Roxie stared at the helmet in Ethan’s hand.

For a second, all she could think about was how stupid this was.

She was suspended. Her face still hurt. Her mother was selling the house. She had a folded receipt in her hand with a stranger’s number on it, and now Ethan Davis was standing in front of her like getting on his motorbike was a reasonable next step.

It was not.

None of this was reasonable.

But staying at the park was not fixing anything either.

Roxie took the helmet.

Ethan did not smile. He only turned the bike around and waited while she put it on. She hated that he was being quiet. Quiet made everything feel more serious, and she already had enough serious things sitting on her chest.

The ride to Fairmont took less than fifteen minutes, but Roxie felt every second of it. She kept one hand stiff on the back of the bike until a turn forced her to grab the side of Ethan’s jacket.

Corner Grill sat at the end of a strip of stores beside a laundromat and a closed vape shop. The sign was faded red, the windows were clean, and through the glass Roxie could see booths, a counter, and a waitress carrying plates too fast.

Her stomach tightened.

She had done this before.

Different town. Different diner. Same fear.

Watch the door. Keep your head down. Smile only when needed. Pray nobody from school walked in and turned your life into a picture.

Ethan parked near the side entrance.

Roxie pulled the helmet off and handed it back. Her hair caught in the strap and tugged at the sore part of her scalp. She flinched before she could hide it.

Ethan saw.

He looked away fast.

That helped a little.

"You don’t have to go in," he said.

Roxie looked at the restaurant.

The front windows reflected the street behind her. Cars. A delivery van. A woman carrying laundry. Normal people with normal errands.

"I came this far," she said.

Ethan nodded and opened the side door.

Heat hit her first.

Then oil.

Then dish soap, garlic, metal, fried onions, and something sharp from the grill. The kitchen was loud in a way that made the air feel crowded. Pans clanged. Someone called for two burgers. A timer beeped near the fryer until a woman snapped, "I hear you," like the machine had personally insulted her.

A man turned from the prep counter with a towel over one shoulder.

He had thick arms, graying hair, and the face of someone who did not have time to pretend.

"Ethan," he said. "You’re supposed to be in school."

"I was."

The man stared at him.

Ethan added, "Most of the day."

Then the man’s eyes moved to Roxie.

"You’re Roxie?"

She nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Marco." He wiped his hand on the towel and shook hers quickly. "Ethan said you’re looking for work."

Roxie felt Ethan glance at her.

She ignored him.

"Yes," she said. "If you still need someone."

Marco’s face changed.

Roxie already knew that look. Adults used it right before disappointing you while trying to sound decent.

"The server position filled this afternoon," he said.

Roxie’s stomach dropped.

Of course it had.

Of course she had gotten on a motorbike, crossed into Fairmont, walked into a kitchen smelling like fryer oil and panic, and the one thing she came for was already gone.

She nodded too fast. "Okay."

Ethan looked at Marco. "You said you needed someone."

"I did," Marco said. "And someone came in before lunch. That’s how jobs work."

Roxie’s face warmed.

She should not have come.

She should have known better than to let one possible solution become something she could picture. That was how disappointment got sharper. It waited until you had already made room for it.

"It’s fine," Roxie said.

She stepped back a little, ready to leave before the shame got worse.

Marco watched her. "I still need a dishwasher."

Roxie stopped.

Ethan’s expression shifted.

"It’s not serving," Marco said. "Lower pay. No tips unless the servers share, and most of them won’t unless I make them. It’s hot, wet, and boring."

Roxie listened, her hand tightening around the strap of her bag.

That should have made her say no.

Instead, all she heard was what he did not say.

No tables. No customers. No walking around the dining room with a name tag while people looked twice and wondered where they knew her from.

She would be in the back.

Hidden.

Safe enough.

Marco watched her face. "But you’ve got it if you want it."

"How much?" Roxie asked.

"Eight an hour."

Ethan looked at his uncle. "Seriously?"

Marco ignored him. "Four to eight on weekdays if you can. Longer on weekends when needed. I pay weekly. Cash, if you want it that way."

Cash.

Roxie swallowed.

It was low. Too low.

But it was money she could keep hidden. Money Claire could not touch unless Roxie let her. Money that could become food, bus fare, a dress she probably should not still be thinking about, and something tucked away for whatever happened when Claire decided soon had arrived.

"How many hours can I get?" Roxie asked.

Ethan looked at her.

She ignored him.

She knew how it sounded. Too eager. Too desperate. Like she had already started counting the money before Marco even finished explaining the job.

But that was exactly what she was doing.

Four hours was not enough.

Eight dollars an hour was not enough.

Nothing was enough when Claire could sell the house and call it life moving forward.

Marco studied her for a second. "Let’s start with four to eight on weekdays. Longer on weekends if you can handle it."

"I can handle it."

"You don’t know that yet."

"I can handle it," Roxie repeated.

Marco nodded slowly, like he had heard the part she was not saying.

Marco nodded once. "Can you start today?"

Roxie looked at him.

"Today?"

"Only a few hours. Trial shift. You still get paid. If you hate it, you don’t come back."

Ethan stepped in. "Uncle Marco—"

Roxie cut him off. "I can start."

Ethan looked at her like he wanted to argue, but Marco was already moving.

"Black shirt next time. Shoes you don’t care about. Hair tied back. No long nails. Don’t put your hand anywhere you can’t see. If glass breaks, you tell someone immediately." He pointed toward a narrow station in the back. "Come here. I’ll show you."

