Koen’s silence hangs heavy down the line. He’s probably feeling the same helplessness as me.
The phone muffles, then his voice comes through, dry and biting. “Well, that went well. See you at home.” He hangs up, pissed off.
Fuck. This is my fault.
NINETEEN
The whiskey stares at me from the counter, daring me to come closer. Its amber color, warm and inviting, taunting me. My fingers twitch at my sides, aching to reach out and feel the cool glass of the bottle’s neck against my skin.Just one drink,I tell myself.One sip to take the edge off.
Except Koen’s face won’t leave my mind, the way he looked at me two days ago on the boulevard, pity and confusion etched into his features, a judgment he didn’t have the guts to voice. The memory clings to me, replaying on an endless loop.
He watched me do their little challenges. That much is clear. And when I didn’t fall in line, when I didn’t do what they wanted, he followed me and grabbed my arm, but still without a word. Just that piercing look, his eyes narrowing as though I’d somehow failed him.
Yeah, fuck you, too, Koen.
The whiskey promises relief, whispering that it can make it stop. That it can quiet the noise, soften the edges, and dull everything that feels too sharp, too raw, too much.
I take a shaky breath and close my eyes to shut it out from view, but it doesn’t help.
You can’t drink, Nova.
Even if I feel like I’m unraveling now, puking my guts out later, thanks to Koen’s coercion will only make it worse.
I know this.
But God, I want to forget, even for a little while.
Reaching out, I brush my fingers against the glass. The craving gnaws at me. It would be so easy to give in, to let the whiskey wrap around me and pull me under, drowning out all the shit I don’t want to deal with, at least for a few minutes.
But apart from Koen’s judgment, there’s also this flicker, this stupid, fragile hope that maybe there’s something better waiting for me. A new life. A chance to be more than this.
Closing my eyes, I go to that place in my mind I’ve been visiting more and more.
The rough linen of my sundress whispers against my legs, and the faint dust of the countryside clings to my calves. I walk down a narrow path lined with lavender bushes, letting the purple flowers brush against my fingertips, leaving their scent behind, a balm to my soul. There’s a whisper of wind, and in that breeze,I let go of some of the weight, some of the pain.
The lavender fades, and the warmth of the Tuscan sun dissipates, reality creeping back in.
I’m still here.
Stillthis.
A stripper, a thief, a girl who’s clinging to fragments of herself, trying not to shatter completely.
And yet, there’s a flicker of something stubborn and relentless. A stupid, fragile spark of hope that refuses to die. Maybe it’s naïve. Maybe it’s reckless. But it’s there, a whisper in the back of my mind telling me I can be more than this. That I canhavemore than this.
A life where I don’t have to wrap myself in glitter and lies to feel worthy.
A life where I’m not simply getting by but actuallyliving.
I let my mind drift again, this time not to Tuscany but to something even more elusive.Belonging.Not just being a part of a scene, a routine, a hustle, but a real place where I fit. Where people know me,the real me, and still want me around.
For more than a few minutes, I was part of something. Even though the tasks, excluding the final one, ranged from silly to risky, and I still don’t know who was ordering them, I was included. I was part of something bigger. Something that could change things.
Then,I blew the chance to make it out of here.
However, nothing,not even a new life, will make me steal a fucking car ever again.
I can find my way out of this shit show calledmy lifeon my fucking own.
