“You’re making that face again,” Maren says from across the table, her chin propped in her hand. She’s watching me the way she always does, like I’m a puzzle she’s two pieces away from solving.
“What face?”
“The ‘I’m fine’ face. The one where your mouth is smiling but your eyes haven’t caught up.” She takes a sip of her own wine and winces. She ordered the same thing I did out ofsolidarity — add it to the list of nine hundred reasons I love her. “Jesus. This is actually criminal.”
I laugh. It comes out thin, a little frayed at the edges, but real enough.
Maren Lavelle has been my best friend since our freshman year at Boston University, when she found me crying in the communal bathroom at two in the morning because my dad had called again asking for money I didn’t have.
She sat on the cool tiled floor with me for an hour and never once told me to stop. Just handed me toilet paper when I ran out of tissues and said, “Okay. What do we do now?”
She moved to Chicago a year before I did. Got a job in nonprofit fundraising at first. Found a tiny apartment in Logan Square with a fire escape she uses as a balcony. When I told her I was thinking about leaving Boston, she didn’t ask why. She immediately sent me a bunch of apartment listings and said, “Pick one. When am I coming to help you move?”
That’s Maren. She doesn’t wait for you to ask for help. She shows up.
Right now, she’s showing up at a sticky table in a dive bar on the South Side. And I know she can tell something’s wrong because she’s been watching me wordlessly swirl my wine for five minutes, and Maren is keenly aware that a quiet Ellie is a dangerous sign.
“They came to my door again,” I say finally.
Maren’s glass pauses halfway to her mouth. She sets it down carefully.
“When?”
“Yesterday morning. Two of them. Different goons this time — not the ones from last month.” I press my thumb into the stem of my glass, focusing on the pressure because if I focus on anything else, I might cry, and I amnotcrying in Rosie’s on a Wednesday night. “They know where I work. They showed upat Lincoln Elementary last week. Stood outside the gate during recess.”
“Ellie…”
“I know.”
“Did they?—”
“One of them grabbed my arm when I came out,” I confess.
Maren’s face goes still.
“Not hard. Just... enough. To make sure I understood. They can get to me anywhere.” I take a breath. “And then my principal called me in and asked why two men in a black SUV were parked outside the school. What was I supposed to say? So, I—” I stop. Swallow. “I resigned.”
The silence that follows is heavy. I can practically feel it pressing on my skin.
“You quit?” Maren’s voice is low. Careful. Not judging — never judging — but edged with worry.
“I couldn’t let them come near those kids, Mare. I couldn’t risk it.” My throat tightens. “Those are five-year-olds. They come in with their little backpacks and their missing teeth, and they trust me. I can’t be the reason?—”
“Hey.” Her hand covers mine across the table. “You did the right thing. You hear me? You protected those kids.”
I force out a broken laugh.
“Yeah. And now I’m unemployed with a five-hundred-thousand-dollar debt.” My voice shakes a little. “Well… Four hundred seventy-eight thousand, five hundred forty. If we’re being specific.”
Maren is quiet for a moment. She does this thing when she’s thinking hard where she presses her lips together and turns slightly to the left.
“Okay,” she finally starts. “I can get you some money. You know my family will help, El. I could call, ask if?—”
“No.”
“Just hear me?—”
“Maren. No.” I pull my hand back gently. “I am not borrowing money from your family. I’m not dragging anyone else into this. My dad dragged me into it, and look where that got me.” The bitterness in my voice is jagged. I close my eyes for a second. “Sorry. I didn’t mean?—”
