Chapter 5

The hoodie still smelled like vanilla.

Malia had fished it out of the corner sometime around day three, pressed it to her face, and inhaled until her lungs ached. She hadn’t washed it. Couldn’t. The scent was all she had left of Kylie—the only proof that any of it had been real, that the lobby and the phone calls and the mall hadn’t been some elaborate dream her anxious brain had constructed to torture her.

She wore it constantly. Slept in it. Cried in it. On day four, she found herself holding the hem to her lips, kissing the fabric like it was Kylie’s cheek, and had to shove it under her pillow, disgusted with herself.

The room became her world. Fairy lights off—too bright. Curtains drawn—too much sun. Her weighted blanket pulled up to her chin, her phone facedown and dead on the nightstand, her door locked from the inside because Momo kept trying to break in with snacks and ultimatums.

“Malia Simphiwe Baker,” Momo had shouted through the wood on day two, “you open this door right now or I will burn this apartment down and we will all die together.”

Malia hadn’t opened the door.

She’d heard Momo crying on the other side. Heard her slide down to sit against the frame, heard her whisper, “Please, Mal. Please come back. I need you.”

But Malia couldn’t. The thought of leaving her room, of seeing sunlight, of facing a world where Kylie existed and was angry and loud and scary—it made her throat close, her vision spotty, her stomach twist into knots that wouldn’t undo.

So she stayed. Ate when Julia brought trays she didn’t taste. Showered when Ivory threatened to hose her down through the window. Cried until her eyes swelled shut, then cried more because she couldn’t stop, because the tears were the only thing that felt real, the only thing that proved she was still alive inside this shell of a person.

—

Julia started working from home on day five.

She set up her laptop at the kitchen table, phone forwarded, video calls muted when Malia’s sobs leaked through the walls. She canceled meetings. Rescheduled Alex’s calendar with terse emails that made no excuses. When he called—because of course he called, because Alex Cantrall didn’t understand boundaries any more than he understood his daughter—Julia answered in monosyllables and hung up before he could ask about Kylie.

“How is she?” Ivory asked on day six, watching Julia burn toast because she’d forgotten it existed.

“Not good,” Julia admitted. She scraped the blackened bread into the trash, hands shaking. “I’ve never seen her like this. Not even when—” she stopped, pressed her lips together. “Not ever.”

“Should we call someone? Her therapist?”

“I did. Left three messages.” Julia finally gave up on breakfast, sat down hard at the table. “Ivory, I’m scared. She’s not eating. She’s not talking. She just—lies there. In the dark. In that girl’s hoodie.”

Ivory was quiet for a moment. Then: “It’s not Kylie’s fault, Mom.”

“I know that.”

“Do you? Because you’re acting like—”

“I know that,” Julia repeated, sharper than she intended. She softened, reached across the table to take Ivory’s hand. “I know Kylie was hurting too. I know Alex—” she broke off, shook her head. “It doesn’t matter whose fault it is. What matters is getting Malia back. And I don’t know how.”

Ivory squeezed her hand. “Momo knows.”

“Momo’s furious.”

“Exactly.”

—

Momo was past furious. She was volcanic.

On day seven, she stormed into the Baker apartment without knocking, dark eyes snapping, high buns vibrating with rage. She marched past Julia’s worried greeting, past Ivory’s cautious “hey,” and pounded on Malia’s door with the side of her fist.

“Malia! Last warning! Open up or I’m coming in!”

Silence.

Momo stepped back, assessed the door, and kicked it. Hard. The lock was cheap, the frame older, and it gave with a splintering crack that made Julia gasp. Momo shoved through, found Malia curled in bed, hoodie pulled over her head, and stopped.

For one breath. Two.

Then she climbed onto the bed and wrapped her arms around the hoodie-shaped lump, holding on like she was drowning.

“You stupid, stupid girl,” Momo whispered, voice breaking. “You can’t disappear like this. You can’t leave me. I need you. Do you hear me? I need you.”

Malia didn’t move. But something in her shifted, some wall crumbling, and she turned—slowly, painfully—and buried her face in Momo’s neck.

“I’m scared,” she whispered, the first words she’d spoken in days. “Momo, I’m so scared.”

“I know, baby. I know.” Momo stroked her hair, held her tight, let her shake and cry and leak years of fear onto her shoulder. “But you can’t hide forever. You can’t let her win.”

“Let who win?”

