Chapter 3

"Are you on a diet?"

Maya paused, her fork hovering over her takeout container of sweet and sour chicken. She was staring at my plate—a small scoop of white rice and some leftover steamed broccoli.

"Stomach issues," I lied. "Can't eat much."

She didn't buy it. Her eyes swept over my face—my prominent cheekbones, my sharp jawline, my thin wrists. She quietly went back to her food and didn't press further.

Maya was good like that. She knew when to step back.

The next day, she left a container of orange chicken on my desk. It was the expensive kind from the bistro downstairs.

"I ordered too much. Help me finish it so it doesn't go to waste."

*Ordered too much.*

You always order the exact same lunch special. Since when did you order extra?

I didn't call her out. I opened the lid; the steam was still warm.

"Thanks—"

"Don't thank me. Just eat. Wasting food is a sin."

I took a bite.

The moment I tasted the chicken, I almost burst into tears. Not out of sentimentality, but because I hadn't tasted real meat in weeks.

After finishing, I said, "I'll pack lunch tomorrow. We can share."

"Deal. Are you a good cook?"

"I don't know. No one's ever commented on it."

Maya blinked. It was that look people give when they want to ask a personal question but don't know how to phrase it.

She settled on: "Well, I'll be the judge tomorrow."

By the end of the month, after my rent, utilities, and credit card payments cleared, I checked my bank account.

$17.30.

Seventeen dollars and thirty cents.

What could that buy? A couple of frozen meals? Or I could starve until payday—which was in four days.

Four days. Seventeen bucks. Less than five dollars a day.

And I still had to take the subway to work. $2.75 each way. That was $5.50 a day.

$17.30 minus four days of subway fare meant I was in the negative.

I sat in my apartment and did the math three times. The answer was always the same.

Then, I did something stupid. I opened Leo's Instagram.

I wasn't trying to hurt myself. I just needed to see the gap between my $17.30 and his life.

His latest post: a family weekend at the aquarium. Three photos. Tommy riding on Leo's shoulders watching the dolphins, Chloe smiling.

Caption: "Our little prince's first time seeing dolphins! 🐬"

Mom's comment: "My beautiful grandbaby!"

The aquarium.

Two adult tickets, one child ticket, parking, lunch—easily a hundred and fifty dollars.

One hundred and fifty. That was half of my entire monthly survival budget. He spent it in one afternoon.

And he hadn't contributed a single dollar to Dad's surgery. He paid his $550 car bill on time. He went to the aquarium on a whim.

But the credit card debt was mine. The interest was mine.

My $17.30 deficit was because I was carrying his weight.

On payday, my check cleared.

I stared at the balance, and within ten minutes, it was gone. Credit card: $330. Rent: $1,200. Phone: $60. Utilities: $120.

What was left vanished into the void of past dues.

Living on a razor's edge meant any minor emergency could destroy me.

I couldn't afford to get sick. I couldn't afford a cab. I couldn't afford social outings.

My life was mathematically locked into my paycheck, and every gear had to turn perfectly.

But the wrench in the gears came quickly.

In mid-November, Mom texted.

"Your dad's heart medication is running out. You know where to order it online, right? Order it and ship it to the house."

She didn't even mention the money. She changed "can you pay" to "can you handle this task."

It was a softer guilt trip, but the financial burden was the same.

I replied: "Send me the prescription name. I'll order it."

Total cost: $287.

Two hundred and eighty-seven dollars. In my tight budget, that was over a week's worth of food.

I hesitated for three seconds.

Then, I tapped "Confirm Payment."

This was my dad's medicine. Not my brother's car payment, not my nephew's riding lessons, not an aquarium trip.

I would pay this.

I called Dad.

"I ordered your meds. They're on the way. Make sure you take them on time."

"How much was it, Piper? Let me send you some money."

"No need, Dad."

"Make sure you eat well. Don't starve yourself."

There it was again. *Don't starve yourself.*

It was as if he could smell the cheap instant ramen through the phone.

I hung up and texted Maya: "Still sharing lunch tomorrow?"

"Duh. I bought pork chops. Do you want them grilled or pan-fried?"

"Your choice."

"Pan-fried. I literally dreamed about your cooking the other night."

I smiled.

In this cold winter where I was living on credit cards, someone was dreaming about my cooking.

I didn't know whether to feel comforted or pathetic.