by Ashley Munoz
“I don’t know…I guess, I mean yeah. If he didn’t want Taylor and had actually gone through with it, then yeah, I’d let him call me. I’d want to date him.” It was as honest of an assessment as I was willing to give. Sure, if I met the right guy then I’d want to date him. I was a senior in college, and I wouldn’t mind meeting Mr. Right. I had no issue with settling down as long as I could still pursue writing.
Juan stared at me a beat longer then let out a sigh. “I just want you to be happy. You don’t see yourself the way we do…the way most guys do. You think they only want Tay, but it’s because you intimidate them.”
I let out a sound similar to one a baby elephant would make.
“You do—you’re gorgeous, brilliant, have the entire world at your feet. When you look at people, it’s like you know their innermost secrets, and you aren’t sure if you’ll expose them or not. You may have been awkward in your body at one time, but I can assure you”—he lowered his eyes, taking in my stature entirely—“that isn’t the case anymore. Someone is going to come along and be the one to make you finally believe it. Just make sure you remember you’re worth it. No one is doing you any favors, baby girl. You’re the prize…the pot the players ask favors to win.”
My eyes began to water as I processed his words. They were an ointment to some jagged scars I had on my self-confidence…especially after the night before.
“I love you.” I walked into his arms, feeling his wrap around me in a tight hug.
“I love you too. Not enough to ever go, you know…lower on you, but I love you like my little sister.” He kissed the top of my head before pushing me away, and I laughed, swiping at my face. “I’ll see you.” He winked and walked out the front door.
I locked the door behind him and walked back to the living room, thinking over what I needed to do in order to get ready and get out of the house. Heading back toward my room, I found my phone and texted Taylor to make sure she was okay.
Me: You at the estate, recovering?
I didn’t like to call it ‘Dad’s’ or her ‘mom’s’; either one was associating familiarity in a way I wasn’t ready for. A few seconds went by before I saw the little dots bounce around on the screen.
Taylor: Yeah, I needed some of Bev’s chicken noodle soup, but I’m feeling better…thinking of going to get my nails done with Mom.
I watched the screen to see if she’d extend an invitation, but I already knew she wouldn’t. She never did. It wasn’t that they hadn’t in the past; it was just that I always turned them down. I didn’t feel comfortable around Jackie because she always compared me to Taylor, as if she was threatened by my mere existence. So, if I was vulnerable, showing my ugly nails at a salon, she’d find a way to bring up my diet and talk about something Taylor was doing differently to make her nails look so much better. Taylor always chided her mother for doing it, but after a few outings, it got old.
I looked down at my nails, just thinking how laughable it all was. I was a daddy’s girl through and through, but not in the spoiled princess way. No, I had been helping my father work on cars back before he’d made his millions. My mother had died when I was ten, so he was left doing my hair and picking my clothes, telling me it was normal for girls to wear t-shirts and jean shorts to the swimming pool even when all the other girls my age had on colorful, frilly swimming gear.
He was harsh but fair, loving but distant…until he met Jackie.
By then his wealth was plastered across our local news channel and magazines. He and I both knew Jackie and her single mom routine were just a ploy for money and comfort, but my dad wasn’t hard on the eyes. I was fairly sure Jackie had shown up for the bank account, but she had stayed because she fell in love with him.
I set my phone down, trying to brush off the feeling that always came when I started comparing my life to my stepsister. Juan’s words bounced in the back of my mind, even as I thought back to being in high school and how much prettier everyone said she was when they compared her to me. How much more socially accepted she was, how it was always her who had the dates while I was home working on my computer. How, even now at twenty-one years old, it was Taylor a devastatingly handsome man wanted instead of me.
You ruined everything.
I grabbed my clothes and headed for the shower, hoping I could wash away these feelings that always seemed to drown me.
My back ached from hovering over my laptop and notes. I had a kickass outline created and several color-coded sticky notes ready and set up in my study notebook…but each space that should have had bullet points or notes written in was empty. I had practically nothing to go on from my little jaunt to the Devils’ party, and to top it off, there was a tiny chance I was in a bit of legal trouble because of it. I was avoiding the baseball field and their local hangouts at all costs, which wasn’t great for my desperate need for a source and more information. I needed to interview someone, but every time I even considered getting up the nerve to saunter toward the locker room or practice field, I got physically ill.
Grabbing for my phone, I sorted through a few texts from Hillary and Juan.
Juan: Pizza 2night?
Hillary: Bring salad and I’m game
Juan: Mal?
Hillary: Malllllorrrrrryyyyyyyyyyy
Juan: She’s ignoring us
Hillary: I bet she’s at the library. She always has those headphones in…
Juan: And that horrible music blasting
Hillary: I actually dig some of those nature sounds…they mix violins and guitars in there too. Don’t shame her for loving some relaxing instrumental.
Juan: Mallory Shaw, answer us. I’ll bring a bag of lime-flavored hips
Juan: I mean chips. And my famous guac
I smiled down at my phone, seeing that it had been well over thirty minutes since their last text. Biting my nail, I knew I wouldn’t be able to really enjoy myself until I’d cleared my head.