“Your anxiety. Your fear.” Momo pulled back, cupped Malia’s face in both hands. Her eyes were wet, fierce, desperate. “Kylie fucked up. She scared you. That was wrong. But Malia—” she shook her gently, “—you’re letting it eat you alive. You’re letting it take everything. The Malia I know? The one who kissed a girl in a lobby? Who wore her hoodie and pouted for her food and tugged her chain in the middle of a mall? That Malia would fight.”

“That Malia was stupid,” Malia said, but her voice was small, uncertain.

“That Malia was brave.” Momo pressed their foreheads together. “And she’s still in there. I know she is. But if you won’t come out for yourself—” she took a breath, “—come out for me. Because I can’t watch you fade away. I can’t lose my best friend because some girl with a mullet and daddy issues yelled at a dinner table.”

Malia closed her eyes. “She was so angry, Momo. You didn’t see it. The way she looked at her dad—like she wanted to burn the whole world down. And I was there. I was right there. What if she looks at me like that someday? What if I make her that angry?”

“Then you talk about it. You set boundaries. You don’t—” Momo’s voice cracked, “—you don’t disappear. You don’t ghost her for a week and nearly kill yourself and everyone who loves you.”

They held each other until Malia’s tears slowed, until her breathing evened, until the afternoon light slanted gold through the cracked door and Julia’s shadow hovered worried in the hallway.

“I need to do something,” Momo said finally, pulling back. Her expression had shifted, set into hard lines Malia recognized from childhood—the Momo who’d punched a boy for pulling Malia’s hair, the Momo who’d threatened teachers and principals and anyone who hurt what was hers.

“Momo—”

“Not for you. For me.” Momo stood up, smoothed her shirt, checked her reflection in Malia’s darkened window. “Someone needs to tell Kylie Cantrall exactly what she did. Exactly who she hurt. And that someone is me.”

“Momo, don’t—”

But Momo was already gone, door slamming behind her, footsteps thundering down the apartment stairs.

—

Cantrall & Co. towered over downtown, glass and steel and impossible wealth. Momo marched through the revolving doors like she owned the place, past the security guard who tried to stop her, past the receptionist who stammered excuses, into the elevator that required a keycard she didn’t have.

She found the stairs. Climbed fourteen floors in platform sneakers, thighs burning, rage propelling her upward like a rocket. She burst through the fire door on the executive floor, ignored the staring assistants and hovering executives, and zeroed in on the corner office with the nameplate: K. Cantrall, Intern.

The door was open. Kylie was inside, slumped at a desk that was clearly temporary, clearly unwanted. She looked terrible—mullet unbrushed, dark circles under her eyes, same black button-down from the dinner, now wrinkled and stained. She was staring at her phone, thumb hovering over the screen, when Momo filled her doorway.

“You,” Momo said, and her voice was a weapon.

Kylie looked up. For a moment, hope flared in her exhausted eyes—hope that was crushed when she saw who it was.

“Where is she?” Kylie demanded, standing so fast her chair tipped. “Is she okay? I’ve been calling, I’ve been texting, I’ve been outside her apartment every night but she won’t—”

“She won’t because you broke her!” Momo shouted, advancing into the room. Kylie stumbled back, caught herself on the desk. “You broke her, you stupid, selfish, angry—”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“She hasn’t left her room in a week! She hasn’t eaten! She hasn’t talked to anyone, answered her phone, lived—” Momo’s voice broke, but she pushed through, tears streaming down her face, fists clenched at her sides. “Do you know what that’s like? To watch your best friend disappear? To knock on her door and hear her crying and not be able to do anything?”

Kylie was white, shaking, her hands gripping the desk edge like it was the only thing holding her up. “I know. I know I fucked up. I know I scared her. I’ve been trying to—”

“Trying to what? Fix it?” Momo laughed, ugly and broken. “You can’t fix this, Kylie. You can’t take it back. You stood up in that restaurant and you exploded, and Malia—” she broke off, swallowed hard. “Malia can’t handle that. She can’t handle loud. She can’t handle angry. She can’t handle people who love her turning into monsters.”

“I wasn’t—” Kylie’s voice cracked. “I wasn’t a monster. I was just—my dad, he—”

“I don’t care about your dad!” Momo screamed, and then she did it.

She slapped Kylie.

The sound cracked through the office like a gunshot. Kylie’s head snapped sideways, a red handprint blooming instantly on her cheek. They both froze—Momo staring at her own hand like it belonged to someone else, Kylie touching her face with numb fingers.

