“Nah, baby,” he said, laughing. “You already did that. And look where it got you—sitting at a bus stop in shoes that don’t fit, waiting on the 39 to take you back to your mama’s house.”
Destiny giggled.
Actuallygiggled.
And then she lifted a cup—a big plastic cup from Sonic, condensation dripping down the sides—and before I could process what was happening, she threw it.
Strawberry Fanta.
Ice-cold, sticky, bright red strawberry Fanta splashed across my chest, my face, and my borrowed sundress, soaking into the fabric and dripping down my legs.
I gasped—not from the cold, but from the shock of it.
From the humiliation.
Destiny was laughing now. Full-on cackling. “Oops! My hand slipped!”
Something inside me snapped.
I was off the bench and rushing toward the car before I even realized I was moving—hands reaching for the passenger door, ready to drag Destiny out by her cheap lace-front and beat her ass right on St. Charles Avenue in broad daylight.
But Phillip hit the gas.
The Altima lurched forward, tires squealing, and I stumbled back onto the curb as they sped away.
I could hear Destiny’s laughter even after they turned the corner.
I stood there.
Soaking wet.
Covered in strawberry Fanta.
Alone.
And something inside me just… broke.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just quietly, like the last piece of determination that had been holding me together finally gave up.
Phillip had taken everything.
And now this.
My dignity. My pride. The last bit of self-respect I’d been clinging to.
I sank back down onto the bench, sticky and humiliated, and felt tears burning behind my eyes.
I wasn’t going to cry.
Iwasn’t.
But my hands were shaking, and my chest was tight, and I could still hear Destiny’s laughter echoing in my head.
Broke and bitter.
