Chapter 5: Sweetness and Strain

Mrs. Rivera was like a second mom to half the neighborhood. Her hand was warm on my shoulder, her voice full of tough love.

I smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Rivera. I promise, I won’t fall behind.”

And I meant it. I’d already color-coded my study schedule for the week, hospital visits included.

Then I started cleaning up—scrubbing the tank, wiping down the cutting board, fish scales glinting in the sunlight. When I stacked the boxes, I looked up and saw Graham.

He stood at the edge of the market, looking totally out of place among the shouting vendors and the smell of fried dough. Who knows how long he’d been there, watching me with that steady, unreadable gaze.

He wore a crisp button-down and spotless sneakers, a city kid lost in a sea of Red Sox hats and muddy boots. But his eyes never wavered.

I ignored him. When I struggled to load boxes onto our battered old pickup, he walked over, expensive shoes squishing in the mud, took the box from me, and hefted it into the truck bed.

He didn’t flinch at the smell or the mess. For once, he just rolled up his sleeves and pitched in.

He said, “This is heavy stuff. You shouldn’t have to do it alone.”

He tried to sound casual, but I could hear the concern underneath. For a second, he looked almost… real.

I didn’t play coy, just watched him help, then he hopped into the driver’s seat, making the rusty old Ford look like a Tesla. He grinned at me and said, “Hop in. I’ll drive you home.”

He tapped the steering wheel, trying to look cool. The seat squeaked, and I almost laughed.

I paused and asked, deadpan, “Do you even know how to drive stick? Or is parallel parking more your speed?”

He froze, a rare look of confusion crossing his face—maybe for the first time ever.

He glanced at the gearshift, then back at me, sheepish. I couldn’t help but smile. “Out of the car, city boy.”

He slid out, hands up in surrender, and let me take over.

He looked at me and, for some reason, smiled, sighing, “Lauren Merritt, that’s the first time I’ve seen you smile.”

He said it softly, like it was a secret between us. My cheeks got warm, but I didn’t look away.

That week, he showed up every day, on time, to help me set up and pack up the stand. The first time he saw me gut a fish, he just stood there, laughing in disbelief.

He leaned on the counter, arms crossed, watching as I worked. His laughter was warm, not mocking—just genuinely surprised.

I looked at him, confused. He grinned and said, “You ever see that meme? ‘I’ve gutted fish at Walmart for ten years, my heart’s as cold as the freezer section.’ I thought it was just a joke, but now I get it.”

He did the meme’s deadpan delivery, and I actually chuckled. For once, we were just two kids, sharing a laugh over a pile of fish.

He asked, half-joking, half-serious: “Lauren, are you as cold as your knife?”

His eyes searched mine, hoping for a crack in my armor.

I smiled at him, blunt as ever:

“Graham, we’re from two different worlds. You’ve seen it. I’m not playing hard to get—I don’t have the time, I don’t want to play, and I can’t afford your games. Don’t waste your effort on me.”

I spoke quietly, but I meant every word. The honesty hung between us.

He looked at me, the smile fading, then returned, and he turned away so I couldn’t see his face. “I got it.”