Page 99 of I’m The Worst

Like I’m looking at something I’m not supposed to be part of anymore.

The truck pulls to the curb, and Wolff cuts the engine. He doesn’t move right away. He just sits there, staring out the windshield, breathing slow and deep.

“Wolff?”

His hands tighten once more, then he shoves the door open and gets out. I scramble after him, keeping close as he heads toward a small café tucked between two brick buildings. The windows are fogged over, the sign on the door written in Russian.

Warmth hits me the second I step inside. It’s crowded. Tables filled with too many people. Conversations overlapping. The smell hits next—coffee, fresh bread, something savory cooking somewhere in the back.

My stomach grumbles.

I haven’t eaten enough for that to feel normal.

Wolff’s hand closes around my upper arm, steering me toward the counter. The contact sends a small, unwanted shiver through me.

He says something to the woman behind the counter. She smiles like this is normal, like he’s just another customer, and turns to grab two cups.

“Wolff, what are we doing here?” I whisper.

Speaking to her again, he hands over cash and takes the coffee cups. Then he guides me to a small table near the window. But he doesn’t relax. His eyes keep moving constantly, scanning the room, tracking every shift, every person, like he always does.

A burst of quiet laughter pulls my attention to the side.

A group of girls—around my age—crowd a small table near the window. Coffee cups, half-eaten pastries, phones scattered between them. One flips her long, glossy blonde hair over her shoulder. Another leans in, whispering something that makes the rest of them laugh.

They all look…perfect.

Healthy, shiny hair that falls in effortless waves. Clear, glowing skin with flawless makeup. Tight, expensive clothes that hug their toned bodies. No tension in their shoulders. No flinching at sudden noises. No constantly scanning the room like something might come for them.

Just…normal.

For a second, the longing hits me so hard it steals my breath—to sit there, to laugh like that, to exist in a world where the worst thing that could happen is a bad hair day or a canceled plan.

My hand drifts up, brushing the hacked ends of my own hair. It’s uneven, choppy in places where it was cut with dull scissors, longer and tangled in others. The cheap black dye looks dull and lifeless, washing me out. It feels brittle, like it might snap if I pull too hard. One of the girls glances over.

Her eyes land on Wolff first. Then they shift to me. Then back to him. A whisper passes between them, and suddenly they’re all smiling, trying to hide their laughter.

What is someone like him doing with someone like her?

That’s what they’re thinking. That’s what they’re laughing about.

I pull my gaze back to the table, to the untouched coffee in front of me. My reflection stares back in the glass top—pale, gaunt, shadows under my eyes that no amount of sleep seems to fix. The collar of my sweater shifts slightly, revealing the yellowing bruises along my neck. Collar-shaped marks that refuse to fade.

I used to be like them—pretty, outgoing, with soft skin and a bright laugh. The kind of girl who turned heads for the right reasons. Now I’m this. Thin in all the wrong places, scarred in places no one can see.

And now I’m sitting here in a warm café, watching girls giggle like the world is simple. Like it isn’t full of men like him. Like it isn’t full of men like the ones who held me down and laughed while I screamed.

I reach for the coffee just to have something to hold on to. Anything to stop myself from looking back at them again.

“Why are we here?” I blurt out.

“Drink your coffee.”

I don’t want it. I don’t want to be here.

“Those girls keep staring at you.” The words sound stupid the second they leave my mouth.

His hand drops to the leg of my chair and drags it closer to him, the scrape loud against the floor. He pulls the chair until my thigh bumps into his, the space between us gone in an instant.