I Waited Three Hours in Line for Them; They Couldn't Wait Three Minutes for Me In a hundred-and-four-degree heat, I stood in line for three hours just because my boyfriend's new coworker Kenzie wanted reservations for the observation deck. Sweat glued my shirt to my back; my lips cracked from dehydration. When I finally inched up to the window, I texted the group chat: "Almost done." No one replied. I turned around—the parking lot was empty. The sun beat straight down as I stared at the blank chat window, waiting. Then my boyfriend Easton texted: "You took too long. Kenzie doesn't feel like going anymore. We're resting at the gas station convenience store three miles out. Walk over yourself." My own brother didn't stop them. Neither did my childhood friend. In thin canvas shoes, I walked the whole three miles, my heels bleeding until the white canvas soaked dark red. The next day, ignoring my injuries, they insisted on a mountain hike. That night I ran a 103.5-degree fever and begged for help in the group chat. My brother replied: "Take some Tylenol. We're all asleep." My boyfriend twisted the knife: "Stop texting. You'll wake Kenzie." That second, I woke up. I had already accepted the full scholarship from Imperial College London—the offer I'd been sitting on for six months. There was nothing left to decide. At 5:30 in the morning, I threw those blood-soaked canvas shoes into the metal trash can, called a taxi, and headed straight for the airport. At the departure gate, I dialed Easton, my voice calm without a trace of a tremble: "We're done." Chapter 1 Brooke's POV I stood on the scorching gravel of the parking lot, blood from my rubbed-raw heels seeping through my white sneakers. I stared blankly at the empty parking space. Heat shimmered off the asphalt, warping the air. My phone lit up—a new message from Easton. My own brother. "Kenzie can't wait any longer, so we've decided to drive into town. Walk yourself along the highway to the Shell station three miles out. Don't dawdle." Three miles. My heart went instantly cold. He had treated me as his personal errand girl since we were kids. And my boyfriend in name, Easton, never objected—because every time, he'd tell me: Brooke, you're the most understanding one. Growing up, only my neighbor Avery would play with me, but he was weak-willed, always a fence-sitter. Six months ago, Easton brought his coworker Kenzie into our circle. She was twenty-three, barely over five feet tall, and masterfully weaponized helplessness—three grown men tripped over each other to orbit her and wait on her hand and foot. If Kenzie had a headache, the whole world had to stop spinning until someone fetched organic peppermint essential oil. Meanwhile, I could work sixty grueling hours a week and cook dinner for everyone until I dropped, and all I'd get was a breezy "Brooke's always so reliable." This Grand Canyon road trip—I booked the cabin, planned the route, even packed the first-aid kit. Kenzie brought three full suitcases of clothes. Five minutes after we picked up the rental Tahoe at Phoenix Sky Harbor, she started complaining that the seatback angle was uncomfortable and needed to recline. Her seatback shoved hard against my knees; the cooler at her feet dug into my waist. I couldn't stretch my legs all morning. Worse, Kenzie started whining that her blood sugar was acting up, and Easton immediately dabbed peppermint oil on her temples—never mind how much I hate mint. My head throbbed in waves; my legs ached too much to lift. Six hours later, we finally reached the visitor center at the park's south entrance, by the observation deck. The sun beat savagely on the SUV's roof. The reservation line stretched from the ticket booth all the way to the parking lot entrance—sixty or seventy people at least. At this pace, it would take three hours minimum. Kenzie squirmed in the passenger seat—Easton had given it up for her on the grounds that her blood-sugar dips made the back row unbearable. "Easton, the sun is brutal," Kenzie whined coquettishly, manicured fingers resting on the visor. "Three hours in line? In this heat? I'd never survive standing out there." Easton glanced at me through the rearview mirror. "Brooke, get out and queue for the observation deck reservations," he ordered, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Text us when you're near the front and we'll bring Kenzie over. Spare her the sun." "The line runs from the door to the parking lot," I said, pointing at the endless queue. "It's almost a hundred and four degrees out there! Can't we all just wait in line together?" "Don't be so selfish, Brooke," Hiram snapped from the middle row. "Kenzie could get heatstroke. You're sturdy. Will three hours of standing kill you? Go. Now." Before I could argue, Avery had already unlocked the back door. "Move it, Brooke, you're letting the AC out," Avery urged with a grin. I stepped onto asphalt so hot it felt close to melting. The air reeked of diesel fumes and scorched rubber. Under the vicious sun, I trudged three or four hundred meters to the tail of that endless line. Sixty-some exhausted tourists stood ahead of me. Within five minutes, sweat had soaked through my shirt, plastering it to my back. One hour. Two. The sun hammered down without mercy. My throat ached with dryness; my lips began to peel. One by one, people left the line to buy water at the little store nearby. I didn't dare move—if I left, two hours of waiting would be wasted. Two and a half hours later, I finally shuffled up to the ticket window. I pulled out my phone and texted the group: "I'm almost at the front. Bring her over." No reply. I called Easton. Straight to voicemail. I stepped out of line, raised a hand against the glare, and looked back toward the parking lot where the car had been. Empty. I stood rooted in place, the sun casting a small shadow at my feet. Half an hour later, Easton's message finally came: Kenzie couldn't sit still in the car, so they'd decided to skip the observation deck and drive into town to find food. They hadn't left me a bottle of water. They hadn't left my bag either—it was still stuffed under the driver's seat. All I had on me was a phone at sixteen percent battery. All I could do was walk along the highway, step by step. It was a two-lane road from the park to town, with a narrow gravel shoulder. Every so often a car roared past, slamming a suffocating wall of heat and dust into my face. My white canvas shoes had thin soles; every step drove the coarse gravel into the soles of my feet. A fire-like pain tore at my heels with every stride, excruciating. After the first mile, my right heel had bled through to a wet, dark-red stain. Sweat streamed into my eyes, stinging with salt. I dared not stop—there was a steep slope beside the road, and lingering where there was no shoulder was flirting with death. When I finally spotted the yellow Shell station sign shimmering in the heat haze, an hour and fifteen minutes had passed. My legs were shaking too hard to control. My throat felt like it had been sandpapered. I limped across the station's cracked, potholed asphalt lot and immediately spotted the black Tahoe parked under the convenience store's awning. I pushed through the heavy glass door of the Shell store. The blast of air conditioning froze the clammy sweat on my skin instantly. In a plastic booth in the corner sat Easton, Hiram, Avery, and Kenzie, the table littered with wrappers and cold-drink cups. Kenzie cradled a large iced matcha, laughing brightly at something on Avery's phone. She was bone dry—not a single bead of sweat on her. I limped up to the table and stopped. Not one of them looked up right away. "Finally," Hiram said, checking his watch, impatience dripping from his voice. "What took you so long? It's barely three miles. Don't you walk that much on the treadmill every morning?" "You left me in the observation deck parking lot," I said. My voice was a raw, cracked ruin. Easton took a sip of his energy drink and set the can down gently on the table. "Brooke, we told you Kenzie couldn't wait. If we'd sat there waiting for you to finish your three hours, the whole afternoon would've been gone. Besides, a little walk never killed anyone." "I had no water," I said. "My bag's still in the car." "There's water in the cooler," Avery said carelessly, jerking a thumb toward the SUV's trunk outside the window. "We were gonna save you some chips too, but Kenzie was hungry, so we let her have them." I looked down at the table. A half-eaten turkey sandwich, three empty soda cans, and the crumbs of a bag of salt-and-vinegar chips crushed to powder. Nothing was left for me. Kenzie looked up at me with big eyes brimming with hurt and