Chapter Three (Libby)

By the time we get back to the diner, my head is pounding. Emma is sitting in the booth nearest the register, swinging her legs and coloring on the kids’ menu. Her backpack is beside her, spilling crayons like she tried to outrun them earlier. I figured if she’s busy in the diner she won’t bother Matteo while he jumps my car.

“LIBBY! Did you know the school has a turtle? His name is Pancake!”

I smooth her hair back, my hands still shaky from the call with the principal.

“That’s great, bug. Give me one minute, okay? I’m just going to watch Matteo fix the car and I’ll be right back. It won’t take long.”

Emma nods hard enough to risk whiplash and goes back to coloring.

“Alright,” he says, eyes landing on my duct-taped shoe like it personally offended him. “Let’s go resurrect your car.”

Mortification washes over me. Suddenly I just want him gone. I don’t want to be judged or pitied.

“I—I can do it,” I insist too quickly. “You don’t have to waste your time—”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Libby. The car is dead, I have a meeting in—”

He checks his watch.

“—eight minutes, and I am a kind, generous, wildly handsome man who happens to enjoy fixing things.”

I blink at him. “You… enjoy fixing things?”

He grins. “Especially when they’re actively trying to fall apart in front of me.”

“HEY,” I mutter, defensive.

He holds up his hands. “Not you. The car. Well mostly the car.”

I should be used to his nonstop teasing by now, but today my skin feels stretched thin. Every word, every look, every offer to help scrapes something raw inside me. People don’t help me. People hurt me. Or they leave. But Matteo? He just keeps showing up like my life isn’t a dumpster fire.

I swallow hard.

“Fine.”

He gives a theatrical bow. “Your acceptance humbles me.”

***

My car sits exactly where I left it, looking pathetic and vaguely ashamed of itself. Matteo pops the hood with ease.

Emma bounces beside him. Her staying inside to color lasted approximately one second. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHAT’S THAT? IS IT GONNA EXPLODE?”

“Probably not,” Matteo says casually.

“MATTEO,” I hiss.

He laughs. “Relax. I know how to jump a car.”

Emma gasps with awe. “Are you a mechanic?”

“No,” he says, clicking the cables together, “but I am Italian, which means I was born knowing how to fix at least two things cars, and espresso machines.”

Emma nods solemnly like this is sacred cultural knowledge. I cross my arms tightly. My cheeks burn. I hate this. Not him. Not the moment necessarily but the helplessness I feel.

The way my chest cinches because Matteo is being kind, and every part of me rebels against kindness. I can hear my father’s voice in my head, you can’t depend on anybody but yourself, Libby. You need to be useful, quiet, and grateful.

I feel Matteo’s eyes flick toward me, like he’s reading every thought I don’t say.

“You okay over there?” he asks softly.

I force a smile. “Yep. Super.”

He doesn’t believe me. I can tell. But he lets it go. He attaches the clamps, explaining each step to Emma like she’s a mechanic prodigy.

“This one goes on the battery. This one on the metal part. And then we wait a second.”

Emma’s eyes are huge. “Can I start the car?”

“Absolutely not,” I snap.

Matteo laughs again but it’s quiet this time, gentle, like he doesn’t want to embarrass me further.

“Alright, Libby,” he says, “try it now.”

I turn the key.

The car sputters but then, miraculously, roars to life. Emma jumps up and down like we’re at Disney World. Matteo closes the hood, dusts off his hands, and shoots me a cocky little look.

“Told you. Italian magic.”

My throat tightens.

“Thank you,” I whisper and it’s not just for the car. It’s for not making me feel stupid. For not mocking my life. For stepping in without stomping on my pride too hard. He nods once, accepting the gratitude like it didn’t cost me anything to offer.

“You’re welcome,” he says softly.

Then he opens the passenger door for Emma with a dramatic flourish.

“Your chariot awaits, young hurricane.”

Emma beams. “I’M NOT A HURRICANE. I’M EIGHT!”

Matteo freezes. Grins. “Fair enough.”

I buckle in, Emma who is humming happily in the backseat. Matteo leans down into my open window.

“You’re going to be okay,” he says quietly. “Whatever’s going on with you just know that you’re not alone, alright?”

The words hit harder than he can possibly know. I look away before tears betray me.

“Thank you,” I say again, voice cracking.

He taps the roof lightly a small smile on face. I realize I don’t hate needing help. I just don’t know how to accept it without feeling like I’m failing.

But Matteo? He makes it feel different. For the first time in a long time, I let someone help me, but I drive away before I can take it back

***

The couch sinks the second I sit down, like it’s tired with me. One spring immediately jabs my hip in protest. I shift. It stabs me again.

Of course it does.

Emma launches herself onto the cushion beside me, notebook already flopping open, pencil spinning between her fingers like she’s warming up for something athletic instead of math.

“Okay,” I say, rubbing my eyes. “Homework first. Then whatever chaos you’re clearly saving.”

“I’m not saving chaos,” she says, immediately kicking her feet hard enough that the lamp on the end table rattles. “Chaos just… happens to me.”

“That tracks,” I mutter.

She reads the first question, except “reads” is generous—she pauses halfway through to tell me that Jenny in the problem probably shouldn’t be giving away apples because what if she gets hungry later and then asks if apples rot faster in the fridge or on the counter.

“Emma,” I say gently. “The apples.”

“Right, right.” She counts on her fingers. Loses track. Starts over. Counts her toes instead. Kicks me in the thigh accidentally.

I wince. “Hey. Feet still.”

“Sorry!” she says, already not still. “Okay wait—what if Jenny gives away too many apples and then her mom is mad and—”

“Emma.”

“What?”

“Math.”

She sighs like I’m the one being unreasonable. “Fine.”

I blink.

Just for a second.

My chin dips, and I jolt awake when the pencil clatters to the floor.

“Libby,” Emma says. “You fell asleep.”

“I absolutely did not.”

“You snored.”

“I exhaled aggressively.”

She grins and scoots closer, draping herself halfway over my lap like gravity doesn’t apply to her. “You’re really tired.”

“Shocking,” I say. My feet feel like they’re pulsing. My shoulders ache. I can still hear the bell over the diner door in my head.

Emma goes back to the homework… sort of. She answers one question, then flips to the back of the notebook to doodle a horse with six legs.

“Why does it have six legs?” I ask.

“In case two get tired.”

I rub my face. “Please finish number three.”

She does. Incorrectly. Then gasps. “Wait, no. I forgot to subtract.”

“That’s okay,” I murmur. “Just fix it.”

She fixes it. Then immediately starts telling me a long, winding story about a kid at school who sneezed and accidentally scared the substitute teacher so bad she dropped her coffee.

I laugh before I can stop myself. It slips out, tired and soft.

Emma beams like she’s won something.

My eyes close again. This time, I don’t fight it hard enough.

“Libby,” she says, quieter now.

“Mmm?”

“You’re asleep.”

“I’m listening,” I mumble.

She waits. The pencil scratches a little. Then stops.

“Libby?”

No answer.

She looks down at the half-finished page, then back at me with my head tipped, mouth slightly open, dead to the world on a couch that’s been threatening to collapse since before she was born.

Emma carefully sets the pencil down. She tucks the notebook closed like it might wake me. Then she settles against my side, warm and fidgety but trying very hard to be still.

The homework is unfinished, chaos was undefeated, and then there’s me. I’m out cold before the last problem even stood a chance.