Chapter 19
Emily's POV
Monday morning, Ethan was waiting outside my building with a bottle of milk in his hand.
I spotted him from the window while pulling on my jacket, and for a brief, disorienting moment I thought I was seeing things. But no—that was definitely his truck parked at the curb, and that was definitely him leaning against the passenger door with something small and white clutched in one hand, his breath forming small clouds in the April morning air.
I took the stairs faster than usual.
When I pushed through the lobby door, he straightened and held out the bottle. Whole milk, the kind that came in old-fashioned glass bottles from the organic market downtown, which meant he'd gone out of his way to get it because the corner store near school only carried plastic.
"Morning," he said.
I stopped on the sidewalk and stared at the bottle. "What's this?"
"Milk." He said it matter-of-factly, like the answer was self-evident. "You need more nutrition."
Something in my chest did a small, complicated twist. I looked from the bottle to his face and back again, trying to parse the logic. "I eat fine."
"I know." He was still holding it out, patient. "But you're too thin, and I know your mom makes you breakfast, but—extra nutrition doesn't hurt. And it's portable. You can drink it on the way to class."
The observation was so specific, so clearly the result of him paying attention to details I didn't realize were visible, that I almost forgot to be defensive about it. Before he started picking me up, I'd been leaving the apartment at five-thirty every morning, early enough to eat something from the cafeteria before first period. Now I could sleep an extra hour, but it meant skipping the school breakfast entirely.
I hadn't mentioned that to him. Hadn't mentioned that my mother did pack me something most mornings now that she could afford to, or that I sometimes ate it and sometimes didn't depending on how my stomach felt.
And yes, I was too thin. I knew that. Had known it for years, ever since the school nurse pulled me aside in ninth grade and suggested, in that careful, euphemistic way adults used when they suspected abuse, that I might want to "talk to someone" about my eating habits.
I hadn't talked to anyone. I'd just gotten better at wearing layers.
He'd noticed anyway.
"I don't need you to—"
"I know you don't need me to." His voice stayed level, but there was something underneath it—not irritation, just a quiet insistence that this wasn't up for debate. "I'm doing it anyway. Take the milk, Emily."
I took the milk.
It was cold against my palm, condensation already forming on the glass, and I held it for a moment without speaking because I genuinely didn't know what to say. The last time someone had handed me food without asking for something in return, I'd been—I couldn't actually remember. Maybe never.
"Thank you," I said finally.
He smiled, small and satisfied, and opened the passenger door. "Come on. We're going to be late."
I sat in Ethan's truck with a bottle of organic milk warming slowly in my hands, and I felt the edges of something unfamiliar working its way through my defenses. This was the strange, uncomfortable realization that I was accepting his care without immediately calculating the cost.
I unscrewed the cap and took a drink. It was cold and faintly sweet, and it tasted expensive in a way I couldn't quite articulate. When I lowered the bottle, Ethan was watching me with an expression I couldn't read.
"Good?" he asked.
"It's milk," I said. "It tastes like milk."
"High praise." He shifted the truck into drive and pulled away from the curb, and I caught the edge of a smile tugging at his mouth.
I drank half the bottle before we reached the school parking lot, and when I climbed out of the truck I found myself carrying it with me instead of leaving it on the seat. Ethan walked beside me toward the main entrance with his backpack slung over one shoulder and his hands shoved into his jacket pockets.
The whispers had largely stopped by now. I'd noticed it over the past week—the way conversations no longer died when I walked past, the way people had stopped shooting me those quick, assessing glances that were equal parts curiosity and judgment. High school students were remarkably practical in their cruelty, I'd realized. They calibrated the cost of their actions based on who you associated with, and walking through the halls with Ethan beside me had apparently raised that cost significantly.
There were still girls who rolled their eyes when they saw us together, their expressions souring with the particular resentment of people who'd had their territory encroached upon. But they didn't do anything beyond that. Didn't leave notes in my locker or spread new rumors or any of the things I'd been bracing myself for. Ethan had made sure of that—not through threats or confrontation, but through simple, consistent presence. Through the unspoken message that came with being seen as under his protection.
I should have resented needing that protection. Should have hated the implication that I couldn't defend myself, that my safety depended on proximity to someone with more social capital than I'd ever possess.
Instead, I just felt tired relief.
I knew I could protect myself if I had to. I'd proven that already. I had the capacity for retaliation, for using everything I knew about people to dismantle them piece by piece if they pushed me far enough. An eye for an eye sounded satisfying in theory, the kind of poetic justice that made for good stories.
But in practice, it was exhausting. Every scheme required planning, execution, constant vigilance to make sure the pieces stayed in place. And for what? To win petty battles against teenage girls who didn't like me? To prove I could operate in the same gray space I'd promised myself I'd try to leave behind?
No. If there was a simpler way—if I could just walk beside Ethan and let his presence do the work for me—then I'd take it.
Save my energy for things that actually mattered.
The last month and a half of classes was mostly ceremonial anyway—teachers going through the motions with students who'd already secured their college acceptances or job offers, everyone just waiting for graduation to make it official. But actual survival required time and energy.
I'd started picking up shifts after school, small jobs that paid cash. I'd already paid Ethan back for the motel—had handed him the cash folded in an envelope three days ago, even though he'd protested for a solid five minutes before finally accepting it.
"You didn't have to do that," he'd said, looking at the envelope like it might bite him.
"Yes, I did."
He'd understood. Maybe not agreed, but understood.
And now I was saving for something else: a dress for prom.
Ethan had asked me again last week with the same nervous hopefulness he brought to everything involving us, and I'd said yes before really thinking through the logistics. Which meant I now needed something appropriate to wear, and the three-dollar secondhand shift dress currently hanging in my closet wasn't going to cut it.