apology. "I'm so sorry, Brooke," she said, sniffling, tucking a lock of blonde hair behind her ear. "My blood sugar dropped while I was waiting. Easton said of course you wouldn't mind me eating your sandwich." "You also took my front seat," I said. Kenzie's head drooped, wounded. "My stomach's been queasy ever since the matcha..." she murmured. "Enough, Brooke, stop picking fights!" Easton cut in sharply, his voice going cold. "Why do you have to start drama every single time you show up? Sweaty and sour-faced, ruining everyone's mood. Go wash your face in the restroom. We're leaving." Avery snickered and shook his head. "Brooke's just mad she walked so slow," he teased. "Classic Brooke. Slow and dramatic." I couldn't remember the last time one of his jokes had made me laugh. I stood under the store's buzzing fluorescent lights. My heel spasmed with pain, blood soaking through my sock, crusting stiff on the canvas. I looked at Easton—the man who swore at my college graduation he'd love me for a lifetime. I looked at Hiram—who shared my blood, who once swore when Dad walked out that he'd protect this family forever. I looked at Avery—the playmate who used to ride bikes with me until the streetlights came on. And now all three of them were sheltering Kenzie, terrified that my petty little grievance might offend her. A strange, deathly clarity washed over me. The rage didn't erupt. It froze solid instead. "Hiram." I said quietly. "What now?" Hiram grunted. "Get my bag from under the front seat." "We're leaving in two minutes. Just get in the car," Hiram said, grabbing the keys off the table. "Sort your stuff at the next stop." "Give me my bag." I repeated it. My voice didn't tremble an ounce. Hiram rolled his eyes, got up, fetched the bag from the car, and slammed it onto the plastic table. "Take out the trash on your way out," he tossed over his shoulder, heading for the door. "We've got a schedule." I looked at the greasy wrappers and empty cups covering the table. "No," I said. Hiram stopped mid-step and turned around. "What did you say?" "I'm not cleaning up after you." I picked up my bag. "And I will never get in your car again."

Brooke's POV Before I could get out of the booth, Easton clamped a hand around my wrist. His grip was crushing, his fingers digging into my clammy skin. "Brooke, stop acting like a spoiled child," he hissed, dragging me straight toward the glass exit doors. "You're always the reasonable one. We've been driving six hours—nobody has the patience for your tantrums right now." He didn't give me a chance to argue. He hauled me into the blinding noon heat and dragged me toward the big Chevy SUV. Avery had already climbed into the corner of the back seat; Kenzie sat comfortably up front, adjusting the vents so the cold air blew directly into her face. Hiram yanked open the rear door. "Brooke, middle seat," Hiram ordered. "Avery wants to stretch out on the left, and the big Coleman cooler's on the right." There wasn't a square inch of space in the middle. The floor mat was buried under plastic shopping bags, empty coffee cups, and two heavy camera backpacks. "There's nowhere for my legs," I said, staring at the cramped space. "The cooler's taking up the entire footwell." "Prop your feet on the cooler," Easton said, sliding into the driver's seat. "It's only three hours to the next stop." I wrenched my arm free of Easton's grip—but stranded on a scenic highway in the middle of nowhere, I had nowhere to go. Gritting my teeth, I got in. The instant my right heel touched the floor, the raw blister tore open with an agonizing stab of pain. I bit the inside of my cheek and swallowed the cry. I squeezed myself into the narrow middle seat. My knees jammed up against the back of the center console, my shoulders crushed between Avery's bulky frame and the hard plastic edge of the cooler. I couldn't move an inch. Easton started the engine, shifted into gear, and merged into traffic. Less than two minutes in, he reached over and pressed the adjustment button on the side of Kenzie's seat. The passenger seat reclined all the way back, the headrest slamming solidly into my kneecaps. "Better for your neck, Kenzie?" Easton asked softly, undisguised tenderness in his eyes. "So much better, thank you," Kenzie sighed, closing her eyes. "Easton, you're so thoughtful." The seat's cold plastic frame