Chapter Twelve
Freedom Over Fear
T
hree years. Three fucking years of clocking in and out, swallowing insults from privileged assholes who can’t even saythank you, babysitting a manager who cared more about the store’s reputation than her actual people—and I’ve got nothing to show for it.
Truth is I never wanted to work there in the first place. But it’s all I know since sixteen. It pays the bills—wellpaid.
And now?
Gone.
Just like that.
I try telling myself to calm down—but it doesn’t work. My hands wont stop shaking, my chesttightening like my body’s trying to catch up to something I have no choice but to except.
I pull into the driveway, and my chest still feels like a brick’s sitting on it. Inside, Arina’s stretched across the couch, face buried in her phone. But the second she sees me, she sits up like I just set off an alarm.
“What happened? You okay?” Her voice slices sharp with worry.
I don’t sugarcoat it. “Girl, I quit. Fuck that place. Samantha showed up running her mouth, so I told her ass off—I’m so sick and tired of seeing her fucking face.
“Then my manager comes sniffing around, overhears us, and was about to fucking fire me! So, I said fuck it, I grabbed my shit, and bounced. Again, fuck that place.”
Shock flashes on Arina’s face, then quickly flips into fury. She jumps up, pacing like a storm.
“What the fuck—no way. Do you want me to go find her? I’ll handle that bitch. She’s not about to keep trying to ruin your life and walk around like she’s untouchable. This ain’t high school anymore—I got the time today.”
Her rage mirrors mine, but I catch her arm before she launches herself into a full-on homicide plan. “It’s okay, Arina. She’s not worth it. She only acts tough with an audience. She knows she’s soft as a damn marshmallow. And plus if we drag her ass like I want to—we’ll end up in jail. And she’s not worth our freedom. Or our reputation. I don’t know about you but I’m way too cute for prison bitch.”
Arina freezes, jaw tight, fists balled. She exhales hard, collapsing back onto the couch. “Damn. You’re right. “I wouldn’t go to jail over her if my life depended on it,” she mutters, eyes still sparking like she’s ready to light something on fire.
“Trust me, I know.” I drop beside her, my body limp from the weight of it all—but for once, the silence between us feels good. Not crushing; but lifting.
“Come on.” She stands, nudging me like she’s trying to reboot my mind. “We’re going to the store. We need snacks before this night gets too depressing. Or worse, I start Googling her address and we actually pull up.”
She knows food is my love language, but between snacks and attempted murder, we both know which one’s smarter. “You’re so right. Food is the perfect distraction I need right now.” I lace up my shoes, purposely ignoring her second idea.
Ten minutes later, we end up at the corner store, filling a cart with essentials—hot chips, chocolate, ice cream, sour candy, sodas. Comfort food, the same shit we lived off during middle school sleepovers. I grab my usuals—Sour Skittles and Hot Fries. I could eat those religiously, and yeah, it’ll probably take a few years off my life—but honestly it’s worth it.
Back home, one of our favorite horror movies fills the screen, shadows flickering across the room while we scream at jump scares we’ve seen a hundred times. I dig into the ice cream first, before it melts all over the place, laughing at the mountain of junk we somehow justified buying.
Neither of us cares. Tonight isn’t about control—it’s about distraction. And nothing distracts a girl better than sugar, salt, and laughter. Yeah, I’ve got no job, no clue what comes next, but I’ve got her.
And for now? That’s enough.
? ??
Walking into the living room the next morning, Arina’s still knocked out on the couch, wrapped tight in a blanket, her low snores filling the room. She passed out before I did, and I didn’t have the energy to move her, so I just left her there.
Seeing her like this kind of reminds me of when I first moved in—we used to crash out here together every night until our rooms were ready. Back when everything adulting felt new but strangely comforting. Somehow it’s already been six months of figuring shit out and surviving every curveball, making this place feel like ours.
The table’s covered in candy wrappers—a graveyard of last night’s attempt to bury my rage in snacks and horror movies. I start to wake her, then I remember—I never told Jacob I quit. Hell, I didn’t even talk to him at all yesterday after I walked out of that miserable place.
Where the fuck is he? And what’s so important that he hasn’t sent one damn text? I trust him… but let’s be real, the doubts are creeping in a lot more lately.
Boys will be boys,they say.
