Chapter Text
The crunching beneath my tires sent daggers up my spine, each snap of gravel a reminder that one wrong turn could cost me everything. Blood dribbled down my chin from my torn lip; an old habit, my teeth digging in whenever the anxiety got too loud. I clenched my eyes shut, praying the car would make it.
Just one mile. Just one mile down the street.
Metal dragged against the rough tar, a screech filling the cramped cab of my ’99 Ford Taurus. The putrid stench of exhaust curled into the vents. I hit the button, cutting off the airflow. Why had I even had that on? It wasn’t like the air conditioning had worked anytime this century.
Only one intersection left.
My foot brushed the brake, my gaze flicking to the clock. I was early. Or was I on time? Could you even be too early for an interview? Hell, if I knew; I just wasn’t about to find out now. This trial shift was more than a job; it was my lifeline, a final chance to leave behind the wreckage of my past.
The light turned green, and as I pressed the gas, my stomach started flipping, somersault after somersault, until I was almost certain my breakfast would become another layer of dust lining my dashboard.
Not now, I murmured internally as I pressed a trembling hand against my stomach beneath the seatbelt.
Not today. Just a few more hours. We need this.
I flicked the turn signal seconds before swinging into the school parking lot. My stomach clenched again, only harder this time. I needed to throw up. I had to throw up. How bad would it be to puke all over my shoes before a trial shift? Probably not great.
Throwing the car in park, I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping for a brief respite. But the September sun was merciless, cutting through the windshield and into my skull like a reminder that there was no such thing as peace. Not now, not ever… not for at least eighteen years.
I ripped off my seatbelt, leaned forward, and cracked open the glovebox. My secret stash: saltines. Stale, bland, but exactly what I needed. I’d be lying if I said my nausea and nerves were correlated. They were anything but.
The first cracker hit my tongue. I didn’t care about the taste, only the way it settled me, just enough to stop the dizziness. Between bites, I watched the clock and fought to slow my breathing.
Then I saw it.
The black catering van rumbled onto the grass of the elementary school field. Shit. I beat her here. My breath stuttered in my throat—a bad sign, no doubt. I watched for another minute, making sure the saltines kept the nausea at bay, before stepping out of the car. A fleeting thrill surged through me, quickly drowned by a creeping dread.
Calm the fuck down, Ava, my brain snapped.
My sneakers sank into the mud as I followed the tire tracks onto the field. Thank God she said sneakers were fine. The dirt would’ve ruined any dress shoes; not that I had any to ruin.
“Uh, hello,” I called into the van, my voice cracking slightly.
“Oh, hi,” she said, running down the few steps to join me in the mud. Her voice, coated in a British accent, was smooth and lilting like honey drizzled over warm toast. Even as I stood there, gawking like a teenage pervert, I chastised myself for the distraction; I couldn’t afford to lose focus now.
“Are you okay?” she asked, her head tilting slightly as she studied me.
Fuck. I’d forgotten where I was. I forced out a smile.
“Hi, I’m Ava,” I said, holding out my hand a little too quickly. “I’m here to help you out for today.”
She smirked, her lips curling in a way that made my stomach flip. “I know—I’m the one who called you. I’m actually the only one who works here.”
Her hand was soft, yet strong and steady, and the faint scent of vanilla wafted off her skin. She smelled like a Christmas cookie; warm, sweet, and utterly distracting. My mouth went dry as unexpected hormones betrayed me at the worst possible moment. For a split second, I scolded myself for being drawn in by her charm when I should be laser-focused on this opportunity.
“So, I’m here to help,” I said, forcing myself to concentrate. “What can I start doing?”
“You still have like…” She glanced down at her watch. “Like six minutes. Are you sure you want to jump right in?”
“Absolutely,” I replied, my voice firmer than I felt.
“Did you have a chance to glance over the catering menu I sent over?” she asked.
“Sure did,” I said quickly. I wasn’t about to confess that I’d memorized every single letter on that thing.
“Do you think you can start cracking some eggs? I think I have like six dozen in there. And take the pancake batter out of the fridge to get to room temperature? That would be a big help. I have to go meet with the principal before we get set up.”
“Sure thing, boss,” I muttered, watching her walk away. I caught her pausing, her feet sinking into the mud, her hands tucked into her pockets as if she already regretted this arrangement.
“Great way to lose this gig before you even start it,” I muttered as I hopped up the van’s steps two at a time. She’s not your boss yet.
The silver surfaces of the catering van gleamed under the morning sun, casting tiny streaks of light across the polished countertops. Either everything was brand new, or someone as meticulous as me had scrubbed this place down to perfection.
