Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
“We need to find you a board,” he says.
My chest tightens. “No.”
He pauses. “No?”
“I don’t want you buying me things,” I say quickly, the words sharper than I mean. “I don’t— I can’t—” I stop, because the truth is ugly. Because accepting things makes me feel owned. Because the moment someone gives me something, my body braces for the part where they take something back.
Ozzy’s gaze stays steady. “Okay,” he says calmly. “Then I’ll phrase it differently.”
I blink.
He sets the pen down and leans forward slightly. “I’m not buying you a board because you’re a charity case.”
My breath catches.
“I’m buying you a board,” he continues, “because it makes me furious that you lost yours. And because you deserve to have something that’s yours again. And because—” his mouth twitches, “—I want you to teach me.”
I stare at him. “Teach you?”
Ozzy nods, eyes gleaming. “Skateboard lessons. From you.”
I snort. “You’re going to die.”
“Probably,” he agrees. “But it’ll be a noble death.”
I laugh. An actual real laugh. It’s been a long time since anyone has made me laugh like this. Then the laughter fades, and the fear creeps back in. Because the skatepark isn’t just a fun place in my mind anymore. It’s… a before-and-after line. “I don’t know if I can go to a skatepark,” I admit quietly.
Ozzy’s expression changes immediately. “Okay.”
I hate how gentle he is about it. Like he’s handing me control back without making me fight for it. I stare down at my tea, watching it steam. “That’s where they took me,” I whisper. “I was sitting there. I thought I was being careful. And then—” My throat tightens. “And then I wasn’t anymore.”
Ozzy’s hand flexes on the counter like he wants to smash something.
I keep talking, because saying it out loud makes it less monstrous. “I keep thinking… are they looking for me?” I ask, voice shaking despite my best effort. “Are they angry? Will they find me? Or do they even care?” My mouth twists bitterly. “A girl like me is… replaceable,” I say. “A dime a dozen. They probably forgot me already.” The words taste like old wounds. Like the way my mom would forget I existed if a boyfriend was in the room. Like being invisible is my default.
Ozzy’s voice is low and dangerous when he answers. “They didn’t forget you.”
I look up, startled by the certainty.
Ozzy’s eyes are dark, fierce. “You don’t get to decide your worth based on what predators think. And you don’t get to call yourself replaceable.”
My throat tightens again. “Ozzy—”
“No,” he says. His voice is firm. Controlled. “Listen to me.” He leans forward, forearms on the counter, bringing himself closer without crowding me. “They took you because they thought they could,” he says. “Not because you’re nothing.”
My breath catches.
“And if they’re angry,” he continues, voice rough, “good. Let them be angry. Because it means they’re scared. Because it means their control snapped. Because it means you got away.”
My eyes sting. I blink hard. “Okay.”
Ozzy’s expression softens, but the anger stays like a blade under his calm.
“We’ll be careful,” he says. “We’ll stay lowkey. But you’re not going to spend the rest of your life terrified of skateparks.” His words land in me like a promise. And promises are dangerous. But I want to believe him anyway.
I stare at the notebook again. At the list. At the little future he’s scribbling into existence like he can rewrite my life with a pen. Something in my chest aches. “Can I ask you something?” I whisper.
Ozzy nods. “Anything.”
My voice wobbles. “Do you think my mom… might be missing me?” The question is humiliating. Because a part of me knows the answer. Because a part of me has always known. But there’s another part—smaller, stubborn, desperate—that still wants to believe she cares. That she’d panic. That she’d call my name. That she’d notice the space I left behind. My eyes burn. “I know she wasn’t… good,” I add quickly. “I know she did things wrong. But she’s still my mom.”
Ozzy’s gaze softens so much it almost breaks me. He nods slowly. “Yeah.”
I wait, holding my breath.
Then he says, “We can check.”
My heart stutters. “You can?”
Ozzy reaches for his phone on the counter. “I’ll ask the team to do a wellness check. We can find out if she reported you missing, if she’s looking, if she… cares.”
My throat tightens painfully. “And if she didn’t?”
Ozzy pauses, his eyes lifting to meet mine. “Then we’ll deal with that,” he says gently. “Together.” The word together hits me like a warm wave.
I blink hard, fighting tears. I hate crying. It makes me feel weak. But Ozzy doesn’t look at me like I’m weak.
He looks at me like I’m human. He taps a message into his phone, thumb moving fast. I catch a glimpse of the secure contact names—Rae, Arrow, Dean. He sends it. Then he sets the phone down and picks up the pen again like we’re not standing on the edge of something huge. “Okay,” he says, voice lighter. “Back to the list. Something fun. Something ridiculous. Something that makes you feel like a person again.”