“There,” I said.
He stared at it. Breathing hard. Slowly, he sat. His shoulders sagged. I crouched in front of him, hands resting lightly on his knees.
“You’re safe,” I said quietly.
His eyes filled with a small modicum of recognition.
“I hate this,” he whispered.
I swallowed. “I know.”
He reached out and gripped my hand, hard.
“You won’t let them take me away?”
The question cut to the quick.
“No, I won’t,” I said.
I wasn’t sure what that was about, but it really didn’t matter. All that mattered was calming his emotional state.
He nodded, exhausted now. The storm had passed. But the air still felt charged.
I stayed with him until his breathing evened out, until he drifted into that fragile mid-morning calm.
When I finally stepped back into the hallway, my legs felt unsteady.
Monday was two days.
I leaned against the wall briefly and closed my eyes.
“Okay,” I whispered.
Derby practice in an hour. Smile. Block. Hit. Laugh. Pretend you are not calculating everything in pennies. Pretend you are not running out of time.
I pushed off the wall and headed for the exit.
Saturday wasn’t even halfway done.
By the time I got back to the van, the sun was fully committed to violence. I climbed into the driver’s seat and shut the door, letting the air sit heavy around me.
For a second, I just held the steering wheel. Life shouldn’t be this hard. It shouldn’t require this much math, this much bracing, this much smiling through it. It shouldn’t be invoices and ultimatums and your father recognizing you one day and treating you like a stranger the next. It shouldn’t be Monday looming like a cliff.
I closed my eyes. “This is ridiculous,” I muttered.
Not my life, but the constant fight. The fact that being good and trying and working didn’t automatically equal stability. It was unfair. The words pulsed through me. Hard and unfair.
I could sit here and list every injustice. Every system that felt tilted against everyday people.
But that wasn’t helpful. And I was not built to wallow. I exhaled slowly.
“Okay,” I said to the windshield.
I reached for my phone and pulled up an audiobook. I pushed play on the romance I’d been listening to. It was something dramatic and low stakes and wildly unrealistic . . . escapism with kissing.
I rolled the windows down. At least there was a breeze today. It moved through the van in warm waves, carrying the faint scent of asphalt and grass. I leaned the seat back slightly, letting the narrator’s voice fill the small space.
Heroines in ballgowns had simpler problems. Princes didn’t worry about payment plans. My body loosened slowly, inch by inch. The breeze moved across my skin.
