Nadia
The text comes in at 5:47 a.m., thirteen minutes before my alarm.
I already know what it is before I look. The same way you know it's going to rain when your head feels heavy. The same way you know a phone call at 3 a.m. is never good news. My body understands the pattern even when my brain is still trying to pretend this isn't my life.
I roll over and pick up the phone.
You're late. 5K by tonight or I send them to Daddy.
Five thousand dollars. It was two thousand six months ago. A thousand before that. The numbers keep climbing and the timeline keeps shrinking and I keep paying because the alternative is something I can't survive.
I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at the message until the screen goes dark.
My savings account has eleven dollars in it. I checked last night. I check every night, the way other people check the weather. It used to be my college savings. Birthday gifts and inheritances from over the years, all stockpiled in an account that gave a reasonable rate of interest for my future. And now it’s all gone.
I get up, shower, pull my hair back, and put on the black shirt and apron I wear to the restaurant. Rosa's opens at seven thirtyfor breakfast, and I'm on the early shift today, which means I'll pick up a double if anyone calls in sick. I always pick up the doubles. I need every hour I can get.
My dad can’t understand why I work so much, especially since I never ended up in college. I told him I’d prefer to take a gap year, and then it stretched and stretched as the demands jumped. He thinks I work because I want to develop my character. That’s what he tells people. But I’ve seen the way he looks at me when I return from a long day on my feet with more than just exhaustion shadowing my face.
The drive takes twelve minutes. I spend every one of them doing math in my head. I have three hundred and twenty dollars in my checking account. Tips from last week haven't cleared yet. If I pick up extra shifts between now and Friday, maybe I can scrape together eight hundred by the end of the week.
Panic grips my throat and my stomach turns as I pull into the parking lot and slam my brakes on in a spot reserved for staff. I open the door just in time to vomit on the concrete beside my car.
Five thousand by tonight just isn’t possible.
I stay like that for a moment, hunched over, half out the car, waiting for the need to throw up again to pass. My hands are shaking as I push a strand of hair back behind my ear and then scrabble about for the bottle of water I left in here yesterday.
I rinse my mouth out with the first swig. Then gulp down three mouthfuls as I try to steady myself.
Three years. It's been three years since the first message. Three years of handing over every spare dollar I earn to a man I haven't seen since I was nineteen. A man I thought I loved. A man I was going to give everything to on the night I found him with someone else.
I was eighteen when I sent those photos. Eighteen and so stupidly in love that I thought it was sexy and romantic. He asked and I wanted to prove something. That I was serious. That I was all in. That he was the only one and I'd do anything to show him.
I didn't even think about the photos after I left him. I was too busy being broken. Too busy trying to understand how someone could hold you like you were precious and then throw you away like you were nothing. I never dated again. I couldn't. Something in me just shut off, and it's stayed off ever since.
Then the first text came, a month later. A photo I'd forgotten I'd taken, attached to a message that was almost casual in how devastating it was.Wouldn't want this getting around, would you?
I paid. Of course I paid, and I've been paying ever since. Watching my life shrink around me while Kyle Whitfield lives off my shame like a parasite.
Inside the restaurant, Rosa is already behind the line, prepping eggs. She looks at me the way she always does. Like she can see the tired but knows better than to ask.
"Morning, honey."
"Morning. Anyone call in?"
"Jenny's got a stomach bug."
"I'll cover her shift."
Rosa studies me for a beat. "That's a fourteen-hour day, Nadia."
"I don't mind."
She doesn't push it. Rosa is good like that. She hired me when I had no experience and no references, and she's never once asked me why a girl with a comfortable family works sixty-hour weeks and still looks like she's drowning.
The breakfast rush keeps me moving, which is good. When I'm moving, I'm not thinking. When I'm not thinking, I'm not calculating. When I'm not calculating, I can almost pretend I'm normal. A twenty-two-year-old with a job and an apartment and a life that makes sense.
My phone buzzes in my apron pocket around eleven. I ignore it through the lunch rush and check it in the bathroom during a lull.
