Chapter Text
Natalie Scatorccio came into the world a fighter. At least, that’s how the story was told to her as a kid—how she came out screaming and thrashing, making a fuss from the very beginning.
She liked to believe she’d taken that spirit from her mother. That in the womb she’d stolen every ounce of fight, grit, and rage her mother had, and that was why there wasn’t much left in her afterward. Why her mom allowed so much to happen. Why she let herself slip away.
Natalie clung to that version for years, because it was easier. A hundred times easier than the truth.
The truth was that the fight in her—the raw, restless fire that burned too hot—came from her father. The same man who would hurl her against the walls of their trailer when she was a teenager. The same man who used to scream at her as a child for being too loud in her own room.
Maybe that was why she picked fights she didn’t need to, why she never backed down even when she should’ve. Why she smoked like it might burn the fire out of her, why she drank before she was old enough to drive, why she always pressed every self-destruct button within reach.
And maybe that was why, at eleven, she swung a bat at her father’s car when he came home drunk and tried to hit her mom again. She didn’t think, didn’t plan. She just swung. The sound of glass shattering was the first thing that ever made him stop in his tracks. For one heartbeat, Natalie Scatorccio had won.
But winning never lasted long in her house.
And at fourteen, Natalie Scatorccio learned what it really meant to drown in rage.
It happened on one of those days when her father came home mean and drunk, swinging and screaming at whatever or whoever came his way. Usually it was the walls, sometimes the glasses they had bought from the thrift store around the corner. But that day it was her, how it was a shame they were cursed with a daughter like her, a good for nothing slut, catching her arm so hard in his grip, that even as an adult she could sometimes feel his fingers and she swore she could see the small marks his nails would leave.
And that fatal day, her mom had decided to use the little fight she had in her, in the name of defending her daughter, but he turned the rage on her instead.
So, Natalie didn’t really think about it, she just ran into his room and took the pistol. Her hand shook as she took it in her hands. She always knew were it was, he never had kept it hidden, it wasn’t like he kept a plain sight, but just as his rage, a small look in the room could take you right into it.
She came back into the living room with it in both hands, arms trembling, her breath coming so fast it whistled.
“Get the fuck off her”
Her father froze for half a second, then laughed. Actually laughed. He turned toward her, his face red, and grinned like she was the punchline to some cruel joke.
“Well, well,” he drawled, taking a step toward her. “Look at my little girl. The same one who cried her eyes out when she shot that turkey. You gonna shoot your daddy in the face, huh? Pull the trigger, Nat. Let’s see if you’ve got it in you.”
She wanted to. God, she wanted to. Her whole body shook with it, her finger straining on the trigger.
“Do it!” he barked, his voice sharp enough to split her in half.
She closed her eyes, pulled—
Click.
Nothing.
Before she could even breathe, he lunged forward and ripped the gun from her hands. His laughter was jagged, cruel, spraying spit. “Safety’s on, you little idiot. Jesus Christ, I didn’t think anyone could be more useless than your mother, but you just proved me wrong.”
He turned and stormed toward the door, muttering curses, waving the gun like a toy.
And something inside Natalie snapped. “You’re the useless one!” she screamed after him, her voice cracking, raw.
That was when he spun. His finger still tight on the trigger.
The shot split the air like thunder. For a second Natalie didn’t register what had happened—just the smell, sharp and metallic, and the way his body jerked before collapsing in the dirt outside the trailer.
Her ears rang. She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
Her mother did, though. She let out a noise Natalie had never heard before, an animal howl, and dropped to the ground, clutching his body.
Natalie stood frozen in the doorway, numb. She didn’t feel triumph, didn’t feel grief. Just the hollow weight of it, pressing down on her chest. She had wanted to end him, and in a way she had. But not like this.
From there, rage became a kind of safety net. She didn’t go around picking fights on purpose, but it was like life never stopped testing her — throwing her into the line of fire, making her both the shooter and the animal, the hunter and the prey.