dug brutally into my left shinbone. "Easton, you're about to break my leg," I said from the back. "Move the seat forward one inch." Kenzie shifted at once, eyes opening, brow knitting with concern. "Oh no, I'm so sorry, Brooke! I can sit up straight—my migraine really isn't that bad—" "Quiet, Kenzie," Hiram interrupted from behind his sunglasses. "You need your rest. Brooke, stop whining. Just angle your knees a little to the right. There's plenty of room." "There's a giant cooler on my right, Hiram," I said. "Then endure it," Hiram snapped. "Kenzie's blood-sugar condition is a real diagnosis. You walked a few miles—big deal—and now you're manufacturing drama over nothing." My left sneaker was pinned on a flattened fast-food bag, grease seeping out and staining the toe. I let my head fall back against the headrest and closed my eyes. The SUV jolted along the scenic road, lurching violently over every pothole. Every jolt sent a white-hot spike of pain up through my shredded heels. My socks were soaked through with blood, glued to the torn flesh. Twenty minutes crawled into an hour. Up front, the AC blasted at full strength; back here, crammed in the middle, the air was stale and suffocating. My right calf, locked at an awkward angle against the rigid cooler, began to cramp violently. I tried to shift my weight, but my shoe snagged on a strap dangling from Avery's backpack. Dull pulses of pain radiated from my heels all the way to my lower back. Nobody in the car said a word to me. Hiram, Avery, and Easton discussed at length which hiking trail to take the next morning. They argued cheerfully over which craft-beer bar near the park was worth a visit. And any time Kenzie stirred—or let out the faintest sigh—Easton instantly fussed: "Kenzie, want some water?" "Should I turn the music down?" "There's ginger candy in the door pocket if you feel nauseous." He never once asked if I was thirsty. He never once asked why I held my ankle stiff in midair, afraid to let it touch anything. In the late afternoon, Easton pulled into a crowded viewpoint at the foot of the mountains. "Everybody out for a group photo," he announced, cutting the engine. The doors flew open. Avery jumped out first, raising his arms high in a stretch. I dragged my numb, cramping legs across the floor and lowered myself onto the dusty ground. The moment my feet hit the gravel, the crusted skin on my heels ripped open all over again. Before I could bite it back, a sharp hiss of pain escaped my throat. I grabbed the edge of the car door to keep from collapsing. I looked down at my shoes. The white canvas of both heels had turned a shocking, ugly dark red. Blood had soaked clean through the fabric, dripping onto the rubber soles. I looked up, desperate for Easton to glance my way. But he was already several meters ahead, holding a big black umbrella over Kenzie's head, terrified the afternoon sun might burn her fair, delicate skin. Hiram walked on her other side, dutifully carrying her designer bag and insulated tumbler. They looked for all the world like a royal honor guard, escorting some priceless, fragile treasure. A passing elderly couple looked at Easton and Kenzie and smiled warmly. "What a lovely young couple," the old lady murmured to her husband. "Look how attentive he is to her." Easton didn't correct her. He just smiled politely and guided Kenzie toward the wooden overlook. I stood alone by the open car door, my hand pressed against the warm metal, trembling. I let go and hobbled toward the public restroom. Every step was a long, exquisite torture. I trailed dozens of meters behind the four of them, dragging my feet through the dust. At one point, Easton glanced back. He didn't see my blood-stained shoes. He didn't see my paper-white face. "Brooke, hurry up!" he called impatiently, waving. "The light's changing—we need you to take the group photo!" Avery pulled out his phone, cackling: "Brooke walks like an eighty-year-old today! Come on, snail!" I stopped walking. I looked at the four of them lined up against the rough timber railing overlooking the canyon. Hiram had his arm around Kenzie's shoulders, tucking her comfortably into the umbrella's shade. Easton stood on her right, beaming with pride. Avery leaned in from the left, flashing a peace sign. There was no room for me in that frame. There hadn't been for a long time.

