Chapter 3

Chapter 3

              For a few minutes, I felt as though he was speaking the truth. His intense gaze burned into my own, his face mere inches from mine. In that moment, I completely forgot our surroundings; his beauty and words transported me from reality to a realm where anything felt possible.

All I had to do was close my eyes, and there he was, standing over a lifeless body as he tucked his gun into his pocket. That stark image jolted me back to reality.

I pull away from him and focus on the small chip in the circular wooden table, which resembles the ones from SpongeBob, albeit in a vibrant yellow color.

I had little choice here; I had to listen to what this Ace guy had to say. "Carry on."

He leaned back in the booth, studying me carefully. "What if I told you I can get rid of all your problems?" he asked, the words hanging heavily in the air between us.

"I'm afraid that even if you could do that, new problems would just arise—ones I can't bear," I told him, a chill coursing through me as I wondered if he meant to kill me and offer a dark end to my struggles.

He nodded thoughtfully, his gaze unwavering. "I'm giving you two options, Bonita: ride with me, or die by my hands."

I knew it shouldn’t be hard to choose; it was a life or death situation, yet I felt paralyzed. "Micah, we're leaving," Ace declared, rising from the booth and sliding a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills onto the table. "Have the change, love."

Micah, still chewing a piece of bacon, joined his brother, shooting me a wink.

"I'll be seeing you soon," Ace said, leaving me with a knot of unease twisting in my stomach as they walked away.

As I watched him leave the diner, abandoning his food, my gaze drifted to the stack of cash on the table, weighing my options. It could change everything for me, but returning it felt like the right thing to do. Just as I wrestled with my conscience, a voice interrupted my thoughts. "Honey, he might be trouble, but he’s a hot one. Life isn’t the easiest for you, especially with how they treat you in here. You should consider his offer. If I was thirty years younger, I would have snatched him away from you faster than you can blink."

My mouth fell open in shock as I processed the old woman's unexpected words. A daily customer who resembled what could be my great grandmother, she had never spoken to me beyond placing an order. I nodded in response, feeling it was the polite thing to do, before clearing the plates and slipping the money into my apron pocket. "Who exactly is he?" I finally asked, curiosity piqued by her warning—if she thought he was trouble, she must know something I didn't.

She gave me a perplexed look, her surprise evident. "You don't know? Honey, he is—" But before she could finish, my boss Dorine Patrick’s sharp voice pierced the air, "Joeniya!" The interruption was abrupt, pulling me away from the intriguing conversation. The old woman urged me to continue with a wave of her hand, returning her focus to her breakfast as I stood there, caught between curiosity and duty.

Dorine halted in front of me, her pink shirt clashing with the sternness of her expression, and her white pencil skirt making her look even more authoritative. With her blond hair tightly secured in a bun and her dark eyes glaring daggers, she crossed her arms over her chest like a storm cloud ready to break. "What was that about?" she demanded, her tone leaving no room for evasion. I stammered, sounding much more like a child fumbling for words, "He—just wanted to talk to me," hoping to deflect her intensity, but even I could hear the weakness in my own response.

Her gaze swept over me like a predator sizing up its prey, disdain dripping from her words. "Why would Ace Ambrose want to talk to you? Did you open up your legs for him?"

The humiliation stung, and tears threatened to spill as she continued her tirade, making it clear that any association with him was an unforgivable offense in her eyes. "I already told my husband I don't want any troublemakers in here, so tell your boyfriend to stay out. If I see him in here again, I won’t hesitate to fire you," she warned, the finality in her voice unmistakable. "Now get out of my face; you're on kitchen duty."

Before I could escape to the back, Dorine's grip on my arm was merciless as she yanked the cash from my pocket, her push sending me stumbling away. Breathless and humiliated, I raced into the kitchen, quickly swiping at a stray tear that threatened to fall just as I encountered another she-devil. She stood there, glaring at me with an intensity that mirrored Dorine's, and without a word, I took an angry bite from my sandwich, trying to drown out the chaos around me as I focused on ignoring her.

"It’s not even your lunch break, and already you're stuffing your face," Amber Patrick sneered, her voice dripping with condescension. At just sixteen, she wielded her attitude like a weapon, having earned a spot in the kitchen part-time baking her treasured cupcakes and muffins before dashing off to school. With her big blue eyes fixed on me, she circled closer, cornering me like a predator sizing up its prey, her smug smile indicating she relished the power she held over me in that moment.

"You're not supposed to eat that, even though the customer didn't touch it. Who do you think you are?" Amber spat, her irritation simmering just below the surface. I chose to ignore her, taking another bite of my sandwich, relishing the defiance that came with it. “Do you think that because the notorious bad boy took an interest in you, you can do whatever you want?” she continued, her voice laced with jealousy and disdain, as if my mere existence and choice of lunch had somehow threatened her tenuous grasp on superiority in this small world we inhabited.

I swallowed the bite, fixing my gaze on the bitter little girl before me. "Are you jealous, Amber? Is that it? For once, I'm getting the attention, and you have to just sit back and watch."

Her expression flickered with shock, but it quickly morphed into a smirk, revealing her true colors. "You know, Joeniya? I always knew you were a bitch," she retorted, her words dripping with venom as she tried to regain her footing in our twisted power struggle, but I could see the cracks forming in her bravado.

