Around the pool, girls toss their heads back in laughter, water glistening off bronzed skin and surgically perfected curves. Bikinis are optional, and self-consciousness doesn’t seem to exist here. They move like they belong—like they’ve always belonged—with flirtatious smiles and practiced ease, eager to please, to be seen, to be wanted.
And the men? They eat it up. Grinning, laid-back, wealthy in every way that matters here—money, charm, status. Carefree playboys who’ve never had to choose between paying the electric bill or buying groceries. Who’ve never patched a hole in their shoe with duct tape or shoved a dresser in front of a door to feel safe at night.
I sip my lemonade and force myself to stay still, even as my insides twist.
I don’t belong here.
Not because I’m still wearing shorts and a tank top while everyone else is half-naked, but because I don’t know how to beeffortless. I don’t know how to exist in a world where survival isn’t the goal.
I’ve spent my life clawing for stability, hoarding small victories like they were gold. I don’t know how to let go. I don’t know how to laugh like these girls do. Open, airy, and careless.
They weren’t raised the way I was.
They’ve never had to watch their mother sell herself for a fix. Never had to grow up too fast or hide bruises or lie to social workers.
They belong here.
I don’t.
A high, scornful laugh cuts through the noise like glass shattering.
“Well, well,” a voice sneers behind me. “They really let anyone in these days.”
I turn slowly, already knowing who it is.
Laura, the one who had dressed me down like I was competition, stands there in her white bikini that barely covers anything, her hair somehow still perfect even though the rest of us have long since melted into the heat. Her expression is sharp enough to slice through steel, and her smile is all venom and glitter.
She glances over her shoulder, smirking at the two imitation Barbies at her side, then steps closer. “You know, I was wondering what the big fuss was about. New girl from the city. Long-lost daughter. Tragic past. Blah blah blah.”
I raise an eyebrow but don’t speak.
That only seems to embolden her.
“I mean, it makes sense now.” Her gaze rakes over me like she’s inspecting a piece of furniture someone left on the curb. “You’ve got that… ‘pity daughter no one wants’ look down to a science. Maybe if you cried more, you’d really sell it.”
Being bullied isn’t something new to me. When you have a stripper crack addict mother and you attend a public school, you grow a pretty thick skin. I take a slow sip of my lemonade, letting the silence stretch long enough to make her uncomfortable.
But she recovers fast.
“You can play the innocent act with the boys all you want,” she continues, her tone suddenly syrupy. “They love a charity case. Especially Jackson. He has this thing for broken toys.”
Ah.
There it is.
The real reason.
“Feeling territorial?” I ask calmly, setting my drink down. “Or bored because Jackson found someone with an actual personality?”
Her nostrils flare, but she smiles like it doesn’t bother her. Like she didn’t twitch at the mention of his name.
“Oh, honey. I’m not threatened by you. You’re a tourist in all this. A temporary sideshow before real life kicks back in.”
I tilt my head. “You sure? Because you seem pretty rattled for someone who’s not threatened.”
Laura’s smile drops. “Watch yourself, street rat. You’re not as untouchable as you think. Just because the boss is letting you hang around doesn’t mean you belong here.”
I stand slowly, the chair scraping back across the flagstone. The air between us tightens.
