Chapter 3

When I recognized it, I jumped out of bed and pulled a rusty metal box from beneath it.

I opened the box and checked that my mother’s original recipe book was still inside. Only then did I let out a breath of relief.

The photocopy was the one I had prepared for my community college business class.

It contained my mother’s recipes, along with my personal budget.

My paycheck, rent, utilities, debt payments, and every dollar I had managed to scrape together for my future food business were all carefully laid out inside.

My fingertips brushed the back of the recipe book, where my mother had once written our old address herself, 18 Willow Lane.

I opened a rental app on my phone and found a studio apartment just a few blocks away.

The next morning, I was at work revising a report when my phone would not stop buzzing. The night class group chat was flooded with new messages.

Someone had reposted a screenshot of Bianca’s social feed, praising her for being so prepared and for taking such lovely notes.

It did not take long for someone to recognize my name on the cost sheet.

[Isn’t she the one who used someone else’s spot and then posted that person’s notes like they were hers?]

[Yeah. The instructor said yesterday that someone made a scene over a class spot.]

Bianca quickly jumped into the chat.

She sent a string of pleading emojis. She insisted the notes had only been borrowed and that she had never meant to pass them off as her own.

To prove her innocence, she sent several screenshots of the papers inside the folder.

One of them was the private budget sheet where I had laid out every embarrassing detail of my finances.

[She barely makes enough to get by, and she’s already buried in debt. No wonder she’d sell her spot.]

The chat went quiet for a few seconds. Then, the comments turned even harsher.

[She makes that little in a month and still has debt? No wonder she sold her spot to someone else.]

[I heard her boyfriend has decent money. With a budget sheet this pathetic, maybe she wrote it on purpose to guilt him into paying for everything.]

[She’s treating a basic food business class like it’s her last shot at making something of herself. That’s just sad.]

My hands shook so badly I could barely hold my phone.

I immediately posted the original file creation timestamp and proof of my registration payment in the group chat, then tagged the admin and asked them to remove my private documents.

Less than a minute later, Dylan called.

“Jenna, can you please stop going off in the group chat?”

He sounded tired and anxious. “Bianca didn’t mean to do it. People in the group misunderstood her, and she panicked. She only sent the wrong screenshot by mistake.”

“The wrong screenshot?”

I clenched my jaw. “That screenshot had my private information on it. It contained my finances, my struggles, every line I never wanted anyone else to see. Knowing that, are you still telling me not to be angry?”

“I know those documents were yours.”

Dylan softened his voice to calm me down. “But Jenna, Bianca just got that trial shift at the nail salon. If she gets called out in the group chat and the screenshots spread, she could lose the job too. Could you please be the bigger person and let me handle the rest?”

Without waiting for a reply, he hung up. Disappointment settled heavily in my chest as I heard the dead tone.

His first instinct was always to protect Bianca, even if it meant leaving my name to be dragged through the mud.

Half an hour later, the admin posted the decision.

Bianca and I would be disqualified from the remainder of the course because of the account-sharing violation and the disruption caused by the dispute over the course materials.

Bianca sent me a long private apology. The last line of her message was: Jenna, I’m so scared to face everyone in the group chat. I’m going to leave the group first.

Dylan asked the admin to delete the messages criticizing Bianca, but he did not say a word in my defense.

I sat in the break room and saved my registration receipt, screenshots from the group chat, and the photo release form into a new folder. Then, I left the class group chat.

After work, I found Dylan waiting downstairs on his scooter.

In the basket sat a warm grilled cheese sandwich and a cup of tomato soup. It was as if a comfort meal could somehow make everything okay again.

I walked over. My gaze landed on the paper bag beside him.

Inside were Bianca’s manicure tools. On top of them was the service receipt for the diamond ring.

The note read, [Minor scratches on the setting. The wearer is advised to avoid contact with grease and harsh chemicals.]

I did not get on the scooter.

I reached into the paper bag and took back the torn pages from my photocopies.

Dylan looked uneasy and reached for my sleeve. “Jenna.”

I took a step back and avoided his hand. Then, I turned and walked toward the subway entrance.

Before I went in, I heard his phone ring again.

When he answered, his voice went soft in an instant. “Bianca, don’t cry. I’m coming back right now.”

I did not look back.

The train was delayed by more than ten minutes. When I finally returned to the apartment alone, I found the door unlocked and the kitchen light on.

Bianca was standing at the counter. Beside her was the metal box that should have been under my bed.