I stepped fully inside, sneakers pressing against the rubber flooring as I took in the pristine stove and fridge. Not a single stray crumb. No smudged fingerprints. Either Beatrice had the cleanest van known to man, or this was one hell of a fresh start.
I squinted as the sparkle caught my eye. Damn, I should've remembered my sunglasses.
As I moved toward the fridge, my fingertips brushed against a small Polaroid clipped beneath a magnet on the stainless-steel door. I plucked it free, bringing it closer.
The elderly couple in the photo weren’t just smiling. They were alive with laughter, the kind that came from good food and good company. Forks hovered mid-motion, eyes crinkled with joy. My lips twitched in response.
That was what real food could do. Turn something simple into something unforgettable.
I bent down, retrieved the fallen magnet, and carefully placed the image back where it belonged. It had to mean something to Beatrice—it was the only personal touch in the entire van.
I hesitated for a beat longer than I should have. Who were they? Why was this the only thing out of place in a spotless van?
The fridge door suctioned open, flooding my vision with LED light. White-hot glare. Nausea. A migraine clawing at my skull.
Deep breath. In. Out.
The cold air prickled against my skin. Goosebumps spread instantly.
I grabbed the oversized cartons of eggs, stacking them on the counter. The fridge door swung shut with a sharp thud, and I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
"Okay, now to find a bowl," I muttered, opening cabinet after cabinet.
Then…
“Hey, Bea! I’m so glad you decided to reopen the—” The voice faltered just as a woman reached the top of the van’s stairs, her gaze locking onto me in surprise. “Uh… you’re not Beatrice.”
“Nope,” I said, wiping my sweaty palms against my jeans. “Ava.”
She strode forward, reaching for my hand with practiced ease. Her grip was impossibly gentle, like she was cradling something delicate.
“Oh, you’re the maybe help,” she mused, her lips twisting into a smirk. “I’m Camila. Beatrice’s sometimes maybe but not always friend.”
I forced a smile, though my brain was already dissecting those words. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Sounded less like friendship and more like unfinished business.
“Nice to meet you, Camila,” I said carefully. “And like you said, today’s just a try-out. So, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a boss to impress.”
“Yes, yes. Absolutely.”
I resumed rifling through the cabinets, hunting for a mixing bowl.
“Are you looking for this?” Without hesitation, Camila opened a nearby cabinet, revealing a stacked set of silver bowls, like she’d done a thousand times before.
“Uh… thanks,” I said, blinking.
“You probably need a whisk, too.”
She turned, grabbed one from the drawer beside the grill, and handed it to me.
“You really know your way around here, huh?” I asked, dropping the whisk into the bowl.
“Yeah, I used to work with Beatrice during the summer at her—” She stopped abruptly. The shift was instant; she went from being chatty Cathy to something closed off and hesitant.
“You know what, yeah. I better get going before my students get here.” She moved toward the door, the motion graceful, fluid, like a dancer.
“Camila?” I called after her.
She paused at the stairs, just barely visible over the counter’s edge. “Yeah?”
"Thank you," I responded.
Her voice softened. “Don’t let her tough exterior fool you, okay?”
I frowned. What did that mean?
“Life dealt her a bad hand,” she continued, slower now. “Distancing herself… it’s just how she copes.”
Her words hung in the air long after her footsteps faded. That wasn’t just advice; it was a warning. I darted toward the door, hoping to catch up, but she was already gone. What the hell was that supposed to mean?
I scratched my head, forcing myself back to the task at hand. Crack the eggs and—
Shit. I forgot the pancake batter.
I rushed to the fridge, yanked the door open, and banged it against the counter. Way to look competent, Ava.
The well-labeled container sat neatly on the shelf. I grabbed it, sliding it beside the eggs.
Deep breath, Ava. You didn’t get caught.
I slammed the fridge shut almost as loudly as I’d opened it.
Then—
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The voice sliced through the catering van like a blade, causing me to flinch.
“Uh… it just fell,” I said quickly. “I was putting it back.”
She moved too fast, snatching the picture from my grip and aligning it back on the fridge with pinpoint precision.
“Don’t touch that.” The steel in her voice sent a shiver down my spine.
"I’m sor… " I stopped myself the moment I saw her face. Beyond pissed off wasn’t even enough to describe it.
“It won’t happen again,” I said instead, locking my expression in place.
"It better not." Her fingers nudged the picture slightly to the left—an exact adjustment, like it had to be perfect.
My jaw tightened, my pulse pounding against my ribs.
Fuck, did I just lose this job already?
I needed it. Rent was due. Groceries weren’t magically appearing in my fridge. I wasn’t about to pull money out of thin air.