Maybe that was why Coach Martinez put her on the wing. She could run like hell and attack harder than anyone else on the field, as if all the rage and fight inside her finally had a place to go. For ninety minutes, it wasn’t a problem. It wasn’t something ugly or dangerous. For ninety minutes, it was allowed. For ninety minutes, it was praised.
And maybe in that rage — in the shouting, the chaos, the fire that feasted in her chest — her distaste for Jackie Taylor was born. Jackie, who wanted everything neat, perfect, controlled. Jackie, who looked at Natalie’s wildness like it was a stain to scrub out. On the field, Jackie let her rage run free. But everywhere else, she made her feel like it was something to be hidden, clipped, erased.
If she willed her brain really hard, she could still remember the Monday after her father’s funeral – a small gathering where people she had never met before hugged her and said that it was a shame, that her dad was a good young man. A man she couldn’t see, not matter how hard she tried, not matter how many years passed by, she could never see the man those persons were talking about. And maybe that was the catch, nobody but her would ever see her father for who he truly was, because nobody shared his rage, is anger. Nobody but her.
She could still remember how Jackie had already rallied a couple of the other Yellowjackets to scrub Natalie’s locker clean of the words someone had scrawled there in Sharpie. Murderer. White trash. Natalie hadn’t even looked at it twice, but Jackie made a whole production of erasing it, sleeves rolled up, determined, like she was polishing a trophy.
And when the whispers would start up again in the cafeteria, Jackie’s voice would cut through, cheerful and commanding, steering the conversation back to the upcoming game, or who was asking who to Homecoming. Every time someone mentioned Natalie’s dad, Jackie shifted the subject so smoothly it was almost impressive.
Almost.
And Natalie hated her for it.
She hated the way Jackie turned her mess into something manageable, like rage and grief were stains that could be scrubbed out with enough bleach and charm. In Jackie’s perfect little world of clean cuts and control, there was no room for Natalie’s chaos. Her pain was just another thing to tidy up, another thing to fix or cut loose completely.
Years later, when she thought back on it, Natalie could admit that Jackie probably meant well. But in the moment, all she saw was someone trying to make her tragedy palatable. And Natalie Scatorccio was nothing if not unpalatable.
Still, for all her distaste, for all her rage and spite, Natalie never thought of herself as a monster. So that night, when she learned what Shauna had done to Jackie, she realized something that chilled her more than any fight ever had: some people’s rage is more dangerous than a gun, or a fist, or a bottle flying at your head. Those kinds of rage make noise. They give you a warning shot, a split second where the animal in you can decide whether to bare its teeth or run.
This was different. This was silent. A blade sliding in without a sound.
She never thought Jackie was a saint—no one was. But nobody deserved that kind of betrayal either. The kind that didn’t just wound you but rewired you, made you second-guess every step, measure every breath, convinced that somewhere, unseen, a monster was waiting for you to falter.
She made herself not think of the girl after Nationals and the fallout that came with it. It wasn’t hard—they’d never really run in the same circles. The only thing they’d ever had completely in common was soccer.
But there’s something about a wounded animal: once you see it bleed, see it scratch and lick at the wound like that’ll make it better, you can’t look away.
So Natalie’s eyes were always drawn to the empty spaces Jackie left behind. The locker, cleared out and hollow. The chair left vacant during the assembly celebrating their Nationals win, her father muttering some weak excuse about her being sick. Jackie Taylor—the girl who once played through a fever of 102—felled by a cold? Sure.
Her crown at prom, shining onstage with no one to wear it. A ghostly trophy for a ghostly girl.
And graduation—Nat remembered sitting two rows back, watching Jackie walk across the stage, her shoulders stiff, her eyes straight ahead. No smile, no pause, not even when the principal said her name like it still carried weight. Afterward, when parents swarmed with cameras and bouquets, Jackie didn’t wait around. Nat could still hear one of the teachers calling out behind her: “Jackie, wait! At least take one picture!” But Jackie just kept walking, diploma clutched like a secret, slipping away before anyone could catch her.
It was like watching a specter. Every time Nat tried to meet her eyes, there was nobody there.
