He’d always been hard. Always angry in the way some men are, like the world owes them and they take it out on whoever’s closest. My mom needed a provider. I understand that in a way that makes me sick, because it means I understand why she stayed.
When she was alive, he kept the worst of it behind clenched teeth and closed doors.
When she was gone, he let it breathe.
He didn’t touch me in the ways people assume when they hear stories like mine. He didn’t need to. He found other ways to own me.
Locks. Rules. Chores that never ended. Punishments that made my skin crawl. Words that burned worse than the cigarettes he stubbed out on my arms.
And when he drank, he got worse.
I ran a few months ago. I packed what I could carry and left without a plan. I went from town to town, staying small, staying quiet, never letting myself settle.
A knuckle taps the metal frame of my service window, and I blink hard, dragging myself back to the present.
Doris is at my window, holding a paper bag and wearing the satisfied look of a woman who knows she’s about to improve my day whether I like it or not.
She runs the waffle truck in the spot next to mine, like we’re a matched set—caffeine and carbs.
“Trade,” she says, waving the bag.
I can’t help smiling. “You are not bribing me with waffles again.”
“Yes,” she replies, without apology. “And don’t start, Ava. I’m doing community service.”
I laugh, because she says things like that like she’s done a whole court-ordered program in kindness.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“Vanilla latte,” she says. “Extra shot. I’m not playing today.”
I make it while she leans on the ledge and watches me work. Doris has a way of watching that makes you feelseen, not judged.
Her gaze flicks down the street, and her eyes sparkle like she just found her favorite topic. Then she looks back at me with a grin.
“That biker wants more than coffee,” she says.
My face heats instantly. “Doris.”
“What?” she says, innocent. “I’ve been alive a long time, honey. I know what I’m looking at.”
“He barely talks,” I mutter, focusing hard on the milk like it has the answers to all my problems.
“That means he’s serious,” Doris says, like it’s obvious. “Men like him don’t waste words.”
I hand her the latte and try to look unimpressed. I fail. My smile pulls at my mouth anyway.
She nudges the paper bag toward me. “Trade complete.”
I huff a laugh and take it. “You’re going to spoil me.”
“Good,” she says. Then her eyes soften. “You’re doing good here, Ava. I’m glad you landed in this town.”
My throat tightens and Ihateit. I hate how much those words matter.
“Me too,” I manage.
She plays with the cup in her hands.