Maybe if I begged… No. I was above begging.
Okay, maybe I wasn’t.
If I lost this job before it even started!
That couldn’t happen.
“Thanks for getting things ready for me,” Beatrice said suddenly, pinching the bridge of her nose.
Wait. She’s thanking me? What kind of whiplash was this?
“I didn’t expect it to take that long talking to the principal,” she continued, reaching for the bowl and placing it between us. “She was a friend of my… Never mind. I see you got yourself situated.”
Something tightened in my chest. Her moods flipped like a switch, and I didn’t know why, but Camila’s words echoed in my head.
Distancing herself—it’s just how she copes.
Maybe I was getting a glimpse of exactly what she meant.
"Uh, yeah," I said, trying to smother the confusion in my voice. "Your friend Camila stopped by."
"Camila?"
She swiped a stray smear of egg yolk onto her jeans, her posture stiffening slightly.
"I should have figured. She didn’t,” She paused to collect her thoughts.
"Give me any horror stories about Beatrice in high school?" I smirked, cracking an egg against the bowl and watching the yolk float to meet its friends. "Don’t worry, she didn’t. She did help me find a bowl and a whisk, though."
"Good." Relief softened the hard edges of her face. I wiped my fingertips against my pants before snatching another egg.
"I’ve been meaning to get aprons or something," she mused. "It was on my list."
"No worries," I shrugged. "That’s what laundry is for, right?"
Only, the washer and dryers in my apartment were still broken, which meant dragging everything down the street to the laundromat—where that one pervert always stared at my ass when I loaded my wash into the dryer.
"Still," she said.
She spun toward the drawers, pulled one open, and thrust a plain white towel into my face. "Stuff the top of it into your waistband so you don’t lose it."
"You got it," I muttered, barely catching myself before using the already-failed nickname.
We worked in silence, the quiet hum of concentration filling the truck.
The rhythmic crack of eggshells echoed through the space, the silence stretching between us like a thread pulled too tight.
I bit my lip every time I dropped another yolk into the bowl, terrified that if I messed up even once, she'd snap again.
"Any allergies we should be worried about?" I asked, grabbing the last two eggs from the carton. Her movements froze—a flicker, barely a breath. Was she buffering? Did she need a reset button?
"Uh, yeah," she sputtered.
I tried to read her expression, but it was impossible to pin down. Shock and awe or utter terror? A mix of both? Hell, if I knew.
"Just one. An allergy to lactose, actually," she continued, voice steadier now. "The principal is going to be walking around with him, so we know, in case he forgets to let us know. I figured we could just skip the pancakes?"
"Do you have any coconut milk? Or almond milk?" The sound of the whisk scraped against the metal bowl, filling the quiet space. "I know a recipe that would be perfect."
She blinked, eyebrows crossing in a quizzical furrow. "Actually, I’ve got coconut milk here. And I brought the pancake batter ingredients in case we need more."
"That is perfect," I said, warmth blooming in my chest. "The last thing we want is for the kid to feel bad about his allergy. No reason for the other kids to look down on him. Now we can accommodate his needs."
Beatrice exhaled sharply, almost like she was irritated with herself.
"I should have thought of that," she muttered. "Are you sure this is going to be safe?"
"Absolutely." I didn’t hesitate. "My foster brother was also allergic to lactose. I figured out this recipe because... I hated how he looked at my pancakes. Like they were something he’d never get to have. No one should feel like that over food."
For a split second, she just stared at me.
Then…
"Why don’t you get started on that, and I’ll take care of the eggs," she said briskly, reaching for the bowl between us. "Make the smallest batch you can. We only need a few."
"You got it," I said, feeling an unfamiliar sense of pride settle in my chest.
I fought the urge to glance over my shoulder. Was I actually doing something right?
The last time I tried impressing someone, it hadn’t ended well.
But maybe… this was different.
The morning trucked on, and… not to say it was a disaster, but it wasn’t great.
I burnt my elbow on the pancake griddle (seriously, don’t ask) and nicked my finger on a knife while cutting strawberries.
Okay, fine. It was a disaster.
A full-blown, soul-crushing disaster. And if Beatrice hadn’t already decided I was a disappointment, I sure as hell had sealed the deal now.
I helped serve child after child breakfast on their foam trays, each one another reminder of my growing failure. With every tray passed, my confidence thinned; fraying like a loose thread ready to snap.
There was no way I was getting the job.
Beatrice stepped back into the van, brushing flour off her jeans. “I think we’re all set and ready to pack up.”
I wiped my hands on the towel hanging from my waistband. This was it.
