“Ma’am, it’s 9:58 p.m. We close in two minutes, and no—we are not selling breakfast,” I deadpan, barely glancing up as I punch the register with just enough force to keep myself awake. Two more minutes and I’m free. Free from the fluorescent lights, the smell of burnt fryer oil, and the fake smiles carved into my cheeks like permanent scars.
“But your website saysAll Day Breakfast, and I—” she starts, all high-pitched indignation and entitled breathlessness.
I watch the clock tick to 9:59 like it’s crawling through molasses. I lean back against the grease-stained wall and let my head thunk against it. Hard. Today was hell. This week was worse. And the last two goddamn years? A spiral straight into oblivion since Willow disappeared. I might as well just call it, the greatness of high school is long gone and adulthood has been a never ending shit show of disappointment.
I had an early acceptance to MIT, got waitlisted at Princeton, and Yale let me in with a whopping $800 scholarship—just enough to cover textbooks, maybe. NYU flat-out rejected me. And when the rest of the scholarship letters came pouring in, they all said the same thing:You are brilliant. Your story is sad, but no.Or worse—rejections from every loan company I could find. And the few that didn’t say no outright came back witha hollow maybe:With a cosigner, perhaps.I was up at 3 a.m. most nights, digging through sketchy loan sites and refreshing my inbox like it owed me money.
Eventually, the rejections stopped surprising me. They just started stacking—like proof I was never meant to get out. So I gave up on college. I gave up on the dream I’d built my whole life around. And I fell, fast, into the life I always feared: working dead-end shifts, watching the clock more than my future, stuck in the same town that never stops sucking the life out of me.
“Well, the service here is ridiculous!” The woman shrieks over the intercom and I jump up off the wall, realizing that I thankfully spaced out for most of her rant.
My eyes snap up to the clock, and I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath all day. “Ma’am, it is officially 10:02. We are now closed. Have a good night!” I chirp, already halfway checked out.
“I want to speak to your manager!” she shrieks, her voice so shrill and aggressive it rattles through my headset like feedback. I wince, rip the earpiece out of my ear, and toss the mic on the windowsill like it’s burning me. Rolling my eyes, I slide across the tile floor to where Derek is leaning against the back counter, sorting receipts.
“Yo, D-man. We got a screamer at the drive-thru,” I whistle, tugging off the polyester hat that’s been itching my scalp for the past seven hours straight. I run my fingers through my hair—shoulder-length blonde waves with streaks of red dye that’ve faded to a soft, stubborn pink. The left side of my head is shaved down to a buzz, cool against my fingertips, a contrast to the mess of waves that tumble down the right.
Derek glances up, unbothered. He’s only three years older than me, give or take, and lives five trailers down from mine in Mason Park. He’s got the build of a guy who could have played linebacker or maybe enlisted—buzzcut, square jaw, and that too-tight shirt that hints at military discipline. But he’s never seen combat unless you count the two years he spent in juvie for a fight that turned bad.
People see the tattoos, the scowl, the low growl of his voice and assume he’s a walking warning sign. But Derek? He’s the biggest softie I know. Gruff, yeah—but solid. Loyal. And in a town that’s built to swallow people like us whole, he’s the only person other than Willow who really gets me.
“Jaz, I am not cleaning up your mess again!” He grumps, tapping the edges of the receipt against the counter.
I shrug, swiping a paper bag off of the counter. “Chill, I told her we’re closed. That’s not a mess—it’s closure.”
Right then, the sharpbang-bang-bangof the drive-thru window echoes through the restaurant, followed by a furious shriek: “I will not be ignored!”
I shoot Derek a look and smirk. “Okay, maybe she’s not quite ready for closure.”
He groans, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Jasmine...”
“What?” I grin, grabbing a fry from the warmer. “You know she’ll leave eventually. Or combust. Either way, not our problem. We areclosed.”
“You are the bane of my existence,” he huffs, dragging his large frame over to the window lazily as if his size would scare the woman off before he would have to deal with her.
“You love me!” I sing, grabbing a paper bag and stuffing it with two cheeseburgers and a shit ton of fries.
“No stealing!” he barks without turning around.
“This isn’t stealing. All this goes in the trash anyway. I’m just helping the environment. Think of me as the human garbage disposal.” I shrug, hopping over the counter and heading for the front doors.
“Also, you got clean-up, right?”
“Jasmine—”
“Thanks, bye!” I sing over my shoulder, slipping out the front door.
The thick, humid air slams into my chest the second I step outside. I almost shrink into the doorframe, debating whether it’s even worth walking through air that feels like soup.
I dig into my pocket, pulling out my cracked phone and the now slightly-squashed bag of stolen food. I balance both awkwardly as I make my way through the parking lot, the street lamps buzzing overhead like drunk flies. I tap Willow’s name before I can talk myself out of it—like muscle memory.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Then that too-familiar ring and the sound that always hits too hard: Willow’s voice, bright and sing-song:
