I’m stunned. I knew Ivan was an unreasonable perv, but I didn’t realize he was this far gone.

“Yes, I am.”

“Olivia, you’re treading on thin ice. You will not make a mockery of our customers.”

“I’m filing a police report.”

Ivan looks up at me slowly, lips twitching and eyes glowing. And then he laughs.

“You’re fired.”

My heart plummets into my stomach.

No, no, no.

This can’t happen.

“That’s not fair.”

“Life’s not fair, babe.”

“I don’t even think it’s legal.”

“Of course it’s legal,” he laughs and falls into his chair. “You’re insubordinate and continuously late. I can’t have a waitress who doesn’t know how to show up when her shift starts.”

I feel the mushroom risotto in the back of my throat. I’m going to be sick.

No, no, no.

This can’t happen.

This shouldn’t happen.

This is why people don’t speak up.

Because when they do, their life that’s already ruined is completely destroyed with no repercussions to the person who pulled the trigger. They move on. They live. While victims suffer.

“You can leave now.”

I don’t realize I’m walking until I see Celeste, who throws her concerned self at me.

“Liv,” she says.

“It’s over.”

“What?”

“He fired me.”

“He can’t.”

“He did.”

I grab my hat, my jacket, and scarf and I don’t look back as I slip out of the service entrance.

The wind is cold and brittle and harsh against my skin, a few stray tears chapping my cheeks. I’m not going to cry. I refuse to be that girl sobbing on the subway. I was already that girl once this week. Twice might give everyone the impression that I’m mentally unstable.

I’m not.

I’m very stable.

Maybe not at this exact moment.

But generally speaking, I can keep it together.

In public.

When I get home, well, that’s a different story.

When I get home, I’m going to cry until I make myself sick.

I’ve never been fired from anything. Not even from the pizza place I worked at in high school that I accidentally set on fire. I’m a model employee. Sure, I’ve had some slip ups over the last few weeks, but only because I’ve been busy.

I didn’t particularly like Ivan. He made me uncomfortable and asked me to do things that were ethically questionable, but waitressing at an upscale restaurant was fast and easy money—money that I desperately need to make ends meet. My internship will be over in a few weeks. What happens then? I won’t be able to pay rent or buy food or afford transportation.

I’ll be homeless for Christmas.

“Olivia.”