I pressed my palms into the counter, staring blankly at the mess I’d made. A disaster. A full-blown mess of eggshells and misplaced trays. She hadn’t said it outright, but I could feel it. I wasn’t getting the job. I’d screwed this up before it even started.
I could call him again. The backup plan. He’d say yes, he always did, but saying yes came with strings, with expectations, with doors I swore I’d already closed.
No, no, I couldn’t.
Maybe I could pick up a shift at McDonald’s; there had to be one around here somewhere, right?
“Uh, yeah,” I sighed, pushing the thoughts down. “At least let me help you pick up.”
“No, I got it,” Beatrice said, cutting me off with practiced ease.
I didn’t know why I was still trying to impress her. It was clear I already hadn’t.
Fuck. Time to beg.
Normally, I wasn’t above begging—but usually, it involved something way more fun than money.
“Okay,” I muttered, exhaling slowly. “I really don’t want to be one of those people, but when we talked on the phone, you inferred I’d be paid for this shift. I understand if you don’t want to—”
“Oh, right! I absolutely forgot,” she said, reaching into her back pocket.
She pulled out a crisp white envelope and held it between her fingers.
“I had Lilith research the current rate of pay for this position. Lilith’s my accountant. And friend, I guess.”
She blew on the paper before handing it over.
Our fingertips brushed.
A jolt of electricity snapped through my skin like static.
I pulled back a fraction too quickly, pretending my palm wasn’t tingling. Beatrice did the same, rubbing at her jeans like she could erase whatever had just happened.
“Sorry, sorry,” she murmured, not meeting my eyes.
I swallowed, gripping the envelope. I needed this money. So bad.
It was probably the only thing keeping me from being late on my rent.
My fingers tightened around the envelope before I even knew what I was doing. The weight of it—paper-thin, yet somehow heavier than anything I’d held in months. Rent. Groceries. The edge of survival.
I unfolded it, scanning her ridiculously neat penmanship, before she spoke again.
“Sorry, clearly this is all new to me,” she said, folding and unfolding her hands like she was physically restraining herself from fidgeting. “I don’t expect things to be too busy the next couple of weeks, but I’m hoping once word gets out that we’re back open, things will pick up. This catering business was once well-loved in the community.”
Wait.
My brain scrambled to reparse her words.
“You’re… giving me the job?”
She ran a hand through her hair, shifting her weight like the words were balancing on her tongue. “Uh, yeah. Like I said, I’m really new to this whole thing. Sorry if I didn’t make that obvious.”
A slow pause, then—
“You did a really good job today, Ava.”
A muscle tensed in Beatrice’s jaw, like she was biting back something she didn’t want to say.
“Thanks for getting things ready for me.”
Wait.
She’s thanking me?
Camila’s voice echoed in my head.
Life dealt her a bad hand… distancing herself is how she copes.
Was this her version of making peace?
My bandage-clad fingertip tingled, practically begging to be waved around as proof that she’d made the wrong decision.
“So, if you still want the position, it’s yours to take. We might be slow for the first few months, but if you can hang on, like I said, with the holidays coming up, we should pick up soon.”
I hesitated.
Bills stacking up. My savings was nearly dust. And I needed to start saving sooner rather than later.
A hospital trip wasn’t cheap. Not when you didn’t have insurance.
“I’m really grateful for the opportunity,” I said slowly. “But I really need something a little more stable as soon as possible.”
Beatrice’s expression shifted.
First, disappointment.
Then, something steadier, more focused.
“I think…” She paused, considering. “We have some old catering menus that need to be updated before the holiday rush. People should be looking to book their parties within the next month or so. Do you have a computer at home with Office? Maybe I could send you the files, and you can jazz them up. Update them to the 21st century? We probably need some meal changes and price increases too.”
I blinked. Office? Menus?
The hell made her think I’d be any good at that? She must have seen my hesitation because she shifted slightly, like she’d anticipated my doubt.
“You caught that allergy issue fast," she said. "Most people wouldn’t have thought to tweak the recipe. You notice things. I need someone who can do that for the business too.”
My brain caught up a fraction too late.
“You mean like, extra work?”
She nodded. “Something stable while we build momentum. If that helps.”
Warmth spread through my chest before I could stop it.
"Yeah, that would be great!"
She exhaled like she hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath.
“Okay, so I’ll send them this afternoon, and if you want to work on them and send them back, let me know your hours. Then you can come into the kitchen, and we’ll get them printed.”
“You got it.”
Somersaults: my stomach was doing actual somersaults.
“This means a lot to me, Beatrice,” I said, pulse racing for reasons I didn’t want to analyze too closely. “Thank you.”