Not all beauty is soft. Not all strength survives untouched.
Reed "Reedy" Carmichael grew up in the cracks-between what's legal and what keeps his siblings fed, between guilt and survival, between being good and staying alive. With his father gone...
After Christmas, it's supposed to be the happiest time of the year. A whole day devoted to celebrating love—between couples, friends, even strangers—with flowers, chocolates, and warm gestures. But in New Orleans, it's the opposite.
On our calendar, Valentine's Day is replaced by Ash Wednesday. It's the only day the city feels truly asleep. The last echo of Mardi Gras dies in the distance, leaving behind silence and scattered remnants. By midnight, the streets are still and vacant—not even the night sweepers are out. The only evidence that anything ever happened is the colorful beads tangled in tree limbs or crushed beneath tires.
A yawn escaped my lips as I slapped another clearance label onto a king cake. The night was dragging, just like I expected, and the lack of sleep was catching up with me. Mommy had fussed at me earlier about working too much—but her words flew in one ear and out the other. The time-and-a-half I'd earn tonight would be enough to cover my share of the bills—and hers.
She didn't know I knew she'd been laid off earlier in the week. But it wasn't hard to figure out. Every morning, she left the house at the same time as always, but she came home hours too early, looking drained and defeated. Her pride wouldn't let her tell me, and out of respect, I'd never let on that I noticed. I knew she was already stressing about finding another job. The last thing she needed was to worry about being short on rent.
"Damn, finally," I muttered, sticking the last label in place. There were so many cakes I figured it had to be past midnight by now. I set the label maker aside. Time for a break.
KB's was small, tucked between a rundown liquor store and a worn-out PoBoy shop. We didn't carry much, just a few aisles of snacks, drinks, and the barest of essentials. There wasn't a breakroom either. If you didn't have a car, your only options were to stand in the back or sneak into one of the neighbor shops for a breather.
Unfortunately, the second closer had called out, leaving me alone. That meant I couldn't step out, even for a second.
I climbed onto a stack of boxed inventory behind the counter and pulled out my phone. Scrolling through Instagram, I watched hearts and roses fill my feed—people out to dinner, people in love. A sharp contrast to my reality.
Then came the sound of chimes—the door opening—followed by a gust of cool air. Footsteps echoed behind the sound, but they didn't move past the register. They just stopped.
That silence... it wasn't normal.
I stood up to greet whoever it was, brushing my shirt down. "What can I—"
The words froze in my throat.
Three men stood before me in black masks. Their firearms aimed right at my chest. One of them tossed a worn black duffel bag on the counter.
"Put everything in the mothafuckin' bag!" he barked.
My eyes dropped to the duffel. Despite the panic rising in my chest, I didn't move. Not out of defiance—my body just wouldn't listen. I stood paralyzed. My mind flipped through memories like a reel of film, fast-forwarding through my entire life, right back to this moment.
"What, you deaf, bitch?" another snapped, clicking off the safety. "Hurry up! I want what's in that safe, too!"
That sound jolted something in me. My hands moved on instinct. I opened the register and began stuffing the bills into the bag, my fingers trembling.
Bondye ed m, souple. translation: Lord, please help me.
Once the register was empty, I moved to the safe, emptying its contents too. I expected them to grab the bag and run when I was done—but they didn't.
Instead, the man who had shouted now raised his gun again—aiming it directly between my eyes.
I stared into his light brown gaze, heart pounding. My limbs trembled as hot tears streamed down my cheeks. My entire body shook, but I didn't look away.
I wasn't afraid of dying. Not really. In some twisted way, I had come to expect it. Life had felt like a never-ending storm of pressure and disappointment. School. Work. Survive. Repeat. I hadn't lived—just existed.
A part of me welcomed the end.
What did scare me, though, was what would happen to my family if I died. What would this do to my mother? To Makenson?
Then—click.
A misfire.
Everything went still. My skin felt hot and cold at once, my stomach flipped, and goosebumps prickled down my arms. Everything faded to black—
—but I didn't fall.
I opened my eyes slowly. I was still standing.
The sound of sirens could be heard in the background and the men began to scramble.
"Let's go!" another voice shouted. "Fuck her, let's go!"
I heard something drop from the duffel as they yanked it off the counter. The chimes above the door jangled again as they fled into the night. A moment passed before I forced myself to move.
I slid from behind the counter on unsteady legs. A small orange bottle lay on the floor, spinning slightly. A prescription container—it must've fallen out of the bag in the rush. The bottle was scratched, its label worn, but still legible enough to make out the name printed on the front.
Carmichael, Evangeline.
I didn't recognize the name.
It meant nothing to me then. Just some woman's pills—maybe a mother, maybe a sister, maybe no one at all. But I kept it anyway. Like a thread I didn't know I'd need to pull.
The sirens were louder now. Red and blue lights reflected off the windows. I stuffed the bottle into my coat pocket without thinking and stood up just as the officers burst through the door, guns drawn.
"Hands up!"
I obeyed instantly, backing away from the counter, palms open and shaking.
"I work here," I said quickly, voice thin. "I was just— They just left."
The officers lowered their weapons slightly. One rushed past me to check the aisles while the other stepped behind the counter, looking me over.
"You hurt?" he asked, scanning the floor for shell casings.
I shook my head. "No. The gun jammed."
His brow furrowed. "You're lucky," he muttered, more to himself than to me.
Lucky.
If only he knew.
They asked me questions. I answered as best as I could. Descriptions. Number of suspects. What they took. How long they were in the store.
I left out any mention of the bottle.
I didn't know why I did that. I wish I could give a reason, a real explanation, some kind of truth to make it all make sense.
But as I sat on the curb outside the store, wrapped in a scratchy blanket someone had pulled from a trunk, I pulled the bottle back out of my pocket.
The name stared back at me again, quiet and still:
Carmichael, Evangeline.
And just like that, Valentine's Day became the day I stopped believing in coincidence.