In all honesty, it was a surprise the first time Natalie ran into Jackie Taylor in New York. She was pretty sure Jackie didn’t even recognize her at all.
It had started with some guy she met at a concert — the kind of guy who smelled like cigarettes and swore he knew “all the good spots.” He invited her to an afterparty at his friend’s apartment, promised she’d like the crowd, promised they had the good stuff. And really, who was Nat to say no? It was her last night in the city, after all.
The second she walked in, though, the guy disappeared. The apartment wasn’t massive, but it was bigger than anything she’d ever been inside in this city, and packed to the brim with bodies. Music rattled the windows, bass so loud Nat could feel it in her teeth. And yet, even in the crowd, she felt that familiar space opening up — the distance between her and everyone else.
So yeah. The last thing she expected was to run into Jackie. And definitely not in a bathroom at some punk-rock afterparty.
“Hey, sorry man—” a girl’s voice came muffled from behind the door. “Kie, wait here. Don’t move until I find Mara or Ashley.”
“Okidoki, Jules!” another voice chirped from the tile floor. “The floor’s so cold, Juju. I feel like I’m on an iceberg. I’m just gonna stay here forever.”
“Bathroom’s full,” the first girl called over her shoulder. “There’s another one in the master bedroom.”
Nat should have kept walking. But curiosity was a bitch, and it always won with her. She pushed the door open slow, like she was cracking a cage that held something wild.
And there she was.
Jackie Taylor.
Her former captain, sprawled across the floor of a bathroom with a sickly green lightbulb overhead and crude little doodles etched into the tiles. Her hair was shorter now, darker, fanned out on the piss-stained tiles like she didn’t care where she was.
Jackie blinked up at her and giggled. “Hi, you! I’m Kie.” She tilted her head, squinting. “Oh wow. You remind me of somebody.”
Nat froze, leaning against the doorframe. “…Well, I—”
“Yakko, Wakko, and Dot!” Jackie blurted suddenly, pointing like she’d cracked a code.
“What?” Nat asked, laughing despite herself.
“You look like Yakko, Wakko, and Dot. You know—the Warner siblings.”
The laugh slipped out of Nat before she could stop it. Loud, careless, the kind of laugh she hadn’t heard in herself for years—not since before her dad, before the anger and grit replaced everything else in her bloodstream.
“That makes no sense.”
Jackie grinned, unfazed. “You just don’t see it. And I don’t blame you. I’ve been told I’m quite the visionary.”
Nat raised an eyebrow. “Who told you that?”
Jackie snorted. “Some old creep who tried to take me home from a bar a few weeks ago.”
Nat’s laugh dropped into a frown. “You should be careful.”
“I am.” Jackie’s smile thinned, just for a moment. “I guess that’s the problem.”
Nat lingered in the doorway, one hand gripping the frame. Up close, Jackie looked nothing like the girl Nat remembered — the polished captain, the prom queen that never showed, the ghost who walked out of graduation without looking back. This Jackie’s mascara was smudged, her lipstick cracked, her pupils blown wide. She giggled at her own joke like she was the only one who understood it.
For a second Nat almost said it. Jackie. It’s me. But the words got stuck.
Jackie squinted at her again, head tilting, as if trying to focus on something just out of reach. “God, you really do remind me of someone,” she murmured. “Like… high school someone. You ever go to Wiskayok?”
Nat’s chest tightened. “No.”
Jackie laughed like that answer was hilarious. She pressed her palms flat against the tiles, as if the cold could ground her. “Guess not. My brain’s like—” she waved her hands in the air, searching for the word, “—a snow globe. Shake it up and everything spins around until it settles. Maybe you’re just a piece of glass in there.”
Nat crouched slightly, eyeing her. “You need water.”
Jackie snorted. “I need a new brain. But yeah, water’s good too.”
There was no recognition in her eyes. Not even a flicker. If Jackie was digging through memories, she wasn’t finding Nat anywhere in them.
Nat let out a shaky laugh, rubbing her thumb against the edge of the door. “Yeah. Story of my life.”
