BABY GIRL

Maggie “I’m sorry, baby… but we have to move out before tomorrow evening.” I freeze mid-fold, a T-shirt sliding out of my hands and puddling on the floor. For a second I just stare at my mom, waiting for her to take it back, to say I misheard. “We have to leave,” she says again, softer. She won’t meet my eyes. “What do you mean leave?” I ask, even though the answer is already sitting heavy in my gut. Her mouth twitches. “The landlord’s out of patience. We’ve been past the grace period. He’s giving us until tomorrow evening to pack up and turn in the keys.” Tomorrow evening. My throat goes dry. I hear myself say, even though I know I shouldn’t, “Can’t we just pay one more month? I’ve got some savings.” “We can’t do that again, baby,” she says, rubbing her forehead like the talking itself hurts. Or maybe it’s everything that’s been crushing us since Dad died. “I should’ve told you sooner. I kept thinking something would come through.” I glance around our apartment. The hand-me-down couch. The secondhand TV. The tilted bookshelf with water stains and that crappy wallpaper bubbling at the seams. It’s not much. It’s barely anything. But it’s ours. Or was. “And where are we even going?” I ask. She finally looks at me. “I’m moving in with Theo.” Right. Her new boyfriend. “You’re kidding,” I say. “I’m not.” Her tone goes stiff. “He has a spare room. He offered to help.” “He offered you. Not me.” She sighs. “You can come too, Maggie. Just for a bit. Until I figure things out.” “No.” Her head jerks. “What do you mean, no?” “I’m not moving in with some guy I barely know. You go. I’ll figure something else out.” “Maggie, don’t be ridiculous—” “I’m not being ridiculous, Mom!” It comes out sharper than I mean, but it’s like my nerves are frayed raw. If she’s forgotten what happened with the last man she dated, I haven’t. I can’t. I don’t care if Theo is a saint with a rescue dog and a compost bin — he can go f**k himself. “If you want to live with Theo, fine. But I’m not third-wheeling.” Her shoulders sag. “He’s not a stranger, sweetheart.” “He’s not my father either.” Her eyes go glossy at that. She opens her mouth, then closes it. I don’t say anything else. I pull out my phone and text Ana. Hey. Can I crash at yours for a couple days? LL just kicked us out. She replies in under a minute. Of course, Mag. Come now. Stay as long as you need. Relief hits so hard my knees almost give. I send a quick thank you and start stuffing my clothes into a duffel without bothering to fold. I don’t cry. I’m too wrung out to cry. I’ve got some savings — not a lot, but maybe enough for a room. I’ve been hustling after school: birthday party gigs, face painting, flyers, babysitting, massage, pizza delivery — anything that paid cash. The plan was to get my own place after graduation. I guess I’ll move the timeline up. I just have to sort out the consent crap. I’m seventeen. I’ll need my mom to sign something before anyone rents to me. I’ll ask her after she’s settled. After she cools off. Twenty minutes later, Ana texts again. On my way. Took Dad’s car LOL I can’t help the little twitch of a smile. God, I love her. *** Ana screeches up like she’s just outrun a cop, grinning over the top of sunglasses slid halfway down her nose. “Get in, loser,” she says. “We’re escaping capitalism.” I snort, even though my chest still feels like it’s full of wet cement. She’s drowning in a hoodie that’s definitely her dad’s. Her ponytail is crooked like she didn’t even pretend to care. I toss my bag in the back and climb in. “Thanks,” I mumble. She glances over. “You okay?” “No,” I say. “But I will be.” She doesn’t push. Just reaches over and gives my hand a quick squeeze. We pull into her driveway fifteen minutes later. Her house is three times the size of ours, white with gray shutters and a porch swing that complains whenever the wind turns. It smells like lemon polish and something perpetually baking. I’ve always liked it here. The front door swings open and David — Ana’s dad — steps out. And I forget how to breathe. White T-shirt, navy sweats, barefoot, like we ambushed him. His jaw’s set, and he pins Ana with a look that makes her sink an inch into her seat. Oh God. I sit up straighter and fiddle with my hoodie like that’ll help. “Maggie,” he says, warm, nodding at me. “Good to see you.” “Hi, Mr. Moreno,” I manage, heart going way too fast. He turns to Ana. “We’re going to talk about the car. In the house. Now.” “I was careful—” “In. The. House.” She groans, kills the engine, and gets out. I follow, clutching my bag like a shield. He doesn’t yell. He never yells. He has that calm, deep dad-voice that makes you feel worse than if he’d gone full thunder. I’ve had a stupid crush on David Moreno since I was thirteen. Maybe longer. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, salt starting to thread through his hair, and he carries that quiet, tired kindness you don’t easily see in men under forty. Ana’s mom died when Ana was ten. I was at the funeral. I remember him standing like a statue, one hand on Ana’s head while she sobbed into his side. He didn’t cry — not once — but the grief moved into his eyes and never left. It’s still there. The softness. The ache. And I hate that I notice it. Every time. I drop my bag by the stairs. “Thanks for letting me stay,” I say, softer than I mean to. He gives me a small, weary smile. “You’re always welcome here, Maggie.” God help my poor heart.