Brooke's POV Severe dehydration left my throat burning, with a rusty, bitter taste rising in it. With my back to the overlook, ignoring Easton's shouts, I limped toward the gift shop beside the visitor center parking lot. Cool air washed over me as I entered, the room scented with pine candles and cedar polish. I went straight to the beverage fridge at the back of the store. My hand was still trembling as I reached for the large bottle of electrolyte water. Then, out of pathetic muscle memory, my hand automatically grabbed four more drinks. I got Easton a cold brew coffee—he always got drowsy driving after three in the afternoon. I picked a sugar-free black tea for Hiram—he hated sweet things. I grabbed a blue sports drink for Avery. I even got Kenzie a peach sparkling water, because an hour ago she'd mentioned wanting something fruity. I stood in the narrow aisle, hugging five cold bottles to my chest. I looked down at the pile in my arms. My heels were raw and bleeding, soaking into my shoes. My boyfriend had abandoned me in an observation deck parking lot. My own brother had crammed me into a garbage-strewn footwell. And here I was, spending my own money, fussing over their comfort like an unpaid servant. A dry, bitter laugh caught in my chest. I walked to the register, put four bottles back on the shelf, and set down only the electrolyte water. I paid the cashier three dollars, twisted off the cap, and drank half the bottle in three desperate gulps, like a woman dying of thirst. The cold liquid landing in my empty stomach finally calmed my pounding heart. I walked out of the gift shop into the shade of the porch. Ten-odd meters away, by the wooden viewing platform, the four of them were clustered around an outdoor snack stand. Easton was handing Kenzie a fresh berry smoothie with a paper straw. Hiram and Avery were working on large waffle cones loaded with chocolate ice cream. They hadn't waited for me. They hadn't looked for me. They'd bought their own treats and settled into their cozy little world of four. The bench they sat on had exactly four spots. There was no room for anyone else. Not anymore. I sat down on the cold stone steps of the gift shop porch, took out my phone, and opened my email. The signal was strong near the visitor center; the inbox refreshed instantly. At the very top sat an email I had starred six months ago. "Offer of Admission: Imperial College London—Graduate Research Scholarship Program." A fully funded master's in environmental engineering: full tuition waiver, living stipend, and international research placements. The dream I had bled for through four years of undergrad. When the offer came in March, I had cried happy tears. But then Easton told me that moving to London would "derail our timeline as a couple." Hiram accused me of being selfish for crossing an ocean, since the family needed me nearby to manage Mom's rental properties and handle the holiday errands. Avery sneered that I was putting on airs, "playing high-society elite" in front of our old friends back home. So I hesitated. I emailed the admissions committee asking to defer my decision to the final deadline. And the final deadline to accept the offer and confirm my student visa sponsorship was tonight at midnight. I stared at the screen. There was only one prominent blue button: "Accept Offer & Confirm Enrollment." I looked up from my phone. Across the parking lot, Easton was dabbing a melted drip of ice cream from Kenzie's lip with a napkin, and she wrinkled her nose and made him burst out laughing. Hiram slung an arm around Avery's shoulders, pointing at a distant peak. Without me, they were a complete family. I had never been his partner, or their sister, or their friend. I was the on-call designated driver of their lives—the one who picked up the tab and cleaned up the trash while they had their fun. I looked back down at the phone. My thumb didn't hesitate for half a beat. It slammed the blue button. A green confirmation popped up on the screen: "Congratulations, Brooke Owens. Your acceptance has been received. Your enrollment guide and international visa documents have been sent to your email." A deep, calm breath filled my lungs. For the first time in six months, my chest didn't feel tight. I took another long swig of ice water. A janitor in a khaki uniform rolled a wheeled bin past, emptying the recycling container beside the porch. I rose from the stone steps. My heels still burned, but my legs had never felt steadier. I walked to the bin, dropped in my empty bottle, and looked up at the black Tahoe sitting in the sun. The countdown had begun. I had less than three days left on this trip. Then I would fly home, pack, and fly on to London. And I would not waste one second of those seventy-two hours begging for anyone's love.