Jackie closed her eyes, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “You’ve got a nice laugh, though. Don’t lose it.”
The words landed like a punch. Nat felt her throat close, the echo of that laugh she’d just let slip still hanging in the air between them. She wanted to shake Jackie, to make her see, but instead she just nodded and stepped back, leaving Jackie stretched out on the green-lit tiles, a stranger with a familiar face.
Nat hesitated, Jackie’s head lolled back against the tile, her half-smile loose, unfocused. For a second Nat almost stepped in, almost crouched down beside her like she used to after practice when Jackie twisted an ankle or skinned her knee. The words hovered on her tongue — Do you need help?
She shifted her weight forward, ready to close the distance.
That was when footsteps thudded down the hall. Two girls appeared, their eyeliner smudged, their hands full of Solo cups. The one from earlier — “Juju” — swooped in, dropping to her knees beside Jackie with practiced ease.
“There you are,” she sighed, rolling her eyes but still tucking Jackie’s hair gently behind her ear. “I told you not to move.”
The other girl, a stranger with neon-pink nails, leaned against the doorway, giving Nat a once-over like she was furniture.
Nat froze. She wasn’t supposed to be here — not really. Not in this party, not in this city, and sure as hell not in this bathroom doorway, caught staring at Jackie Taylor like she was a ghost that only Nat could see.
Jackie giggled again, eyes fluttering shut as Juju pressed a water bottle to her lips. “Told you,” she mumbled. “I was on an iceberg. Cold floor. Didn’t go anywhere.”
Nat almost laughed, almost said something, but the words shriveled up in her throat. She took a step back, then another, letting the door slip half-shut between them. The last thing she saw before the bathroom disappeared from view was Jackie’s head tipping against her friend’s shoulder, murmuring nonsense, safe in someone else’s hands. Hands that stroked her hair with the kind of love only someone who knows you fully — wholly — can muster.
Nat stood in the hallway, heart hammering. By the time she made it to the door, she hadn’t said goodbye to a single person. On her way out, her eyes caught on a picture tacked crookedly to the wall — Jackie, crammed into a photo booth with strangers, cheeks pressed close, her smile wide and unguarded.
For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Jackie Taylor looked happy.
So maybe, Nat told herself as she stepped out into the night, just because something doesn’t look like it can be fixed… doesn’t mean it’s broken.
The thought felt strange in her chest, raw and unfamiliar — like touching a bruise you’d carried so long you’d forgotten what it was like not to ache. She lit a cigarette, exhaled into the cold air, and wondered if one day she could learn what Jackie had somehow found: not to stop being broken, but to live with the pieces without cutting herself on them every time she breathed.
Chapter 2: Laudromat stories.
Summary:
That image came back, the one she couldn’t shake: Jackie in that bathroom at the party, eyes unfocused, body there but soul gone. Like she’d slipped out of herself and forgotten how to come back. It rattled something in Nat she didn’t want rattled. Jackie Taylor wasn’t supposed to look like that. Jackie Taylor was supposed to shine, even when she was rotting underneath.
Nat ground her teeth. Her exhale came out shaky, curling into the cold night air. She told herself it was just curiosity, morbid fascination. That she wanted to see how long the golden girl could last before she cracked for good. But the truth twisted deeper.
She didn’t want to watch Jackie burn. She wanted to stop it. And if she couldn’t… if the fire was already in her bones, then Nat didn’t want her to be alone when it happened.
Even if Jackie ended up hating her for it.
Notes:
a really small story of what happened in the laudromat
i thought it would be fun to write.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The laundromat smelled like detergent and old steam, the kind of heat that stuck to your skin even in the dead of winter. Machines hummed in uneven rhythms, doors clanging shut as coins slid into slots. Van was perched on a folding table, swinging her legs and pretending not to be bored, flipping through some wrinkled film zine she’d picked up off a bench.
