01

ONE, TWO, THREE. My fist connects with the punching bag, cushioned by the boxing glove as I pummel it. I hurl my leg up for a kick, then punch again,and again, until sweat pools in my bangs.

"Lucy, did you hear me?"

I drop my fists. My lungs heave, like breathing glass. Working out feels good on a natural level, but that doesn't mean I don't hate it. My body hurts, but imagining Colt's face every time I throw a punch helps keep me going.

Across the small gym I have set up in my house, I meet the eyes of my assistant, Nora. With her black hair tied back tight, she stares at me with her phone out, blinking, waiting for a reply to something I never heard.

"Sorry, what?"

"I need to know if you can come tonight," Nora says. "It's important, Lucy. The Safe Way Home is losing funding, and we need this."

Damn. The Safe Way Home is my livelihood, the reason I wake up every goddamn day. It's the charity I started once I turned eighteen and inherited shares in my father's company and a half-decent fortune.

We've done well over the years, but Nora is asking me to do something that makes me want to run and hide where no one can see me. But I've done enough running in my life, and we probably need this.

Still, the human in me resists.

"How big is the event?"

She gives me a look. "Big, but there will be a lot of people with deep pockets there, and we could use their support."

"We still have that one anonymous donor," I mutter, throwing a limp arm at the punching bag. Pain ebbs into my scrawny bicep. "That person contributes like a third of our yearly budget."

"You know it's not enough for the development plan."

Unfortunately, she's right.

I wouldn't normally resist this hard, since I know we need funding to stay afloat, but this event sounds like my nightmare. It's a charity ball for the upper echelon of Godfrey City, filthy rich people who want to feel like they're doing something good, or at least make it look that way. Charities can come in and pitch their projects, and investors can decide if they care enough to pitch in. It's not that I can't ask people for money: I can. No problem. But it's the play-nice that I hate.

So no, I don't want to go bear my soul to a bunch of people like that and beg them for funding so I can build another shelter on the outskirts of town. No, I don't want to converse with them and listen to their superfluous conversations or laugh at things that aren't remotely funny or charming.

But I want their money. It's not for me; it's for those families I could help.

"Fine, I'll go. I'll help pitch the charity. But I hired you to do most of the public speaking stuff, Nora."

She smiles and does an excited little hop. Nora is two years older than me—twenty-four—but her energy is way higher, and she's much better equipped to deal with, well, most things. I'm more behind-the-scenes, the planner. "And I'll cover all of it, but you're still the glue of this charity, Lucy."

Right... the glue. I guess I am. When I was launching The Safe Way Home when I was eighteen, I needed a message to send out, and so I accepted my fate of being somewhat public. People wrote about me in the newspaper—the homeless teen with the interhence, who was now using her newfound wealth to help others. I used it to gain traction and forged relationships with developers and project managers in the city. Most people didn't take me seriously because of my age, until I started getting shit done.

But as the years went on, and more people became involved, I was able to safely tuck myself away in the background, where I belong. I'm not a public figure. I'm not cut out for it.

People still know me, though. Once something is on the internet, it's there forever. People know who my father was: Alastair Pembroke, former CEO of Godfrey Financial. They know I now own shares in the company, even though I want nothing to do with it; I just keep it because it's income to supplement both me and the charity.

They don't know what he did to me. Just theories, online speculation, but not much.

"Be ready by six, okay?" Nora says, then leaves the gym room. I stay for a few more minutes until I'm sure she's driven away from my house. Then, I head into the kitchen to grab a glass of water and chug it back.

Leaning my palms against the countertops, I look around at the amber bar lights that reflect off the dark counters, a style I was admittedly drawn to because it reminded me of my ex-boyfriend's house, from when I was seventeen. It still feels surreal that I even have a house, a safe place to wake up in every day, even if I am always alone.

That's mostly on me. I hide from the world. No social media. No dating prospects. I'm comfortable with the invisibility, as though I'm still hiding from Colt in alleyways, even though I don't need to anymore. But god, I hate people. Their prying eyes and questions, their entitled desire to know things about my life. Tonight is going to be nothing but that.

