Chapter 3: Hungry Hearts and Hard Choices

3

I was curled up on my side, habit from years of cramped beds and cold winters. My hair—dark, damp, and tangled—stuck to my face, making me look even smaller.

Even half-asleep, I felt exposed and defiant. Let him see me like this. Let him remember, even if he never says my name again.

My lips were pink, broken and swollen. My breathing was soft, but sometimes a little whimper of hurt slipped out.

I wondered if he could hear me, or if he even cared. I kept my hands close to my chest, clutching at dignity.

Lucas’s hand hovered, then stopped as if enchanted. Instead of pulling the comforter back, he tucked it tighter around my neck, just my face showing. Then I heard the click of his phone as he snapped a picture.

I stayed perfectly still, letting him have his proof—even if it wasn’t what his friends wanted.

Soon his phone buzzed again, loud in the quiet room. Lucas cursed under his breath; I almost smiled.

“Not cool, man. Why didn’t you take a shot of what’s below?”

“Get lost.” Lucas’s voice turned cold. “She’s my girlfriend now. Show some respect.”

The air shifted. For a heartbeat, I wondered if he meant it—or if it was just another line for the guys.

“Got it, got it.”

“But Lucas, how long are you planning to date Natalie?”

“As long as possible. At the shortest, a week; at most, until before I go to New York.”

“Right, you’ll be going back to New York then.”

The words stung, but I kept my eyes closed, counting the seconds between each sentence.

“But what if she clings to you and follows you to New York?”

Lucas laughed. “New York’s so big. Finding someone is like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

“That’s true. With Natalie’s background, you two would never cross paths again.”

The truth in those words hovered like a storm cloud. I let them wash over me, numb, focusing on the scratchy pillow under my cheek.

4

He wasn’t wrong.

I grew up knowing exactly where I belonged. My mom did two years for accidental injury—now she runs a breakfast food truck. My dad died early. Every holiday I stayed at the truck, helping my mom flip pancakes, fry eggs, and count crumpled bills.

On Saturdays, I’d help her park our rusty Ford by the corner of Oak and Main, dishing out sausage biscuits and hashbrowns to the early crowd—cops, nurses, truckers on their first break. The regulars always said I made the crispiest hashbrowns in the county. Most days I smelled like fried eggs and cheap coffee, and there wasn’t enough soap in the world to scrub it out.

No matter how many showers I took, the scent of bacon and fryer oil clung to my hair, trailing me from homeroom to the bus stop.

When Lucas first approached me, he wrinkled his nose and asked, “What’s that smell in your hair?”

I remember blushing, fiddling with my sleeve. Lucas just smirked, brushing a strand of hair from my face like it was nothing.

“I help my mom sell breakfast. Probably got smoked on.”

I answered honestly, then added, “Maybe you shouldn’t get so close to me. Wouldn’t want to mess up your reputation.”

He just shrugged, unfazed. “It’s nothing.”

Lucas grinned. “Your mom’s probably a legend. Bring me one tomorrow. I’ll pay.”

He took out a twenty and stuffed it in my pocket, not taking no for an answer.

I tried to give it back, but he just grinned and waved me off. “Don’t argue.”

I didn’t want to accept it, but I couldn’t refuse. The next day, I brought ten breakfast sandwiches. For Lucas, I made the works—extra sausage, double egg, cheddar melting down the sides, the way the regulars liked it. The rest I handed out to his friends.

I packed them in foil, tucked in a brown paper bag, scribbled everyone’s name in Sharpie. Lucas’s was the biggest, extra cheese, just like he asked. I watched his face as he opened the bag, nerves buzzing.

But they didn’t touch them. Only Lucas tried a bite, frowning. After I left for class, I spotted the foil-wrapped sandwich in the trash, egg smeared across the top. My chest tightened. I told myself it didn’t matter, but my hands shook all through first period.

After that, he never mentioned breakfast again. Instead, he gave me expensive shampoo and body wash—brands I’d only seen in beauty magazines.

The bottles looked out of place on our chipped tub—fancy script next to my mom’s battered Suave. I almost didn’t want to use them, afraid I’d wash away the last of myself.

Before seeing him that night, I used what he gave me. My skin smelled like coconuts and flowers, not a hint of fryer oil. Lucas looked pleased, burying his nose in my hair. For a moment, I felt proud—like maybe I belonged in his world. But deep down, I knew: no matter how many showers I took, I’d never quite fit in.