Me: Sorry, I was in the library…I’ll be there in thirty
Gathering my things, I left the library and bypassed the parking lot. When I needed to get clarity around a story, I often needed perspective or just inspiration to dig deeper, try harder, and just…do better. I knew I was a decent writer, but every now and then Trevor would get inside my head and ruin any confidence I had regarding my story.
With this specific one, I was already grasping at straws, so I was needing inspiration more than ever.
I checked my phone for the community transportation schedule and grabbed a seat on the downtown commuter bus. I watched my reflection in the window as the dark city flew by, and the empty seats reminded me that most people were home with their loved ones. This was my last year of being free like this, not being pressed down by a job or a family…freedom to just hop on a random bus and head into the city with no one knowing or caring where I went.
The idea of it burned my chest. I knew my father still wanted me to get involved with his businesses—he’d even offered to purchase Kline Global so I’d get a paid position. The laughable offer had forced me to leave that specific dinner early. I hated when traces of my dad disappeared and the wealthy tycoon took its place. My dad before the billions would have told me to work for the internship, to earn it. Sometimes it felt like he’d died shortly after my mom did, as soon as he’d married Jackie.
Finally, the bus pulled into the snug space reserved for its massive size, and people shuffled off, heading in their own directions. I pulled my backpack on, gripping the black straps, and started downtown toward the one place I hoped to be the following year. Located only two blocks down and one street over was the news giant, Kline Global. Okay, it was a giant in the same way people viewed David who had killed Goliath. David was clearly the badass hero, mightier than the most feared warrior in the land…but dude was tiny. Kline Global sat snugly in the middle of an empire, only taking up space on one measly floor, but still…I stood on the sidewalk with my head tipped back, staring at the enormity of the gleaming glass windows that spear
ed the sky.
I knew it was closed, the hour well after everyone had gone home, but there were still a few lights on inside, likely a few people cleaning. I walked closer to the front door and ran my finger along the engraving for the company whose internship I craved more than anything.
Sweeping my finger over the K always seemed to calm me down, the L was a woosh of air to my chest, the I, N, and E all small flutters in my stomach. I closed my eyes, imagining myself a year from now, walking out of these very doors, bursting into the bustling city…headed home to my own apartment that I didn’t have to share with anyone. A smile crested, and my chest felt light.
Kline Global only extended one internship spot a year to graduating students of RFU, and that internship often led to a paid staff writing position. Several of the staff on the school paper wanted the spot, and many only wanted it for its proximity to the famous glamour magazine that had blown up recently, but either way, KG was their foot in the door.
KG worked strictly to bring awareness to injustices happening around us. From local communities to third world countries, it reported on those stories, doing whatever it took to ensure they began trending and got people talking. They’d recently done a story on a young woman just two cities over who’d been raped, but the guilty party had nearly gotten away with it because he was a local football star. Their articles and stories were featured by major celebrities who dedicated their free time to helping in developing countries, sending foreign aid as well as standing up against social injustice in our own backyard.
It was the kind of journalism that made me want to be a writer, the kind where real change could be made. I wanted to do something with my writing, make a change, help someone find justice in something…report on what mattered. Sure, I loved the funny parts of social media like the next person, but there was something burning in me that just aligned with Kline Global and its vision.
I closed my eyes, tracing the lettering and taking a few deep breaths.
“You’ll get it, Mal. You’ll get it,” I whispered to myself then turned on my heel and headed back toward the bus station.
Chapter Nine
“You better have the lime-flavored chips,” I said after unlocking my best friend’s door and slamming it shut.
“Who do you think I am?” Juan placed his hands on his chest, acting offended.
“Where have you been?” Hillary jumped up and ran over to me. She wore a cute romper that made her look ten years older.
“Where did you get this?” I thumbed the mustard-colored fabric, peeling my sweater off and setting my things down.
“My sister.”
Of course her sister had hooked her up. Hillary had an amazing older sibling who always set her up with trending clothes and makeup, always making sure her little sister had the latest and greatest. I loved their relationship, but sometimes I looked at it in the same way I looked at lions in the zoo: total fascination mixed with a little trepidation. I often wondered what it would be like to have that sort of connection with my stepsister. What would it be like if we acted like real siblings and not just acquaintances?
“Mal, seriously—we actually went to the library in search of you, then your house…where were you?”
“Geez, stalk much?” I joked, grabbing for a slice of pizza before landing on the superb leather couch. Juan’s parents owned a chain of restaurants and were insanely wealthy, and he was a hybrid mix of both me and Taylor: never turning down a handout from his mom or dad but working for most of what he had. These couches had definitely been a handout. Both Hillary and I were exceptionally glad he’d decided to take them up on it.
“Where’s the roommate?” I looked around, wondering where Juan’s recluse roommate was. He usually snuck out of his room if there was pizza around—that and Hillary, although hearing she preferred women had nearly crushed the poor guy.
“Some guy in C block is having a video gaming marathon…or computer game. I don’t know.”
Hillary and I burst out laughing.
