“She’s cute. I’ve seen her online. Her curls are wild—makes yours look tame.”
She laughed. And I did what I always did—I played along. That was the thing about acting. It wasn’t a skill. It was survival. I could bury my real feelings deeper than anyone. I would’ve made it in that world if Richard hadn’t poisoned it for me.
“She’s a great friend,” I said. “They’re having a baby.”
“Oh, how wonderful! Maybe she can introduce you to one of his friends,” she added, teasing—but not really.
“Really, Mom?” I rolled my eyes hard enough to see the back of my skull. Thank God she couldn’t see me.
“What? It couldn’t hurt.”
“I’m just happy to help her out,” I said, trying to steer the conversation back. “Toxic Wishes blew up, and she’s been doing everything—running the rehab house, managing Colt’s business, planning a baby and a wedding.”
“You’re beautiful, honey. You could be doing the same thing. I’m sure Colt has some single NFL friends. And let’s be real—rich men love ‘em young.”
“Mom.” I cut her off just as we pulled up to Walgreens. My stomach flipped.
“I need to go. I’ll call you later, okay?”
“Okay, sweetie. Call me later, honey.”
“I will.”
The second the line went dead, Nick glanced at me. “Everything alright?”
I stared straight ahead, throat tight, fury and helplessness boiling beneath the surface. Everything alright? I had a chronic illness I couldn’t afford to treat. A family unraveling at the seams. A bank account that couldn’t even cover dinner, let alone insulin. I was drowning. And no one could see it.
“Yeah,” I snapped. “Just another day in princess paradise.” Sarcasm dripped like venom from my lips, and before he could toss some witty comeback my way, I shoved the door open and slammed it behind me like punctuation.
9
NICK
She told me to stay in the car—practically snapped it—but I followed her inside anyway, telling her I needed to grab some things. She rolled her eyes and let out that sharp little sigh that said leave me the hell alone, but I let it slide. She was carrying something heavy—I could see it in the way her shoulders hunched like she was trying to fold herself in, disappear. Something was off. Off enough to make my gut tighten.
I’ve studied body language long enough to know fear when it’s hanging off someone like a second skin. And she was terrified. Not just on edge—terrified. And people with money don’t usually look like that. Not unless whatever they’re facing is darker than debt. The urge to pull her into my arms hit hard and fast. Just hold her. Tell her I’d figure it out, even if I didn’t know what the hell “it” was.
Which was insane. The last time I held someone like that, he died in my arms. My best friend. My brother in arms. I’d been whispering to him that it’d be okay, that help was coming, while the life drained out of him. I still remember the sound of his last breath, the way his body went limp, like someone just shut the lights off. I can still feel it.
I tore my eyes away from her and scanned the aisles, trying to ground myself. Deodorant. Dr. Squatch. The only kind I trusted,unless it was something formal, was Acqua Di Gio. Both had that clean, sharp smell that didn’t set me off. Scent was a minefield. Anything that even hinted at burning skin, chemical bleach, or the sour rot of infection could send me spiraling, straight back to the pits of Somalia. Just a whiff, and the sand, the blood, the screaming—it was all there again.
That’s why my house always smells like something warm, something good: incense, candles, anything to keep the bad ghosts at bay. My PTSD doc once said scent was tied to memory, and he was right. I started maintaining the lemon sugar cookie incense around. Sounds ridiculous, I know. But that smell? That one in particular? It took me home.
Not just home—home. My mom in the kitchen, laughing to herself while she mixed batter with a bent wooden spoon. We didn’t have much, but she always made Christmas feel rich. She’d bake these Italian cookies—Taralli al Limone. Lemon knots. They were soft and sweet, with just the correct bite of citrus. When I was deployed, she’d send them in care packages. They arrived a little crushed, sometimes stale, but the smell… God, the smell. It was like someone opened a door and let light into the darkest room in my mind.
CVS usually carried that incense. It’s why I said I needed to come in. I didn’t want to admit I was chasing a scent like a damn addict—but I was. I needed a reminder that the world still had soft places. That not everything ends in gunfire or betrayal. That sometimes, the smell of sugar and lemon could stitch you back together—even if only for a minute.
“Are you kidding me? For one bottle, it’s one hundred and thirty-five dollars? Isn’t there a different kind?”
“That’s the kind your doctor recommends.”
“Don’t you offer a payment plan? I only have ninety-five dollars on me, and I just left the hospital less than twenty-four hours ago because I just found out I had diabetes, so it’s kind of important I have this stuff. Dangerous even if I go without it.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you don’t have insurance. That’s the price you’ll have to pay if you want to leave with your medicine.”
“Don’t ma’am me. People in this town make me sick. Just tell me straight up, I can’t have the fucking medicine. Don’t smile with that damn smile on your face and call me ma’am like that’s going to fucking help me right now. You know what will h-”
I placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Honey, it’s okay, calm down.”