I shrugged nonchalantly, “I learn from the best.”

Amber shot me a fake smile, her eyes narrowing in irritation before she snatched the plate from my hand and unceremoniously tossed the food into the trash bag. Yet, despite her action, a surge of satisfaction washed over me; this was the first time I had truly stood up for myself. It didn't matter that the showdown was with a sixteen-year-old—each moment of defiance filled me with a newfound confidence that felt electrifying.

Her mother's harsh, unforgiving words faded to the background, overshadowed by the triumph of asserting my own worth for the first time.

              After my shift ended, I hurried over to Cari-med Community College, cursing under my breath for being five minutes late thanks to Amber's incessant teasing after school. I barely managed to catch myself from tripping as I dashed up the stairs, lungs burning from the rush. As soon as I stepped into the classroom, all eyes turned toward me, a mix of curiosity and judgment washing over the room, amplifying my awareness of every imperfection and doubt I’d been battling all day.

"Miss Allison, you are late," my obstetrician lecturer, Ms. Hemming, pronounced with a disapproving gaze.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Hemming, it won't happen again," I quickly apologized, feeling the heat of embarrassment on my cheeks.

She adjusted her glasses, her expression softening only slightly, and instructed, "Proceed to your seat. The topic is the stages of pregnancy."

I nod and make my way to the back of the class, seeking refuge from prying eyes. As Ms. Hemming delves into the second trimester—thirteen to twenty-eight weeks—she outlines the common backaches that accompany the growing weight of the fetus. I pull out my obstetrics notebook and a pen, flipping to a fresh page, but my mind drifts back to earlier events, chewing absentmindedly on the pen.

Curiosity bubbled within me as I pondered who Ace Ambrose was; his surname tickled at the edges of my memory, but I couldn't quite place it. The notion that he found me special struck a chord, especially since my father was the only one who'd ever shared such sentiments.

Ms. Hemming's voice cut through my thoughts as she detailed the third trimester—twenty-nine to forty weeks—highlighting the rapid weight gain and growth spurts experienced by the fetus. I forced myself to focus, trying to push aside my fascination with Ace to absorb the medical knowledge before me.

I hastily scribble notes, aware that I missed parts of Ms. Hemming's discussion on the second trimester; without anyone to rely on for help after class, I couldn't afford to zone out. Education was my only escape from poverty, clinging to the hope that knowledge could open doors for me. I shuddered at the alternative options fluttering through my mind—dropping out, seeking a sugar daddy, or even the more scarier paths of stripping or prostitution. The thought of selling myself, especially as a virgin, left a bitter taste in my mouth, fueling my determination to succeed academically, no matter how tough it got.

I couldn't help but chuckle to myself at the absurdity of those options, my grin widening as I imagined the chaos that would ensue if I actually pursued any of them. I glanced over at the guy sitting four seats across, who seemed to be eyeing me quizzically, probably convinced I was losing my grip on reality.

              As the clock edged closer to 10 PM, I quickly gathered my belongings and rushed out of class, my heart racing as I headed toward the bus stop just two minutes away. Once on the bus, I sank into a seat and let my head rest against the cool glass window, watching the city lights blur by. The familiar knot of anxiety tightened in my stomach as I contemplated where I would spend the night; returning to the crowded public restroom felt increasingly uninviting, and I longed for a safe, warm space—just somewhere to lay my head and escape the weight of my reality, if only for a few hours.

As the bus rumbled past the little Mexican restaurant, a wave of nostalgia washed over me, pulling my thoughts back to my papa and the comforting meals he’d shared. Memories of him picking up arroz con huevo, tacos, and those sweet cocadas brought a warm smile to my face, contrasting sharply with my current uncertainty. I could almost hear his voice echoing in my mind, encouraging me to embrace change and adventure—“Es bueno probar cosas nuevas, Princesa.” His words felt like a gentle reminder that even in moments of discomfort, there were flavors and experiences waiting to be savored, just as he had taught me to embrace the world beyond familiar tastes.

At first, I couldn’t stand oatmeal; it felt like a bland substitute for the vibrant meals my papa made. Stubbornly resistant to trying it, I clung to the flavors of my childhood, unwilling to venture into the realm of breakfast grains. But after his passing, something shifted within me, and I found myself revisiting that once-dreaded oatmeal, discovering a comfort in its simplicity. I experimented with it in countless ways—gobbling it hot with cinnamon, enjoying it cold with raisins, and incorporating it into cookies, each bowl and bite becoming a bittersweet tribute to the memories I held dear and a way to feel connected to him once more.

As the memories of my papa washed over me, the tears fell freely down my cheeks, each droplet a testament to the void he left behind. The warmth of his presence faded into the chilling reality of solitude, amplifying the loneliness that wrapped around me like a heavy blanket. The world felt overwhelmingly vast and intimidating, a daunting landscape without his comforting guidance to navigate through its complexities. In those moments of vulnerability, I yearned for his reassuring words and gentle laughter, wishing I could turn back time to embrace him just one more time and feel safe in a world that now seemed so immense and frightening.