“C block? You aren’t in prison, G.” Hillary called him G when he pretended his life was much harder than it was, as he liked to do.
“My apartment building has a big-ass A on the front, and there are six units here. Over there”—he pointed out his window—“is a section with a B on the front, and there”—he pointed toward the right—“has a big-ass C. I call them blocks.”
I snickered again, swallowing more pizza. He was ridiculous, but I loved him.
“So, any word from THE Elias Matthews?” Hillary rolled her eyes, and I knew it took all her strength not to fake putting her finger down her throat. She hated what sports did to normal people. It turned us all into idiots, acting like some people were better than others just because they could throw a ball. Pfft, ridiculous.
I shook my head. “Nope, and good riddance.”
“Hmm…if he was after Taylor that hardcore, I figured he might hunt her down at your house,” Juan speculated, flipping through our Netflix options.
“Do you think he will?” I felt a frown tugging at my mouth, because I really didn’t want to see the asshole again. The embarrassment still sat like a burn mark on my chest. For some reason it burned extra right where my dumb heart sat. I blamed it. I knew my vagina was definitely to blame, but my desire for that story definitely came from the heart. So, it was grounded for the foreseeable future.
“Dunno, I mean…” He shrugged. “If it were me, and I were after you…” He looked up at me, giving me that serious Juan Hernandez look that made every woman swoon right into his king-sized bed. “I’d definitely be back.”
I threw a couch pillow at his head and laughed.
“It’s not me, it’s Taylor…but I guess I see what you’re saying.”
“Just be careful—I get weirdo vibes from him,” Hillary declared, going for a bottle of wine from the kitchen.
“You’ve never even met him.”
“I know, but I can just tell.” She didn’t joke around about being able to “tell” when it came to her vibes about people, and she usually wasn’t wrong.
We laughed, ate chips, and watched three movies before I fell asleep on Juan’s heavenly plush couch. I often stayed over at his house so it wasn’t a big deal, but waking up at two in the morning and realizing I had an early class at seven was.
I clutched my things and tiptoed out of his apartment.
I’d grabbed my car from the parking lot after my bus ride back to the school. So, with my key in hand, I headed toward the obnoxiously bright parking light I’d parked under. Safety first. Except, did I even have the right key out and ready to go so I didn’t fumble when I got to the door? I looked down for a nanosecond and managed to run into something.
“Ow, what the hell!” I rubbed my shin.
“Geez, what the fuck?” Someone growled from the ground.
“Oh shit, I’m so sorry.” I wasn’t even sure it was my fault, but I was an automatic apologizer in these kinds of situations. Okay, in all situations. I looked down and saw someone crouched by a truck tire, a hand running over their forehead.
“What in the world are you doing on the ground?”
The crouching stranger stood, towering over me by at least several inches, and that familiar burning sensation in my chest returned stronger than ever.
“I was checking my tire—”
“You!” My tone was clipped and cold because that was exactly how I felt about this asshole.
He took a step back, rubbing a hand in his eye socket like he was exhausted. It was two in the morning, so he probably was.
“You…what are you doing here, shitty Honda?” He looked around like he genuinely was confused how I had gotten there. Once his stare settled on me again, his eyes narrowed on my hair, then my shirt…and the bra I held in my hand.
Oh no he did not.
“Are you calling me ‘shitty Honda’ in your head?” It was late, and my manners were still back in Juan’s apartment, sleeping.
His e
yes seemed to narrow. It was hard to make out with the shadows covering his face.
“I am not calling you anything in my head.” Strong hands flew to his chest in defensiveness.
I scoffed. “Sounds like you are.”
“Well I’m not. What in the fuck are you doing here?” He repeated himself then grabbed something out of the back of his truck, a backpack of some kind.
“You don’t live here, do you?” I ignored him, looking back toward Juan’s block of apartments.
Please, Lord, don’t let this asshole live here. Wait…he lives in the Devils team house…right? So, why is he here? I wanted to ask him, my throat itching with the sensation, but I knew he’d probably tell me it wasn’t my business…and he’d be right. I didn’t know him; therefore, I didn’t need to know anything about him.
He ignored me, still looking me over, a twitch working its way into that handsome jaw of his until those eyes landed on my lips and stayed there. “You dating someone who lives here or something?”
Why did he sound so angry?
I sidestepped him and replied with “Or something.”
I didn’t give him a second glance, keeping my eyes low as I walked toward my car.
“It’s late—you need to be careful out here,” he yelled at my back.
I stopped, turned slightly, and tried to discern the look on his face. Maybe the other night had just been an off night for him, but how he’d treated me really did say all that needed to be said about his character. I’d never listen to this guy, not in a billion years. If he said, “Don’t step there, it’s lava,” I’d step there on principle and then die. But it would be worth it.
I turned, ignoring him once more, and continued toward my car.
“I’m serious…I don’t want to see you out here again.”
I laughed under my breath. I didn’t give a single flying fuck what he wanted, but I was cold and tired. So, I unlocked my car and started it up. Driving away, I totally ignored how he stayed there watching me until I made the turn out of the parking lot.