Page 56 of Scarlet Thorns
The silence stretches, and I know she doesn’t believe me. Since Dad’s death, she’s become hypervigilant about my safety, convinced that his mysterious “business associates” might come after me. I think it’s grief-induced paranoia, but trying to argue with a traumatized woman only makes things worse.
“I still think you should come home,” she says quietly. “Boston isn’t the same without you. Jason asks about you every time I see him at the grocery store.”
Jason. My former boss, the closest thing to a father figure I had after losing Dad. He called two weeks ago just to check in, his gravelly voice warm with concern I didn’t deserve. Good people like Jason make me feel guilty for running away, for choosing distance over dealing with my problems.
“I’m building something here, Mom. Budapest feels like home.” Another lie, but this one tastes sweeter. “I can see why you and Dad fell in love with this city.”
The mention of Dad creates another stretch of silence. We’ve gotten better at navigating around the crater his death left in our conversations, but the absence still echoes.
“Just… be careful, darling. I know you think I’m being paranoid, but your father had enemies. People who might—”
“Mom.” I keep my voice gentle but firm. “Nobody followed me to Europe. Nobody cares about Igor Shiradze’s daughter enough to track her down in Budapest. I’m safe.”
“I know. I just… I miss you, baby. You’re all I have left.”
The words make my heart hurt, guilt and love tangling in my chest until breathing feels optional. She’s right— we’re each other’s only family now, bound together by shared loss and the questions we’ll never get answers to.
“I miss you too, Mom,” I whisper. “But I need to be here right now. I need to figure out who I am without… without everything we lost.”
After we hang up, I sit in the silence of my tiny studio and face the reality I’ve been avoiding. Mom’s small apartment in Boston. Her worried phone calls. The life I left behind when I decided that running away was easier than healing.
But right now, I need to focus on survival.
I open indeed.hu and scroll through job listings with growing desperation. Retail positions that require fluent Hungarian. Office jobs that want degrees I don’t have. Restaurant work that pays barely enough to cover rent, let alone food.
Then I see it.
Waitress Wanted - The Scarlet Fox. Part-time/Full-time positions availableAccommodation included.Staff meal provided daily.
The name stops me cold.
The Scarlet Fox. Like the place in Boston where I used to escape when my life became unbearable. Where I met TMG, the masked guy.
But this is Budapest, not Boston. Different continent, different world, different life. The only connection is a name that probably means nothing beyond coincidence.
I read the listing again, focusing on the practical details. Accommodation included. Staff meal daily. Exactly what I need to survive until I can rebuild my business or figure out my next move.
My finger hovers over the phone number. This could be the lifeline I’ve been praying for, or it could be a mistake that drags me back into memories I’m not ready to face.
But desperate times call for desperate measures.
The phone rings twice before a deep male voice answers in accented English. “The Scarlet Fox, this is Tibor.”
“Hi, I’m calling about the waitress position?”
“Ah, excellent! Yes, we are looking for someone reliable. Can you come in today for an interview? Say, three o’clock?”
That’s three hours from now. I can shower, find something clean to wear, and walk there to save bus fare. Google Maps shows it’s only two kilometers away— manageable, even with my diminishing energy reserves.
“That works perfectly. Should I bring anything specific?”
“Just yourself and a positive attitude,” Tibor says. “Ask for me when you arrive. Tibor Arany.”
After I hang up, I allow myself one moment of cautious optimism. Maybe this is exactly what I need— honest work, stable housing, a chance to rebuild without the weight of family history crushing me.
I walk to the tiny bathroom and stare at my reflection in the cracked mirror. The girl looking back at me is thinner than she used to be, with sharper cheekbones and eyes that have seen too much. But she’s survived a year of grief, displacement, and financial instability.
She can survive this too.
