58 "texas"

I drove until the sky changed colors twice.When the gas needle dipped too low to ignore and my eyes burned from crying, I pulled off into a town so small it barely had a name. One main road. A blinking yellow light. A diner with a crooked sign that hummed like it was tired of being there. I sat in my truck for a long time before going in. My hands were shaking when I opened the ashtray and counted what I had—quarters, dimes, nickels, a few pennies stuck together with old gum. It wasn't enough for pride. It was barely enough for food.But I was starving.The diner smelled like grease and coffee that had been sitting too long. Vinyl booths. A counter with spinning stools. It felt like a place time forgot, and for once, I was grateful for that. The waitress had soft gray hair and eyes that looked like they'd seen too much and chosen kindness anyway. When she handed me the menu, my throat tightened."What's the cheapest thing you've got?" I asked quietly. She didn't look surprised. Just pointed. "Eggs and toast. Comes with coffee."I nodded and counted my change on the table, apologizing under my breath as I slid it toward her. She scooped it up without counting and told me to sit wherever I liked. "Um..is there an extra charge to change coffee to milk?" I asked. The woman shook her head "not at all hun".  I ate like someone who hadn't eaten in days. Because I hadn't.

That night, I slept in my truck behind the diner, curled up under an old coat. Before I closed my eyes, I did the one thing I'd been putting off since I left.In the glow of my cab light, I threaded a fishing hook with shaking fingers. The split in my upper lip along my cupids bow was swollen and angry, still bleeding if I moved it wrong. I didn't have a choice. I cleaned it the best I could, bit down on a rag, and stitched myself up with fishing line.It hurt like hell. But I didn't cry. I was too tired to. I cried myself to sleep every night, so scared of what was going to happened to me. I was so scared for my baby too. Days blurred together after that. Every morning, I went back into the diner. Same booth. Same meal. Eggs, toast, milk. Every night, I slept in my truck. The parking lot became familiar. Safe, in a way. Like the world had shrunk to something I could manage.The waitress started smiling when she saw me. Calling me "hon." Asking if I wanted my milk topped off before I even asked.After a few days, there was pie on my plate that I hadn't ordered. "Pardon me miss.. I didn't order this.. honestly.. I.. I can't afford it" I say very soft and quiet. "Leftovers" she said, waving it off. "Gonna go stale otherwise."It happened again the next day. And the next.She never asked questions. But one afternoon, as she refilled my water, her eyes lingered on my stomach just a second too long."You take care of yourself," she said gently. "Both of you."My hand went instinctively to my belly.I hadn't told anyone. I didn't know how to respond, so I just nodded.

At night, alone in my truck, the weight of everything settled in. The ranch. Walker. Beth. Rip. The blood. The fire. The way love had turned sharp and dangerous in my hands.I was pregnant. Broke. Running. And somehow still breathing.I didn't know where I was going or what I was supposed to do next. All I knew was that every morning, the sun still came up, and every day, that diner door opened for me.

This time I stood just inside the diner door longer than usual, my hands knotted together, my courage wearing thin. The bell above the door jingles, too loud for how quiet I feel.

The boss is behind the counter today. Big man. Hard eyes. He looks like someone who's never had to ask for anything in his life."I was wonderin'," I start softly, "if you're hirin'." He looks me over slow. Too slow. His eyes stop at my mouth. He scoffs. "You kiddin' me?" My stomach drops."Come back when your face don't look like it lost a fight," he says flatly. "I ain't puttin' someone like that out front. Bad for business."I swallow, my lip pulling tight where it's still healing. "I understand," I say, even though my chest feels like it's caving in.He turns away like I'm already gone.I walk to my usual booth on legs that don't feel like they belong to me anymore. The vinyl squeaks when I slide in. I don't open a menu. I don't have to.The waitress comes by, concern flickering across her face. "The usual, hon?" I shake my head. "Just water today."She pauses, then nods, bringing me a glass filled to the brim. She sets it down gently, like I might break if she's not careful.I wrap my hands around it, even though I'm not cold. I'm out of money. Every last coin is gone. My truck won't start. It coughed once this morning and died like it was done carrying me any farther. I don't know how I didn't notice sooner—maybe I didn't want to.I stare out the window at the parking lot, at my truck sitting there useless and quiet.For the first time since I left, I feel truly stuck.No ranch. No home. No job. No gas. No plan.Just water in a diner booth and a baby growing inside me, depending on someone who doesn't even know how to take care of herself.My eyes burn, but I don't let myself cry. Not here. Not now.I press my palm to my stomach under the table and whisper so quietly no one can hear it."I'm sorry. I'm tryin'."And I sit there, lost, waiting for something—anything—to tell me what comes next.

I stay in that booth long after my water's gone warm.

The diner hums around me—plates clinking, coffee pouring, boots on linoleum—but it all feels far away, like I'm underwater. I keep watching my truck through the window, half-expecting it to disappear, like it was never really mine to begin with.

The waitress comes back with the coffee pot, stops when she sees my empty glass. She doesn't say anything at first. Just refills it.

"You alright, sugar?" she asks quietly.

I nod out of habit. It's a lie I've practiced my whole life.

She doesn't buy it.

"You ain't ordered in two days," she says gently. "And that truck out there hasn't moved."

My throat tightens. I stare at my hands. They're shaking again.

"I'll be out of your way soon," I say. "I promise."

She reaches out and rests her hand over mine. Her skin is warm. Steady. Like she knows exactly what she's doing.

"Where you gonna go?"

I open my mouth, then close it. There's no answer to give.

She sighs, glancing toward the counter to make sure the boss isn't looking. Then she slides into the seat across from me like she's got nowhere else to be.

"My name's June," she says. "And I've been doin' this long enough to know when someone's run outta road."

That's it. That's the crack.

My eyes fill, and I hate myself for it, but the tears come anyway. Quiet at first, then shaking, ugly sobs I can't stop no matter how hard I try. I press my napkin to my mouth, afraid my lip will split open again.

June doesn't flinch. She just waits.

"I don't have money," I whisper. "Or gas. I tried to get a job and he—" I nod toward the counter. "He said I looked too beaten."

June's jaw tightens. "He's an ass," she mutters.

She stands up suddenly. "Sit tight."

I watch her disappear into the back, panic setting in. I don't want trouble. I don't want pity. I just want to survive the day.

She comes back with a plate.

Eggs. Toast. Bacon.

I shake my head fast. "I can't—"

"You can," she says, setting it down in front of me. "Eat."

I hesitate, then pick up the fork. The first bite nearly breaks me. I didn't realize how hungry I was until food hit my stomach and stayed there.

June watches me eat like it matters.

"Now," she says when I'm done, "you listen to me. There's a mechanic two blocks down. Owes me more favors than I can count. I'll call him. See if he can get that truck runnin' enough to get you somewhere safe."

I blink at her. "I can't pay you back."

She smiles sadly. "You already are. You came back every day instead of givin' up."

She glances at my stomach, just for a second. "And you're carryin' somethin' worth fightin' for."

My hand instinctively goes there.

That night, I sleep in my truck again—but this time, it's parked behind the mechanic's shop. He doesn't ask questions. Just siphons a little gas, tightens something under the hood, and tells me it'll run "long enough."

June brings me a blanket. A real one. Floral and faded and smelling like clean laundry.

"Come back in the mornin'," she says. "We'll see what tomorrow brings."

I lay back against the seat, staring up at the cab ceiling, my body exhausted but my mind wide awake.

For the first time since I left, I don't feel completely invisible.

I don't know where I'm going yet.

But tonight, I'm still here.