I could laugh at myself if it wasn’t all so pathetic. Six months out here and I’m romanticizing this woman just because she’s at my doorstep. I need to get a grip.
I decide to slam the door in her face and twist the lock to keep her outside, where she can’t bother me.
I toss the half-finished manuscript back in the trash. Again. I’m about to grab myself the beer I was getting before she interrupted me when—
Tap, tap, tap.
She’s scowling at me from outside my kitchen window like some kind of maniac. I pull the blinds down and flip them closed, blowing out a breath of frustration. I’m popping the cap off my beer when I remember I never locked the side door. At the same moment, I hear the door open.
“Really?” she asks loudly.
“By law, I could shoot you now,” I say. My voice sounds bored, but in all honesty, her persistence is at least a little amusing, and I decide I won’t kick her out again.
"Great. I hope you're as good a shot as you are at keeping a house clean," she says, kicking my dirty shirt out of her way with her toe, "I think I'll be okay."
I take a drink of my beer, observing her. She's small, but she has the kind of energy only small things can have—like a chihuahua or something. If nothing else, she is starting to capture my interest because she doesn't seem to give a shit about who I am to the rest of the world. That, and she liked my romance book.
For all my belief that the time out here is changing me, I guess I still warm up with a little ego-stroking, like always. The difference is she’s stroking the part of my ego I care about, not droning on about how good my shit bestseller was.
She waits impatiently under my scrutiny, arms crossed and eyes blazing with… something. Annoyance? Anger? Maybe a touch of barely controlled lust…
“What is it going to take to make you go away?” I ask.
“Finish it,” she says.
I lean over to grip the trashcan by the rim, holding it up so she can see where the manuscript is.
She reaches to pull it free, but I hold my arm up high and all five foot nothing of her can’t do anything but swat uselessly at the air, trying to reach it.
She steps back, sucking in a breath like a little kid who is about to throw a full-blown tantrum. I raise my eyebrows, bracing myself, but she blows out the breath and somehow forces herself to relax.
“Listen,” she says carefully. “We met at a kind of weird time in my life. I realize how I must seem.”
“Do you?” I ask.
“I seem crazy. But a few nights ago, that was just a bad combination of boxed wine and misunderstandings and—”
“Wait,” I say. “Boxed wine?”
“I like the flavor better,” she says.
“You’re a shitty liar.”
“And you have shitty manners.”
I shrug. “Manners are for trying to make people comfortable. Trying to impress. You think I want to do either of those right now?”
“I just…” she says, deflating a little as she walks to my couch and sits on the armrest. “I’ve never read anything like that,” she says, pointing to the trashcan.
I glance at the side of the trashcan. “It’s called a warning label,” I say. “Don’t worry, no one else reads them either.”
It’s difficult not to flinch back from the dirty look she gives me. “The manuscript.”
I sigh, dropping the trashcan to the floor and leaving the manuscript inside.
“Did you read the email I wrote you?” she asks. “The one I wrote T.S. Barnes, I mean.”
“I read it,” I say, trying not to let any emotion enter my voice. Yeah, I read it a few times, okay? Yeah, it made me feel good. But it pissed me off that some random fan complimenting my dumb romance book would make me feel good, so I gave you a curt response and hoped you’d fuck off like the rest of them.
“The voice I said I felt in your book that came and went… Well in that,” she says, pointing to the trashcan. “The voice… The emotion…” she shakes her head. “I swear by everything I’ve ever believed, if you finish that book, it will take the world by storm.”
“And you think that’s what I want?” I ask. Anger bites at me, swirling hot and rough inside my stomach.
Her eyebrows pull together as if she never even considered I might not want to write another world-famous book, even if I could. “You could write it as T.S. Barnes. Stay anonymous.”
“How long do you think that could last before someone finds out it is me?”
“So you threw it away because you don’t want the attention?”
“I threw it away because I couldn’t finish it. I can’t finish it.”
“Why?”
I set the beer down roughly and motion to the front door. “Okay. Question time is over. Out.”
“No,” she says like I just asked her to do a handstand. “You’re too short on time to talk to me? You’ve got more beers in the fridge that need your attention? More walls to stare at in here? Or maybe you want to half-write some more books and then print them out just so you can throw them in the trash? You realize it’s still on your computer, right? Even if you trash the manuscript.”
“I deleted it,” I say, teeth gritted. I did, too. I printed the copy to read-through like I always do when I’m halfway through a book. I realized I was never going to finish the story, though, because I realized it wasn’t just a story. It was…
I clench my fists at my side, closing off my thoughts because I don’t want to deal with it—any of it.
She just stands there waiting, like she can get me to explain my life story to her through sheer stubbornness. My mouth opens and for a strange moment, I think I’m actually about to start talking, to start unwrapping the bandage so she can see the bloody wound festering in my mind, but I snap my mouth closed and point again. “Fuck. Off.”
For the first time since she came, I see her act falter. The unrelenting, fearless face she wears slips, giving me a glimpse of the woman beneath who is standing in front of a guy she’s probably terrified of.
“You could just—”
“Out,” I say, putting my hand on her back and leading her out the front door.
