container of food in one hand, I’m left outmuscled.
“Give it up, darlin’. I saw the tip you got today.”
I grit my teeth. Nothing good comes from money. Everything bad has happened in my life because of it.
“Let go!” I feel James edge away from me and back toward the door of the diner, I assume to get help. My heart pounds powerfully, stomach twisting at what these men might do.
“Not so quick, little guy.” One of the other men grabs James around the upper arms, holding him still, and that’s when I release my grip.
My handbag is now being rifled through, and I turn and grab James, ripping him from the guy’s arms as they swarm my bag like a pack of seagulls after a hot fry at the beach. Seems like I’m not the only one around here in need of cash.
“Give it back,” I bite out but give them space. I have no idea what they’re capable of, and here, in the small private parking lot behind the diner, no one can hear us. The only things here are the large garbage bins and now my bag strewn all over the ground. They pay me little attention as they throw my sweater to the side, then my small makeup case that holds my lip gloss and tampons scatters. My little notepad and pen go flying. I pass James the container of food. If everything else goes, at least we can still eat for the week.
“I said, give it back!” I step toward them as I yell, not liking the way they’re throwing my things around. I have no idea where my confidence comes from, but my anger at this situation is taking over my nerves.
“Shut it!” a guy barks back before his fist flies and connects with my cheek. I stumble, almost falling, but James balances me. It’s hard enough to leave me shocked, my cheek throbbing and my hair clip dropping from my hair.
“Nikki!” James gasps as I lean on him, my ears ringing. I’ve never been hit before. There were plenty of threats, hard grabs, pushes, my stepmother Maribel has slapped me a few times, but I’ve never had a fist to my face. With my head pounding and the taste of blood in my mouth, I can now tick that off my list.
“Now shut up!” The guy stomps his foot, and I feel my world turn. Because underneath his boot is my hair clip. The one my mother gave me when I was a child, the one thing that I took with me when we ran. It’s the last reminder I have of her, and while the guys continue to rifle through my bag, my heart shatters.
“No!” I cry, my voice weak, my eyes glued to the ground. The clip is broken in three places, the sparkling rhinestones glittering among the gravel.