Natalie was pretending to sort socks, but really, she was watching the guy by the dryers. Tallish, messy hair, a little too clean-cut to be from their part of town, but not polished enough to belong uptown. She clocked the band tee under his jacket, the way he tapped his fingers against the dryer door like he couldn’t sit still. Music kid. That was her opening.
“Guess I picked the wrong night to forget quarters,” she muttered, half to Van, half loud enough for him to hear. She let the words hang, casual bait.
Van barely glanced up. “You always forget quarters.”
“Yeah, well. Some habits die hard.” Nat gave a crooked grin, tossing another sock into the basket without matching it. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him glance over — just a flick, then a second look, longer this time.
Bingo.
Natalie squinted at him again while pretending to wrestle with a damp hoodie. She thought she recognized him — the guy in that blurry photo she’d clocked while leaving that party where she ran into Jackie at the bathroom months ago. But she couldn’t be a hundred percent sure. Could just be another shaggy-haired city boy who thought The Pixies started and ended with Where Is My Mind.
Still, Natalie Scatorccio wasn’t the type to let a maybe pass her by.
“So what’s the plan tonight?” she asked, loud enough for her voice to bounce off the humming machines. “We keep pretending there’s a single decent bar around here, or do we just admit we’re doomed?”
Van didn’t even look up from the zine. “We’ve already tried three.”
“Yeah, and two of them were just sticky floors with jukeboxes that ate our quarters, and the other one had that band that thought covering Green Day made them edgy.” Natalie flicked a sock into the basket like it was a mic drop. “I swear, if I don’t find a bar where someone actually knows how to pour a drink and maybe play real music, I’m moving back to Jersey.”
That got a chuckle. Not from Van. From him. Just a slip, quick and low, but it was there.
Natalie grinned down at the basket, like she hadn’t noticed. She pushed harder. “Honestly, I’d kill for a place where people could hold a conversation without screaming over some washed-out cover of ‘Wonderwall.’ That’s not too much to ask, right?”
This time, when she glanced up, he was already looking at her. And now she knew. That face, the one from the photo.
“Depends who you’re asking,” he said, straightening up from the dryer with a shrug. “But yeah, you’re not wrong. Most bars around here suck.”
Hook, line, sinker.
Leo tossed a pair of jeans into his laundry bag, leaning on the machine like he had all the time in the world. “There’s this spot near Avenue B — not a total dive, not too slick either. They’ve got a bartender who actually knows what the hell he’s doing. Sometimes Diego plays sets there. It’s kinda our go-to.”
Natalie cocked her head like she was listening to gospel, though in reality all she heard was “blah blah, golden ticket.”
“Oh yeah?” she asked, voice low and easy. “Diego who?”
“Diego Caro. Local guy, up-and-coming, whatever. My buddy. Plays guitar, sometimes spins. The crowd’s always solid. Not too many posers.”
Natalie hummed, twirling the cord of her hoodie around her finger like she was storing every word. “Sounds better than the crap we’ve been drowning in.” She leaned forward on her elbows, sharp eyes fixed. “So you’re, what, part of the crew there?”
Leo puffed up without even meaning to. “Yeah, you could say that. We all kind of know each other. It’s a good circle. Way better than those try-hard scenes at CB’s or whatever.”
“Mm.” Nat smiled, slow, deliberate. “Lucky you.”
Across from her, Van finally lowered the zine, brow furrowing. Nat wasn’t interrupting, wasn’t teasing, wasn’t poking holes in the guy’s ego. She was letting him run his mouth — nodding like he was Socrates in flannel.
“So this Diego place,” Nat said, tilting her chin. “What nights are best? We’re still new to the city. Kinda trying to find our spot, you know?”
That was all Leo needed. He launched into a full rundown: which bartenders poured heavy, which nights had cover charges, how the back booth was basically reserved for their group. He dropped names like they were confetti, all of it stitched together with the ease of someone who loved being listened to.
Natalie just kept feeding him small questions — “Really?” “Huh, no kidding?” “And they play what kind of stuff?” — her smirk hidden in the bend of her hand.
By the time his dryer buzzed, she already had the map in her head. Places, names, a door in.
