Chapter 2

The linoleum floor of her parents' kitchen was cool under Sarah' s bare feet.

It was a small, tidy kitchen, a far cry from the dilapidated, poorly maintained house she' d died in.

The air smelled of coffee and her mom' s cinnamon rolls, a scent from a life she thought was lost forever.

She felt a pang of exhaustion, a deep weariness that settled in her bones, a residue from her previous life, or perhaps the shock of her return.

This simple, working-class home felt like a palace after the squalor Rick had dragged her into.

"You' re up early, sleepyhead," Debra Miller said, turning from the stove. Her mom' s smile was warm, her eyes, not yet etched with the deep worry lines Sarah remembered from later years, held only affection.

"You looked so tired last night. Thought you were coming down with something."

Debra placed a plate of golden-brown cinnamon rolls on the table.

"Eat up. You' re too thin. Need to put some meat on your bones, especially if you' re going to be running around all summer before college starts."

College. The word was a lifeline.

Sarah sat, a lump in her throat.

The simple care, the genuine concern – it was almost too much.

In her first life, after the initial years, Rick' s mother, Patty, had only ever looked at her with calculation or complaint.

"Thank you, Mom." Her voice was a little shaky.

Debra just patted her shoulder. "Of course, honey."

The screen door creaked open and Mark, her older brother, walked in, grabbing a roll.

"Morning. Dad' s already at the diner."

Jim and Debra co-owned a small, struggling local diner, the heart of their family' s income.

Mark, a mechanic, helped out whenever he could.

Then, the screen door creaked again.

Rick Peterson slouched in, his eyes immediately fixing on the cinnamon rolls.

He had that same entitled air, even at eighteen. The local high school football star, though his glory days were already fading.

Sarah watched him, a cold knot forming in her stomach.

This was the boy, the man, who would destroy her.

Not this time.

"Morning, Mrs. Miller, Mark," Rick said, his voice overly familiar. He reached for a roll.

Sarah' s hand shot out, not to stop him, but instinctively, a small, protective gesture towards the plate.

She said nothing.

Debra, ever hospitable, said, "Help yourself, Rick. Though Sarah needs them more, looking like a stiff breeze could blow her over."

Rick just grinned, stuffing half a roll into his mouth. "She' s always worrying, that one."

Sarah studied him. He was already showing signs of the man he' d become.

The slight paunch from too much beer and not enough discipline. The way he expected things to be handed to him.

She knew his background. His father, Gary, favored his older, more "successful" brother, Kyle, and constantly belittled Rick, fueling his insecurities.

His mother, Patty, was a whiner who enabled him.

A family of users, just like him.

They' d always seen Sarah as a means to an end, someone to prop Rick up.

Her own family wasn' t rich, but they were comfortable enough by Rust Belt standards.

The diner provided. They owned their small house.

Compared to Rick' s chaotic, grasping family, the Millers were stable.

In her first life, a young, naive Sarah, flattered by the attention of the former football hero, had fallen hard.

She' d shared her lunch money, helped with his homework, listened to his dreams, blind to the red flags.

She' d been his biggest cheerleader, his provider, even then.

She' d sneak him food from the diner, cover for him when he slacked off at the summer jobs he couldn' t keep.

"Sarah, you gonna finish that?" Rick asked, eyeing her untouched roll.

Before, she would have pushed it towards him with a smile.

Now, she picked it up and took a deliberate bite.

"Yes, Rick. I am."

Her voice was level, cool.

Rick looked surprised, then shrugged.

Debra glanced from Rick to Sarah, a small frown creasing her brow.

Mark, munching on his own roll, watched them with a new interest.

Even Chloe, Mark and Linda' s daughter, who in this timeline was just a toddler, though in Sarah' s memories was a young girl she' d often babysat, sacrificing precious study time, seemed to sense a shift.

In her first life, Linda, Mark' s wife, had often said, "Sarah, you' re too good to him. He doesn' t appreciate you."

Her family had seen it, even if they' d been too polite, or too resigned to small-town expectations, to say much beyond gentle warnings.

Her mother had worried about the talk if she broke up with the town' s golden boy.

"So, Rick," Mark said, wiping his mouth. "Still planning on that trip to the lake before you start at the tire factory?"

Rick puffed up a bit. "Yeah, gotta live it up before the grind."

Sarah knew that job wouldn' t last. None of them ever did.

He' d complain it was beneath him, that the foreman was an idiot, that he was destined for greater things.

Brenda Jenkins would be his excuse for many of those greater things.

Sarah finished her roll, stood up, and took her plate to the sink.

"I' m going to head into town, Mom. Need to pick up some applications from the community college."

The words hung in the air.

Rick choked on his coffee. "Community college? What for? I thought we were gonna… you know."