Roxie followed.

The dish area was smaller than she expected. A deep sink. A sprayer hanging from the wall. Stacks of plates in plastic tubs. A machine that steamed when someone opened it. The floor was damp, and the air was hotter back here, trapped between the kitchen line and the wall.

Marco showed her the system.

Scrape.

Rinse.

Rack.

Machine.

Dry.

Stack.

Knives separate. Glasses separate. Pans left to soak unless the cook started shouting, which apparently meant they were needed again. Drink water before she felt dizzy. Keep moving, but do not rush so hard she cut herself.

Roxie listened like missing one instruction might cost her the job.

Ethan stayed near the line, and for the first time, Roxie noticed he was not just standing around waiting for her.

He washed his hands, tied on an apron, opened a container near the prep counter, and started slicing onions with quick, clean movements.

Roxie stared before she could stop herself.

Marco noticed. "He knows his way around."

Ethan did not look up. "Barely."

"Barely enough to be useful," Marco said.

"That sounds like praise from you."

"Don’t get emotional."

Ethan’s mouth twitched, but he kept cutting.

Marco glanced at Roxie. "He started helping here after he moved in with his mom. Just when I’m short and when football doesn’t own his whole life."

Ethan’s knife paused for half a second.

Roxie noticed.

So did Marco, because he immediately turned toward the grill like he had said enough. "And since you’re already here, watch the line in ten."

Ethan nodded.

Roxie looked away before anyone caught her being impressed.

Ethan glanced up once and grinned.

Roxie tied her hair back as carefully as she could, avoiding the sore spots. Marco gave her an old black apron and showed her where to put her bag. Then the first tub of dishes slid toward her.

"Start slow," he said.

Roxie nodded.

The first hour was terrible.

Plates came in wet and smeared with sauce. Cups smelled like soda and fingerprints. Silverware hid under napkins. The sprayer kicked back water onto her shirt no matter how she angled it. The machine breathed steam into her face until her skin felt damp and tight.

Her hands turned red.

Her back started to ache.

Every time a server dropped another tub beside her, Roxie wanted to ask if the entire restaurant had eaten off ten plates each.

She did not.

She worked.

Scrape. Rinse. Rack. Machine. Dry. Stack.

Again.

Again.

Again.

The repetition helped and made things worse at the same time. It gave her something to do with her hands, but it also left too much room in her head.

By eight, her arms felt heavy and her shirt clung to her back. Her hands smelled like soap and metal. Her hair had loosened around her face, and every piece that touched her sore scalp made her want to scream.

Marco came to the dish station and looked over the stacks.

"You kept up," he said.

Roxie wiped her wrist across her forehead. "Barely."

"Barely counts in this kitchen."

She nodded, too tired to know if that was praise.

He pulled bills from the register envelope and counted them in front of her. "Trial shift. Three and a half hours. This is your pay for tonight."

Roxie stared at the money.

She took it carefully.

"Thank you," she said.

Marco nodded. "Tomorrow, if you’re still coming."

"I’m coming."

"Four o’clock. Use the side door."

Roxie folded the bills once and slipped them into the deepest pocket of her bag.

Ethan was wiping down the grill when she stepped away from the dish station. He looked over at her.

"You survived," he said.

Barely.

"I got paid," she said.

"That too."

She wanted to feel proud, but mostly she felt the stiffness in her legs from standing for more than three hours and the ache in her hands from hot water, soap, and plates that never stopped coming.

Then her phone buzzed.

Roxie pulled it out without thinking.

Zac.

Her whole body reacted before her brain did, which pissed her off immediately.

There were messages from him. More than one.

She opened the latest.

Zac: Please answer me.

Roxie’s throat tightened.

Please. 𝘧𝘳𝘦ℯ𝓌𝘦𝒷𝘯𝑜𝑣𝘦𝓁.𝒸𝘰𝓂

That was unfair.

She hated him for using please like he knew exactly where to press. She hated that he got to show up now, after everything had already exploded, and still make her chest do something stupid.

Where was this earlier?

But then the other thought came, quieter and worse.

Maybe he had been worried.

Maybe he had only heard now.

Maybe he had been texting and she was the one who kept closing the screen because being mad at him was easier than admitting she wanted him to fight his way through the mess for her.

And that made her angrier.

Roxie stared at the message until her eyes burned. Roxie locked the phone and shoved it into her bag.

"I have to go," she said.

Because she cared too much, and right now that felt like another thing Bianca had ruined.

Ethan watched her for a second, then looked away like he knew staring would make it worse. "I can take you home."

Roxie opened her mouth to say no.

The word was ready. Automatic. Safe.

Then her legs ached hard enough to remind her she had been standing for hours. Her shoes were damp. Her shirt smelled like fryer oil and dish soap. Her scalp still hurt from Bianca’s hand in her hair, and her phone felt heavy with Zac’s unread messages.

Walking home suddenly felt less like pride and more like punishing herself for no reason.

She hated that too.

Ethan did not push. He just stood there beside the bike, helmet in one hand, waiting.

Roxie looked at the street.

Then at him.

"If I say yes," she said, "you don’t talk about anything."

His eyes stayed on hers. "I’ll just drive."

Roxie swallowed.

That was the problem. He kept giving her exactly enough space to make saying yes possible.

"Fine," she said.