“She’s dying,” Momo whispered, the rage draining out of her, leaving only grief. “My best friend is dying in that room, and it’s your fault. It’s your fault, and I hate you, and I—” she pressed her hands to her mouth, sobbed once, violently. “I need her back. Please. If you ever loved her, if you meant any of it, leave her alone. Let her heal. Let her—”

“I can’t,” Kylie said, and her voice was raw, scraped open, nothing left of the swaggering girl from the lobby. “I can’t leave her alone. I love her. I know it’s too soon, I know it’s crazy, but I love her, and I can’t—” she broke off, pressed her palms to her eyes. “I can’t breathe without her. I’ve been calling every hour. I’ve been outside her window at night. I’ve been—” she laughed, hysterical, “—I’ve been writing her letters. Actual letters, like a Victorian poet. I don’t sleep. I don’t eat. I just—” she gestured at herself, at the wreckage she’d become, “—I just exist. Waiting. Hoping she’ll come back.”

Momo stared at her. Really looked at her—the hollow cheeks, the shaking hands, the phone clutched in her pocket like a talisman. She saw a girl as broken as Malia. Different breaks, same shattered pieces.

“You scared her,” Momo said, quieter now.

“I know.”

“You need to get help. For your anger. For your—” Momo gestured vaguely, “—your whatever. Your daddy issues. You need to fix yourself before you can fix anything with her.”

“I know.” Kylie touched her cheek again, wincing. “I started therapy. Yesterday. First session was—” she laughed, humorless, “—it was terrible. I cried the whole time. But I’m going back. I’m going to keep going back. For her. For me. For—” she looked at Momo, desperate and young and so, so lost. “For whatever chance I have left.”

Momo was quiet for a long moment. The office hummed around them—air conditioning, distant phones, the machinery of wealth and power that had built this tower and broken the people inside it.

“If you hurt her again,” Momo said finally, “I won’t slap you next time. I’ll kill you. Slowly. With my bare hands. And Dara will help me hide the body.”

Kylie almost smiled. Almost. “Understood.”

“She needs time. Space. She needs to remember how to be brave without you.”

“I can give her time.” Kylie’s voice wavered. “I don’t want to. I want to run to her apartment and break down her door and beg her to forgive me. But I can—” she took a breath, “—I can wait. If that’s what she needs.”

Momo nodded once, sharp and final. She turned to leave, then paused at the door.

“For what it’s worth,” she said, not looking back, “I think you do love her. The real her. Not the idea. I saw the way you looked at her at the mall. Like she was magic.” Momo’s voice softened, almost imperceptibly. “She is magic, Kylie. She really is. Don’t forget that.”

She left. Kylie stood alone in her father’s office, cheek burning, heart shattered, and whispered to the empty room:

“I won’t. I promise. I’ll never forget.”

—

Malia was sitting up when Momo returned.

Not much—just propped against her pillows, hoodie still on, curtains cracked open to let in a sliver of afternoon light. But she was upright. She was breathing. She was present in a way she hadn’t been in days.

“Did you hit her?” Malia asked, voice raspy from disuse.

Momo paused in the doorway, surprised. “How did you—”

“I know you.” Malia managed something almost like a smile. “Did you?”

“She deserved it.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Yes,” Momo admitted, climbing onto the bed, careful not to jostle. “I slapped her. She cried. I cried. It was very dramatic. Josh would have loved it.”

Malia was quiet for a moment. Then: “Is she okay?”

“Malia—”

“Is she okay, Momo?”

Momo sighed, pulled Malia’s head onto her shoulder. “No. She’s not okay. She’s a mess. She’s in therapy. She’s apparently writing you letters like a Victorian poet, whatever that means.” She paused, considering. “She loves you. For real. Not the idea of you—the actual you. The anxious you. The quiet you. The you who hides in rooms for a week.”

“I love her too,” Malia whispered. “That’s why I’m so scared.”

“I know, baby. I know.” Momo stroked her hair, held her close. “But loving someone doesn’t mean losing yourself. You need to remember that. You need to find your way back to you—the brave you, the one who kissed her in a lobby and wore her hoodie and demanded attention—before you can find your way back to her.”

“How?”

“One breath at a time. One step. One day.” Momo pressed a kiss to Malia’s forehead. “And I’ll be here. Every breath, every step, every day. I promise.”

Malia closed her eyes. Outside, the city hummed on, indifferent and eternal. Somewhere across town, Kylie was hurting too, writing letters, going to therapy, learning to be less angry, less broken, less scary.

And Malia—Malia was still scared. Still shaking. Still wrapped in a hoodie that smelled like vanilla and memories.

But she was sitting up. She was breathing. She was trying.

It wasn’t enough. Not yet.

But it was a start.