Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 6

I froze in the doorway. My fingers curled into a fist inside my sleeve.

I looked at my mom again, praying for some kind of rescue. Some hint of the woman who used to step in, stand tall between me and him, even if just for a breath.

But that version of her was gone.

Replaced by someone who only clenched her jaw when he barked, lips pressed tight, her whole face unreadable. Like she was bracing for a storm she didn’t dare stop anymore.

And maybe that’s what broke me the most.

I walked over to the table anyway, grabbed one of the sandwiches she laid out, ham and cheese, nothing fancy, but it smelled like warmth I didn’t think I’d get today.

Then I looked at my dad.

Right in the eye.

“If you can spare a like on someone else’s son’s achievement on IG…” I said, voice thin and sharp, teetering between mockery and desperation, “I don’t see why you’d deny me a sandwich, Dad.”

The words felt like glass in my mouth. Cutting. Dangerous.

His chair scraped back hard, but I was already gone. I bolted out the door before he could say another word, before he could take something else from me.

Outside, the air hit cold and sharp in my lungs, like a slap that somehow hurt less than his words.

I kept walking. Fast. Like I could outrun the fact that I didn’t know who I hated more in that moment, him, or myself.

I didn’t know where I was going. I just needed to breathe air that didn’t belong to that house. To feel something other than the sting of shame crawling up my spine.

Then I heard a familiar honk. I looked up.

Olive.

She pulled up right beside the curb, hair still in that messy bun and that green bow, eyes scanning me like she already knew what happened.

“Get in the car,” she said, her voice low but not unkind.

I didn’t even think. I opened the door and slid in, shutting the world out with a soft thud behind me. The warmth of her car smelled like peppermint gum and laundry detergent. Familiar. Easy.

I let out a shaky breath, staring straight ahead. “I clapped back at him,” I muttered, running a hand through my still-damp hair. “Said something about him liking other people’s kids online more than he liked me. And I took the sandwich. Just grabbed it and walked out.”

Olive didn’t say anything at first. She just reached over, her hand finding mine on my thigh. Her grip was firm, fingers warm, grounding.

I looked at her, half-expecting praise, maybe even a laugh. Some sort of “finally” for standing up to him.

But all she said was, “Drew…” A soft sigh, almost a warning. “I accept you. And I tolerate all of this, who you are, what you are. We’re best friends. You know that.”

I nodded slowly. And then she added, “But don’t disrespect your dad like that. You’ll regret it.”

I blinked.

Her hand didn’t leave mine, but suddenly it felt colder. Stiffer.

And that’s when I saw it, what I never really wanted to admit.

Olive was safe.

She was the kind of person who would always come when called. Who’d show up in pajamas to pick me up drunk at a bar. Who’d sit through my rants, nurse my bruised ego, and never ask for more than what I was already giving.