The look on her face when she turns around before I close the door on her makes my chest tighten. Wounded. It’s not the first time I’ve burned a bridge, not the first time I’ve pushed someone good away, and it won’t be the last.
I lean my forehead against the door and listen to the faint sound of her footsteps retreating.
“Wait,” I say quietly.
Her footsteps stop.
I turn to face her. “I appreciated the email.” Getting the words out is like squeezing water from concrete, but I manage them, even if they come out chopped and stiff.
She bites her lip, letting the ghost of a smile touch her face. It lights her up in a way I haven't seen yet, and I'm worried I'm going to want to see it again. She looks good happy. Really good. Not just in a way that makes me want to fuck her like some groupie, but in a way that makes me imagine if I ever manage to get a girl like her to stick around, maybe some of that happiness will rub off on me eventually.
“You did?” she asks, taking a step closer.
I hold out my hand. “I didn’t rescind my ‘fuck off’,” I say with a half-grin. “I just said I liked your email.”
There’s a hopeful glint in her eyes. “Well, thank you for liking it,” she says. “I meant what I said in the email. I still do.” She gives me a sad little smile before leaving
I lean against the wall and sigh. “I know you meant it,” I mutter. “That’s why it’s going to be so fucking hard to get you off my mind.”
5
Lindsey
One advantage of living on a mountain is not having to shop for groceries at the usual big name stores. Just a few miles away from the base of the mountain, there’s a road that winds through the valley between our mountain and another to the west. There are enough shops and stores along the road to service the few t
housand people who live on the mountains around here. With the exception of the Starbucks, there are no brand name stores. Everything is named after so-and-so’s grandfather or great-great-grandmother.
Amelia and I are in Mac’s grocery to get enough basics to make it through another week. “Have you thought any more about Evo? The beauty school?” Amelia asks, as if I could’ve forgotten after she told me the price tag.
“We’ll just have to see,” I say. I’m not giving her my full attention, and I feel guilty for it, but I can’t stop thinking about my two run-ins with Chris Savage last week. It's been a few days since he smashed my dignity to pieces and tossed me out, but it feels like the sting of his dismissal only gets worse with every passing day.
It’s the weirdest thing with him, though. I remember having a burrito once that was so spicy I couldn’t taste anything but the heat. When I complained about it to Brooke, she told me to use sweet chili sauce to take the edge off. All it took was a little sweet, and I was able to taste all the flavors. That restaurant ended up being one of my favorite burrito places. Chris reminds me of that. He’s shown me just enough potential from the poet that he can be on the page, and the brief flashes of charm and kindness he has shown in person, but I still can’t see him through all the anger and meanness he wears like a shield.
His personality brings a side out of me I don't usually see, too. I've never been one to be overly assertive with strangers, even if I have had to step into more of mother's role with Amelia. My natural inclination is to avoid conflict and seek the path of least resistance. But that manuscript… I wasn't kidding when I said it'd take the world by storm. Hell, he could release it as-is and he'd have millions of people clamoring for part two.
“Lindseeey,” Amelia singsongs. She gently flicks my ear with a grin. “You’re thinking about a boy. I know that look.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “I’m definitely not thinking about a boy.” There’s nothing boyish about Chris. Arrogant jerk, yes. Rude as hell, yes. Boy? No, unfortunately not. It’d be easier to hate him if he was what I always imagined an author to look like. Maybe a frail guy with a belly who wears turtlenecks and circular glasses that he refers to as “spectacles”. If a guy like that treated me the way Chris does, it’d be easier. Although apparently even a guy like Chris can’t get away with treating me like dirt. He may have softened my view of him just a touch by telling me he liked my email, but he still has a lot of ground to make up if he ever expects me to like him Not that I think he particularly cares what I think anyway. It’s not the man that has me still thinking about what happened constantly, it’s the books.
Why should someone so horrible be so gifted?
“What’s his name?” Amelia asks, not buying my lie for a second.
“Chris,” I say with a sigh.
“Ooh. You know, every Chris I’ve ever known has been a cutie.” She nudges me, smiling. “Well?”
“The streak lives,” I say grudgingly. “But he’s an ass. So it’s irrelevant.”
“But is he an ass with an ass?” she asks.
I can’t help but laugh. “Yes, he’s an ass with an unfortunately impressive ass.”
She purses her lips. “How bad could he really be?”
“Bad. But the frustrating part is I don’t think it’s genuine.”
“What do you mean?”
I look up at the fluorescent lights overhead like they’ll give me a way to explain the confusing feelings I have about him. “I don’t know… I guess it’s like if you were a doctor trying to treat a patient with a bullet wound, but they just kept poking at it and ripping away the bandages, you know? Making it worse on purpose. I just don’t buy it. I don’t think he’s really the guy he is trying to make me think he is, and some dumb part of me wants to go back because I want to know what would make somebody pretend to be that way.”
Amelia grins.
“What?” I snap.
“You like him.”
“No,” I say. “No. I like him as much as I like a mosquito bite.”
