TWO
SOPHIA
The morning sun is a cruel joke—bright, unrelenting, and completely out of sync with the mess inside my head. I tug my jacket tighter around me, as if it could hold the pieces of me together.
My feet take over, heading in the one direction that might offer comfort. I try calling Dad, but—of course—he doesn’t pick up. God only knows where he’s gone this time.
The bell above The Book Nook jingles cheerfully when I push the door open. The warmth inside wraps around me like an old memory. Mom used to spend hours here when we were little.
I remember toddling at her heels between shelves stacked with stories. That’s how I met Pamela—another kid haunting the aisles with messy braids and big opinions.
She's in full form today, chatting with a customer. “I can’t, in good conscience, sell you this,” she says, holding up a book like it’s covered in mold. “It’s vapid, mass-produced trash. Go check the Classics and try again.”
The man raises his brows, caught somewhere between being offended and entertained. Pamela gives him a gentle shove. “Off you go.”
He leaves, looking amused despite himself.
Pamela spots me and waves. “He needed the intervention,” she says, making her way over. “The man genuinely thinks Jeffrey Archer is the peak of literary achievement.”
“He’s sold a lot of books,” I offer.
“So did Mein Kampf.” She leans past me and yells, “Proust! That’s your medicine!”
The guy turns around with a half-laugh, then returns to the counter with a new book in hand. “Listen,” he says as he pays, “if you’re not doing anything later…”
Pamela shakes her head. “Come back when you’re ready for volume two.” She gives him a cheeky wink. “I’ll be waiting.”
He walks out, grinning. I look at her, unimpressed. “You know you only get away with being that rude because you’re good-looking.”
She shrugs, grinning. “I’m performing a public service. If they mistake it for flirting, that’s their fault.”
Her face shifts slightly when she really sees me. “Wait—weren’t you supposed to be working today? Callahan giving out gold stars now?”
I slump into the familiar couch tucked into the corner like an old friend. I hand her the eviction notice. “He fired me. Dad got caught stealing again.”
“Shit.”
“It gets better. Grayson’s evicting us. We’re months behind. I don’t even know where Dad is or what he’s been spending our money on.” A familiar weight presses on my chest.
Pamela sits beside me, slipping an arm around my shoulders. “Okay, slow down. Breathe. Remember the technique: in through the nose, out through the mouth. Like gentle sex.”
“How would I know what that feels like?” I manage between shaky breaths. “Closest I’ve come was that kiss from Santa when I was six.”
“Didn’t know you were into jolly old men. Developing early, were you?” She squeezes me gently. “Jokes aside, you’re breathing again.”
I nod. “You distracted me. I hate you.”
“You’re welcome.” She tucks her hair behind one ear, her confidence unshaken. “You can’t fix everything, Sophie. I know you try. I’ve seen you straighten every damn book in here.”
“They’re usually a mess,” I mutter.
“It’s not your job to make the world tidy. You can’t stop your dad from drinking. That’s his fight. Tess will leave the house when she’s ready. You can support them, but you can’t save them. You’ve got to stop carrying everyone.”
Before I can respond, she leaps up and points across the store. “Put that back! No one needs to read that misogynistic drivel.”
She returns, triumphant, and grins. “I’ve got an idea. Move in with me.”
“No guests, no sublets, remember?”
“Then let’s find somewhere together. You, me, the raging sea of estrogen between us. Maybe we can finally fulfill those lesbian fantasies I’ve been nurturing.”
I roll my eyes. “Tempting. But where would we cram you, your mom, me, Dad, Tess, and your… very loud bosom?”
She lifts a brow. “Look outside.”
“I’ve seen the city before. I’m busy wallowing.”
“No, seriously. Look.”
I glance toward the window—and stop. A man is standing on the sidewalk, staring straight at me. Dark hair, chiseled jaw, black tailored suit. He looks like he stepped out of a gangster film and didn’t bother changing. People give him space without realizing it. No one dares ask him to move.
A shiver dances down my spine. My heart trips over itself—part fear, part... something else. He’s undressing me with his eyes. I feel stripped, raw, seen.
I rip my gaze away, grabbing a random book and pretending to read the back like it’s the cure for cancer.
Pamela leans in. “Friend of yours? If yes, kindly introduce me immediately.”
“Never seen him before,” I say, stealing another glance. My heart flutters wildly. I imagine him pushing me against a wall, lips crashing into mine, ripping my clothes like he owns them.
Pamela grins. “You want him?”
I flush. “He’s yours. Have at it.”