To distract myself, I take out my phone and open up the news. A headline under "sports"—a category I typically don't give a damn about—makes me pause:

WEXLER STILL BENCHED FOR REST OF SEASON DUE TO INJURY.

I can only imagine what the internet would say if it knew I also dated Elliot Wexler. You know, pro hockey player, Godfrey City royalty Elliot Wexler.

Or that he dated me.

But obviously, there's nothing about mine and Elliot's relationship on the internet archives; there were no cameras on us. I knew Elliot before he was famous, when he was a sad eighteen-year-old boy who wanted me, but needed help. Help I couldn't give him.

It's ridiculous of me, but I can admit that I've watched his interviews, scoured them, for any mention of me. Being in the public eye the way he is would be hell for me; I don't want the world to speculate on his secret, past ex-girlfriend, but at the same time, I do wonder if he ever thinks of me, when his life has become so much bigger than it was when we were together.

I absent-mindedly click the Elliot article, and the "related" section catches my eye, to my chagrin.

WHO HAS PRO HOCKEY PLAYER ELLIOT WEXLER DATED? FIND OUT...

The blue-eyed hockey player for the Godfrey Northern Lights has captured the hearts of many. Emotionally honest about his struggles with mental health....

I skim past the cringe-inducing summary of who Elliot is. I know who he is.

Down the webpage, a photo of Elliot wearing sunglasses and a blue baseball hat—probably trying to hide from the stalkers with the cameras—shows up. He's sitting across from a wispy brunette on some kind of patio. Neither of them look like they're having a great time. The caption:

Elliot was spotted with model Catlin Jones enjoying a steamy afternoon coffee date. Elliot was twenty-one at the time, with Catlin being twenty. Unfortunately, these lovebirds were not destined to last, and Catlin has since married...

Blah blah blah. Why am I doing this?

There are a few more incidents like this from when Elliot was twenty-two; a couple of relatively unknown, but beautiful models he was spotted with once or twice. I've seen this stuff before. I keep scrolling in case there's anything new, because sometimes I like to hurt, I guess.

At the bottom of the article, a photo of Elliot with his arm around a twiggy blonde makes my stomach clench. They're on a busy street that looks a lot like Godfey. He's wearing sunglasses, his dark hair short and spiked, a white T-shirt on. She's wearing a long cardigan and jeans with beads around her neck.

This one, I've never seen. And in this one, Elliot is actually smiling.

Like a braindead moron, I read every word:

According to our insiders, Elliot has been in a quiet, but exclusive relationship with journalist Lauren Burgess since October. The two met during a press conference in Elliot's hometown of Godfrey, where Lauren is also based. We think it was a match made in heaven!

I'm not sure why Grassroots Blonde hits me harder than the models, but she does, because unlike the other "relationships" on this list, this one seems real. I know Elliot—or at least, I knew him once, and I know he's a homebody. That's probably why he never settled down with those models. He needs stability.

The one thing I could never give him.

I remind myself not to waste time mentally punishing the girl I used to be. I couldn't give myself stability either. But I have it now. Here I am, alone in my house; a house I bought with my own money; money I earned, as far as I'm concerned. I have a great career helping homeless kids turn their lives around, like I did. Elliot is doing his thing the way he needs to, and I'm doing mine. I'm fine. Great, actually.

As I lean my palms against the countertop, I look around my empty home and let out a huff, blowing my bangs out of my face.

Besides, it's not like I'll ever see him again.

* * *

A/N: Heyyy ya'll thanks so much for reading! 

What do we think so far!? Any first-impressions? Hopes? Dreams? 

I know things are super different from STREET GIRL because they're so much older now! I don't want to spend too much time on the nitty gritty of like, their jobs and stuff lol, but Lucy and Elliot are definitely Adults now.

Don't forget to vote if you liked it, and I'd love to hear what you think! <3