She jabs her finger at me, eyes widening and eyebrows shooting up. “Knew it! You once told me you actually like mosquito bites because it feels so good to scratch them.”
“Yeah, well Chris Savage is like a mosquito bite between the toes. No fun to scratch and a total…” I trail off when I see the expression on Amelia’s face and realize I just said his full name.
She moves in front of my shopping cart, planting her hands on it, keeping me from moving. “This Chris guy you’re talking about is the Chris Savage?” She turns to a rack of magazines on the other side of the aisle, which, of course, happens to have a stack of magazines with Chris’ face plastered all over them. The headline reads, “Insider Spills About Savage.”
“Sort of,” I say, eying the headline with an embarrassing amount of curiosity. Spills what about Savage? Only Amelia being beside me stops me from actually grabbing a copy to read, even though I’m sure it’s just some bogus story to sell magazines.
“Can I meet him?” she asks. “I have to meet him. I need to get a new outfit though, definitely something new. Maybe—”
“Amelia,” I say as sternly as I can. “You’re not meeting him. He’s toxic. Like a poisonous toad.”
“Those are only poisonous if you lick them or try to eat them, though…” she says, putting a finger to her chin and biting her lip. “No promises that I wouldn’t try.”
“Not happening,” I say in my that is final voice.
The excitement falls from her face. “You know, maybe for once, you could let me make a decision for myself. I’m not as helpless as you and Brooke think.”
I reel back, completely caught off guard. Amelia has always seemed like a carefree puppy to me. Insulated from the world by Brooke and I so she can just enjoy the moment and live outside all the worry. In a single moment, I see I am wrong. We kept her from the worst of it, but she’s right. She’s old enough to read between the lines, and we are both wrong to think we can keep her in the dark.
“You’re right,” I say. “But to be fair, I’ve never thought you were helpless. I only wanted to protect you, too much, probably, but I’ll… I’ll work on it, okay?”
She flashes a hesitant smile. “Really?”
“Really. But this Chris Savage thing is different. Helpless or not, you’re still my little sister. I can start including you in more, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to throw you in front of a bus.”
“He’s a writer,” she says dryly. “Not a speeding bus.”
“Lindsey?” asks a woman from behind me.
When I turn around, I see Claire, Ryan’s girlfriend. The enemy, a voice in my head growls stupidly. She’s not the enemy though. I was engaged to Ryan a little over a year ago before we broke things off, but it didn’t have anything to do with Claire. It had everything to do with the fact that Ryan wasn’t ready to “settle down.” Which was already clear from the way he couldn’t keep his eyes off anything with boobs. It’s hard not to feel the blow to my confidence when I see that barely a year later, he’s apparently ready to settle down with her.
“Heyyy,” I say, squeezing a smile out that probably looks plastic, but it’s the best I can do on short notice. Claire is everything I’m not, which doesn’t help the whole bruised ego thing. She has tattoos on her arms and probably just about everywhere else I can’t see, too. She has piercings, black hair with bright pink highlights, and she actually has boobs. Her face is obnoxiously cute, with perfect porcelain skin and dainty features that somehow manage to make her look sweet and sexy despite the tattoos and piercings that’d make most women look intimidating or scary.
I absentmindedly fuss with my hair and clothes, tucking my bland curls behind my ear, and smoothing some wrinkles from the t-shirt I threw on over a pair of everyday jeans.
“You must be Amelia,” Claire says, moving forward to hug my surprised little sister like they’ve been friends forever. “Ryan told me all about you. I swear, he loved you like his own litt
le sister.”
Amelia makes a face at me over Claire’s shoulder that would be comically confused and scared if I didn’t have so much resentment boiling over inside me.
“Hi,” says Amelia sheepishly. “Love your tattoos.”
“So,” I say with an edge to my voice. I try to stop myself from doing what I know I’m about to do, but can’t seem to. “You guys are getting married at the lighthouse? That will be so pretty.” Because it’s where I dreamed of getting married since I was a little girl, a fact Ryan knew.
I see the momentary surprise on Claire’s face that tells me everything I need to know. She had no idea Ryan invited us. He probably knew I wouldn’t come to the wedding and didn’t think he’d ever have to explain why he’d invite me to Claire.
"Uh, yeah," she says, recovering quickly with a warm smile. "Ryan is so excited about the venue. It's adorable."
“Oh?” I ask. “Was that his idea? The lighthouse?”
Amelia nudges me in the side, probably trying to warn me to stay civil, but I’m already going downhill with this and there’s no stopping now. All the unfairness of it and the embarrassment and sadness that never really left my system after the breakup are pushing me forward, even though Claire seems nice.
“Yep,” she says. “He said he never knew why, but it always just seemed like the right place to have his wedding.”
As if on cue, a man walks halfway past our aisle, spots Claire, and then turns to walk toward us. Ryan.
“Hey, did you want a ribeye or—oh, Lindsey. Amelia. Hey,” he says. He doesn’t even have the decency to sound embarrassed. If anything, there’s a taunting edge to his voice.
I flash him a smile, trying my best to make it look fake this time. “It’s good to see you,” I say with false cheer.
Hate at First Sight Page 24