Van’s voice cut through, quiet but dry: “Since when do you let a guy talk that much without making fun of him?”
Natalie shot her a look that said later, then turned back to Leo with a grin. “You’ll have to show us sometime. Sounds like a place worth checking out.”
Leo slung the bag over his shoulder, pleased. “Yeah, for sure. I’ll let you know when the next thing’s happening.”
Nat only nodded, but in her chest there was a flicker of triumph. Right place, right time. Some people called it luck. She called it work.
Leo was halfway to the door when he seemed to remember something, snapping his fingers like it had just landed in his brain.
“Actually, this Friday night,” he said, shifting the laundry bag higher on his shoulder, “we’re hanging out at The Hollow Skull. The place is cool — they’ve got this insane drinking game where the crowd basically makes your skull pound until it feels hollow. Total mess, but fun as hell. Pretty sure it’s crazy sweater night too, from what Kie and Mara were saying the other day. You guys should come.”
Natalie’s ears caught the slip — Kie. The name flicked across her memory, sharp and hot. And Mara. Yeah. That must’ve been the girl with the neon-pink nails at the party, the one who’d looked right through her like she was some busted bar stool. The puzzle pieces slid into place with a quiet click.
“Really?” Natalie asked, feigning casual interest. “That does sound like fun.”
Leo grinned, already convinced. “Yeah. You’d fit right in. I’ll keep an eye out for you.”
She gave him a nod, easy and smooth, but inside, she was electric. Right guy, right thread to pull.
As Leo left, Van shut her zine and stared across the folding table. “Okay, what the fuck was that?”
Natalie leaned back, stretching like a cat, a crooked grin pulling at her mouth. “That,” she said, “was a door.”
They hauled their bags out of the laundromat, the cold night air biting sharper than the dryers had been warm. Van shoved her hands into her jacket pockets and shot Nat a side look.
“Alright. Spill. Since when do you let some random guy yammer on without telling him to shut the fuck up?”
Natalie smirked, lighting a cigarette as they started down the block. “Since it stopped being random.”
Van frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Nat exhaled a stream of smoke, watching it curl up into the streetlight. “Means sometimes people carry keys they don’t even know they’ve got.”
Van blinked. “Okay, Yoda, and what exactly is this key supposed to unlock?”
Nat gave her a look, sly and unreadable. “A door. Didn’t I say that already?”
“You did, but you didn’t explain it.”
“That’s ‘cause if you have to explain a door, maybe you’re not meant to walk through it.”
Van stopped in her tracks. “Nat. You’re making zero sense. Who even was that guy?”
“Just… someone with good taste in bars,” Nat said, grinning like she knew much more than she’d ever admit out loud. “That’s all that matters.”
“Uh-huh.” Van narrowed her eyes but kept walking. “You’re up to something. I can feel it.”
Natalie only hummed in response, tapping ash off the end of her cigarette. She wasn’t about to hand Van the answer, not yet. Let her be confused. It made the reveal that much sweeter.
They reached the block where their apartment was located, the orange glow of the corner bodega lit the cracked pavement. Van lingered at the stoop, still giving Nat the side-eye.
“You’re being weird,” she said flatly.
“I’m always weird,” Nat shot back, smirking.
Van rolled her eyes, heading upstairs without pushing further.
The street was dead quiet once Van disappeared inside. Nat lingered on the stoop, fumbling with her lighter, pretending the cold wasn’t slipping into her bones.
She hummed under her breath, the sound breaking into something that almost rhymed with Kie. A stupid little tell.
That image came back, the one she couldn’t shake: Jackie in that bathroom at the party, eyes unfocused, body there but soul gone. Like she’d slipped out of herself and forgotten how to come back. It rattled something in Nat she didn’t want rattled. Jackie Taylor wasn’t supposed to look like that. Jackie Taylor was supposed to shine, even when she was rotting underneath.
Nat ground her teeth. Her exhale came out shaky, curling into the cold night air. She told herself it was just curiosity, morbid fascination. That she wanted to see how long the golden girl could last before she cracked for good. But the truth twisted deeper.