“Oh, please. You’re still waiting for Mr. Perfect.” She gives me a look. “What’s wrong with Mr. Right Now? That V-card of yours isn’t going to punch itself.”
“I’ve got books and a vibrator,” I mumble, though even I don’t believe it right now. Not with that guy still staring at me like I’m something worth devouring.
“Yeah, but vibrators don’t hold you after.”
“Mine does. It’s voice-activated and brings me coffee in the morning.”
Pamela laughs, then softens. “There are good guys out there. I met one last week who knew Jane Austen wasn’t a WWE wrestler.”
“I’m broke, anxious, out of a job, and about to be homeless. Not exactly prime dating material.”
“You’re smart, gorgeous, and your boobs are amazing. Trust me, there’s a market.”
She glances back out the window. “Wait—he’s gone.”
I stand up, nerves still buzzing. “I should head home. Got resumes to send.”
“Drink tonight? Drown our sorrows in regret and overpriced cocktails?”
Just the thought sends a tidal wave of dread through me. Crowds, mess, strangers. No thanks.
She sees the panic instantly. “Or I come over. Pizza, wine, job search party?”
“That sounds perfect.”
“One thing at a time,” she says firmly. “Job first. Then your dad. Then Tess. We’ll figure it out.”
That’s why she’s the only person who’s stuck by me. That and the 20% employee discount.
“Hey,” she adds as a new customer walks in. “You’ll be okay. I believe in you.”
“Good,” I say with a real smile this time. “Someone should.”
“Besides, boring is overrated.” She tosses me a copy of Les Misérables as I head for the door.
"I already have a copy," I protest as she presses the book into my hands. "What kind of best friend forgets what my favorite book is?"
Pamela just grins. "You said your mom’s old copy was falling apart. This one’s brand new. Consider it an early birthday gift."
"My birthday’s not until three months from now."
"You do understand what ‘early’ means, don’t you? Now get going. Job listings won’t apply to themselves. I expect good news by the next time I see you."
"How do you stay so ridiculously upbeat all the time?"
She shrugs, casual and warm. "You've bailed me out more times than I can count—let me cheat on assignments, picked me up when I couldn’t even stand, held me through every terrible breakup. You're a good person, Sophie. And good people deserve good things."
A customer waves from the register. Pamela heads over, only to wince dramatically at the stack in front of her. "These? Of all the books in this store, these are your choices? Shame on you."
I laugh quietly and walk toward the door, a little more grounded than when I came in. As I step back into the sharp New York sunlight, the heaviness in my chest is still there—but somehow, it’s a little easier to carry.
Back at the apartment, I slide into my routine without thinking. I call Tess’s name, but there’s no response. Her door’s slightly open. Still fast asleep.
In my room, I set the new copy of Les Misérables next to Mom’s worn edition on my nightstand. I power up my old, sputtering laptop and lie back on the bed, sifting through job sites and applying to anything remotely doable.
Time passes. My body twists and turns in search of comfort on a mattress that’s long past its prime. My mind won’t stop spinning.
The pressure of the day keeps pushing down on me, a relentless, invisible weight. Tess’s soft, steady breathing from the next room is the only sign of peace.
I should be used to this by now—life lobbing another disaster at me. I’d always thought that if I just worked hard enough, stayed strong, then eventually things would even out. I’d find solid footing. Maybe I wouldn’t feel so adrift.
But under all the stress, deeper than the exhaustion, lies a gnawing truth I can’t seem to shake: I’m not enough.
Not strong enough to fix everything. Not brave enough to chase my own dreams. Not worth enough to imagine a life outside this loop of surviving and failing.
It’s a belief that’s been etched into me—carved deeper every time Dad stares through me with glassy eyes, every time a bill slips through the cracks, every time I shove my own hopes aside just to keep everything from falling apart.
"I wish you were here, Mom," I whisper, eyes drifting toward the window. The weight of it all finally pulls me under. I close my eyes for a second—and fall instantly into sleep.
When I wake up, I know something’s wrong. My heart's already pounding. Something’s off.
The breeze. The traffic. That’s what’s wrong.
I’d closed the window. Now it’s wide open.
I sit up slowly, eyes scanning the room—and then I see it. A figure, dark and unmoving, tucked in the shadows of the corner.
My lungs seize. I can't breathe. Panic rips through me like claws. My pulse slams against my chest.
Then a hand clamps over my mouth, firm and unyielding, cutting off the scream clawing its way up my throat.
And that’s when I see the gun.
The figure steps forward, silent and cold. The muzzle aimed directly at me.
This is it.
This is how I die.