She didn’t want to watch Jackie burn. She wanted to stop it. And if she couldn’t… if the fire was already in her bones, then Nat didn’t want her to be alone when it happened.
Even if Jackie ended up hating her for it.
Nat flicked the cigarette into the street, shoved her hands into her jacket, and smirked like it didn’t matter. Sharp curiosity, she told herself. That’s all it is.
But her chest still ached with something else as she up the steps into the building, praying that tomorrow night won’t turn out to be a mistake.
Notes:
she is a mastermind
but why put so much efford in it? is curiosity? guilt? worry?
we will find out the real reason later on hehe.
Chapter 3: Left alone
Summary:
Part of her wanted to be pissed. Jackie had walked out, left her sitting there like some dumb kid waiting for parents who weren’t coming back. She could still feel the sting of it—abandonment was a bruise she knew too well. But under that anger was something worse: guilt.
Because hadn’t she pushed too far? Dug her fingers into an old wound just to see how deep it went? Because wasn’t there a part of her that wanted Jackie to snap, to prove Nat wasn’t the only one still bleeding from high school?
Notes:
This a little nat bonus to the "the longest night of the year" episode.
hope you enjoy it!
Chapter Text
Jackie was gone before Natalie could even blink, the bell over the diner door still rattling from her exit. Nat sat frozen in the booth, staring at the half-empty mug of coffee Jackie had left behind. The steam was already gone, leaving only a bitter brown ring around the lip. A plate of cold pancakes sat untouched across from her, the fork skewed like Jackie had dropped it mid-bite. For a second, the whole table looked abandoned.
It wasn’t the first time Natalie had been left alone at a diner.
The first time, she’d been eight years old—at least, the first time she could remember. She wouldn’t put it past her parents to have forgotten her at one when she was even younger.
She remembered coming back from the bathroom to find the booth empty, plates half-eaten, both her parents gone. Antonio and Vera had spent the entire drive there tearing into each other, their words sharp enough to cut skin, nagging about bills, family, booze. Somehow, every problem circled back to Natalie and her inadequacy.
She remembered forcing herself not to cry, sitting stiff in that booth, not touching the cold fries or watered-down Coke, waiting for her parents to realize she wasn’t in the car. To turn around. To remember her. Looking back, maybe that had been their dream all along—to leave her somewhere she couldn’t find her way home.
She spent hours there. She didn’t know the number to the trailer—her parents never paid the bill, so what was the point of memorizing it? The staff grew used to her as the hours passed, drifting by during their breaks to keep her company, slipping her a sandwich, even dinner. They never asked her to leave, but none of them offered her a ride either. She didn’t know if she should be grateful or angry. All she knew was that even surrounded by people who treated her better than her parents ever did, she still felt completely alone.
And sitting here now, in a booth at a random diner and more than a decade away, the feeling was the same. Jackie’s seat across from her was empty, the twenty-dollar bill still lying where it had been dropped, like a marker of absence. The waitress passed by without stopping, and the jukebox in the corner spun out a song Nat didn’t recognize.
Different place. Different time. Same hollow in her chest.
She knew she’d bitten off more than she could swallow. That maybe she’d pushed too hard, too soon. But she had never been the kind to back away from a challenge—or from an ugly truth.
She was fire and glass, always one crack away from shattering, but still burning. Grit had driven her through high school, spite had kept her alive, and she was sure as hell that same spite would carry her through New York.
Nat leaned back against the vinyl booth, staring at the ceiling tiles. She hadn’t even ordered food; a part of her was never truly hungry. She blamed it on the trailer park version of herself, the kid who learned to close her stomach when love and food ran out, who could let meals go cold while guilt gnawed at her for wasting them—but never enough to take a bite.
Jackie could run, sure. She could vanish into the snow and pretend none of this had happened. It was a vanishing act Natalie had seen before. Hell, she’d even thought about pulling it herself once or twice. But Natalie knew better. The past always found its way back to you.
“Are you going to eat, honey? Or should I pack those pancakes to take home?”
The voice cut through her thoughts. Nat looked up to find one of the waitresses, an old woman with gray hair tied back in a crooked bun. Her apron was stained with grease, her hands shaking slightly as she balanced a tray. She looked like someone who should’ve been home under a blanket, not working the graveyard shift under fluorescent lights.
“We’re not kicking you out,” the woman added gently. “But you don’t look like you want to be here. If you’d rather stay, I can have the cook reheat it for you. Slow shift—he won’t mind.”
“I… I think I’ll take it home.”
“Sweet. I’ll wrap it up with your bill.”
The old lady moved away as quickly as she’d appeared, almost spectral in her quiet steps. Nat wondered if she’d start moving like that too, after enough time in the city. She’d always felt invisible, like she took up too much space without really existing. Maybe moving like a ghost would be a relief.
“Here you go, sweetheart. Pancakes, coffee to go, and the bill. That’ll be—”
“Twenty dollars,” Natalie cut in.
“Exactly. Nineteen ninety-nine.” The woman gave a small smile. “You been here before? I don’t recognize your face. And I remember faces.”
“No. But the person I came with has.”
“Well, I hope you liked it. Come back if you can.”
“Sure. Thanks. Have a good night. Or… day.”
“You too, kid. Get home safe.” The waitress stopped her as she slid out of the booth, pressing a few coins into her palm. “Call someone if you can. It’s not safe to be alone in this city at this hour.”
“I can’t take it.”
“Im serious, if not to tell someone to pick you up, then to let someone know you’re going home.”
---
The way back was a nightmare. She tried calling the apartment, but no one picked up. She couldn’t blame Van—she was probably having the night of her life while Nat was lost in her own head. Then she’d taken the wrong bus, gotten off in the wrong neighborhood, and the walk back stretched into forever. By the time she finally reached their building, the sun was beginning to rise. The guy from the bodega was hauling boxes inside, the streets yawning awake. All Natalie wanted was sleep.
The climb up the narrow stairs to their apartment felt heavier than it should’ve. The lightbulb in the hall flickered, buzzing faintly overhead. When she opened the door, she froze. A pair of Vans shoes sat neatly by the entrance—She was already home.
The noise of the door woke her. Van emerged from her room, hair mussed, eyes half-shut.
“Where the hell were you?” she mumbled. “You’re the one who wanted to check out that bar, and you bailed.”
Natalie kicked off her boots, peeled off her jacket. “Go back to sleep, Van.”
“Nat—”
“Seriously. Sleep.”
She disappeared into her own room, shutting the door before Van could ask again. She didn’t bother changing—just dropped onto her bed fully dressed, only stripping off her shoes and jacket.
When she closed her eyes, Jackie’s face was waiting for her. The look in her eyes—like something had been carved out of her and left raw—refused to fade. Nat rolled onto her side, pressing her cheek hard into the pillow, as if she could smother the image, but it burned behind her eyelids.
Part of her wanted to be pissed. Jackie had walked out, left her sitting there like some dumb kid waiting for parents who weren’t coming back. She could still feel the sting of it—abandonment was a bruise she knew too well. But under that anger was something worse: guilt.
Because hadn’t she pushed too far? Dug her fingers into an old wound just to see how deep it went? Because wasn’t there a part of her that wanted Jackie to snap, to prove Nat wasn’t the only one still bleeding from high school?
She hated herself for it. She hated Jackie too—for still having that effect on her, for carrying all that ache in her eyes like it was Nat’s problem now.
Why do you have to look at me like that? Like I should’ve done something back then.
Maybe because she should have.
The guilt clawed at her ribs, the anger buzzed under her skin. Both were loud, too loud. Sleep didn’t come easy when your head was a war zone.
And then, as she started to drift into sleep, she swore she could smell burnt coffee—sharp and bitter, the same as the day her parents left her stranded at eight years old. Her mind folded back on itself, dragging her into that diner booth again, because her brain never stopped playing games, even in her sleep.