She hands me my phone. “There, all set. I sent myself a text from your phone so I have your number too.”
“Cool, thanks.”
“Well, I guess I’ll be going. Enjoy your mail.” She cringes again and takes a step outside.
“Yeah, thanks.” I give her a curt wave and shut the door.
She’s awkward, I’m not much of a talker, but we both like planes, so there could be something there, right?
At least I’m hoping so, as it would be nice to hang out with someone who doesn’t smell like jet fuel every damn day.
Chapter Seventy-One
RYAN
Eleven years old . . .
I adjust my purple JanSport backpack on my shoulder and look around the campus I’ll call home for the next three years. Pikes Peak is the backdrop for the red-brick building in front of me, giving me hope for the person I can finally be.
I pull up my pants, situating them on my hips as best as possible, wiggling a little to make sure they’re all the way up, and make my way through the doors.
The halls are bustling already, everyone wearing their finest first day outfits, everyone trying to make an impression . . . like me.
Taking in a deep breath, I work my way around the other kids to my locker. My dad and I came here the other day to make sure I knew where I was going and how to get into my locker properly. He made me unlock it a few times for practice so I wasn’t fidgeting with it on my first day. I’m glad my dad still helps me with things like this.
I make my way to locker sixty-seven, on the right hand side and spot it immediately. It’s the lower locker, which apparently is for the sixth graders. The eighth graders get the high lockers, but I’m not going to complain, because this is my first locker ever.
Lockers slam, kids laugh, footsteps squeak across the freshly polished floors, the sounds of school for once making me excited. This is my fresh start.
“Move out of the way, tub-o,” a boy says, startling me from the side.
“What?” I ask, a little confused while adjusting the top of my track suit, making sure none of my skin is showing.
The boy standing next to me looks me up and down, his hair blond, his teeth yellow, and his eyes almost pitch-black.
Grinning like the Grinch, he scoots in closer, the smell of cheese on his breath. “I said move out of the way . . . lard-ass.”
Lard-ass? Did he really just call me that? I adjust my clothing again and suck in my stomach.
“That’s not very nice.”
He looks at me, a slimy smile crossing his chapped lips. “This isn’t your TV show, Barney. We’re not all nice to each other here.” Just as he insults me by calling me a giant purple dinosaur, his friend comes up beside him and pats him on the back, clearly appreciating his dig at the new girl.
Trying to muster all the pride I have, I smooth down the velour of my coat and say, “This is Juicy Couture.”
“And you look like an oversized whale in it.”
Okay, there are only so many times a girl can hear another person call her fat. I’m at my limit.
I’ve worked really hard this summer trying to lose weight. I drank those SlimFast drinks and everything. I even rode my dad’s exercise bike while watching TV. I know I look better than I did at the beginning of the summer. I might not be as skinny as I wish I was, and I might not have the boobs I wish I had, or the designer makeup Mom won’t get me, but when I left the house today, I actually felt . . . pretty.
My lip trembles, and I try to hold back the tears as the two boys point and laugh at me, making fun of my outfit, saying how I look like an overcompensating gym teacher, whatever that means.
Do not get upset, Ryan, that’s exactly what these jerks want you to do. Forget your locker for now, just pick up your bag and ignore them.
I can ask for a different locker later.
Not giving them the time of day, I turn away from their rude laughs and bend to pick up my backpack just as I hear a loud rip echo in the hallways. And then I feel it, a light breeze.
“Holy shit, she split her pants,” one of the guys says.
“And she is wearing granny panties. Ugh, gross!”
As fast as I can, I stand straight, backpack slung over my shoulder, and hand covering the giant tear in my pants. With their laughter trailing behind me, I make a beeline for the nurse’s office, hoping and praying those two boys were the only ones who noticed.
“Can I help you?” the nurse asks. Tears well in my eyes.
I lean forward, wanting to be as quiet as possible. “I, um, I split my pants and was hoping I could call my dad to bring me a new pair.”
“Oh dear, not a very good first day, huh?” I shake my head, allowing a tear to fall down my cheek. “Come in, dear. You can use my office phone for some privacy. Why don’t you take your sweatshirt off and wrap it around your waist to cover you up for now.”
I nod, knowing that’s a good idea since I can feel that the rip is . . . the entire backside of my pants.
Giving me some space, the nurse quietly shuts the door, and I take her advice and wrap my jacket around my waist. I pick up the phone and dial my dad’s office number.
“Mr. Collier’s office, Glinda speaking.”
With a shaky voice, I say, “Glinda, it’s Ryan. Can I . . . Can I talk to my dad please?”
“Ryan, is everything okay?”
“No,” I answer, my throat tight, my tears ready to spill over.
Move over, tub-o.
Barney, Barney, Barney.
You look like an oversized whale.
The taunts sting, breaking my heart and every positive thought I had of myself.
One single boy destroyed every last ounce of confidence I gathered over the summer, leaving me with nothing but a split pair of pants and tears. Why me? Why did they have to rip? Today? Ever?
“Sweetie, what’s wrong?” my dad asks.
Just hearing the sound of his voice pushes me over the edge. Tears start to fall rapidly, cascading into my lap, my embarrassment pooling at the base of my spine.
“Dad, I . . . I . . .” My voice catches in my throat. “My pants ripped,” I finally say.
“Oh Ryan, I’m so sorry. They must have been a faulty pair. I can get you a new set. How bad is it?”
“Re-really bad, Dad.” My voice hitches. “I need new pants for today. Do you think you can bring me some?”
“Oh sweetie, you know I would, but I have meeting after meeting lined up. Call your mother. She’s home and can bring you a pair.”
The mention of my mom tightens my throat all over again, sending another wave of tears down my cheeks.
“She’s going to be so mean, Dad. She didn’t even want me to wear this outfit.” I don’t bother mentioning the boys who made fun of me, because I don’t want my dad thinking I’m a loser. He thinks so highly of me, and I can’t imagine what he’d think if learned some boy called me fat.
“She won’t, I promise. I’ll give her a call and let her know the situation. Just hang tight; we’ll get you some pants.”
“Okay,” I sniff. “Thanks, Dad.”
“Love you, boo bear.” He hangs up the phone, and I let the nurse know what’s happening.
The nurse asks if I want to go to class since technically I’m covered up, but I beg her to let me stay until I can get my new pants. Thankfully she lets me.
It only takes Mom twenty minutes to arrive at school and when she does, she doesn’t look happy. Please don’t yell at me here, Mom . . .
I must have interrupted her yoga class. She looks me up and down, shakes her head, and thrusts a pair of pants at me, shame in her eyes.
Head held down, I take the pants and unfold them. Oh no. It’s a pair of jeans I absolutely hate because they’re boxy-looking.
Just when I think my mom is about to leave and not say anything to me, she quietly whispers, “I told you not to eat all those cookies this summer. Maybe you’ll listen to me next time.”
She pats my shoulder a
nd then takes off, and like normal I feel cold and awful. Why do you hate me so much, Mom? Why?
Chapter Seventy-Two
RYAN
Squeezing my eyes tightly, I step onto the scale and take a few deep breaths before opening my eyes. I tell myself not to look down, to ignore the number, that I only step on this scale every day to prove that what the number is doesn’t matter.
But it’s all a lie.
Because it matters. It matters so much.
Don’t look down. Just step off.
I grind my teeth together, my arms wrapped around my stomach, my fingers playing with my bare skin and the ripple in my ribcage.
You’re beautiful. You’re perfect. You don’t need to change anything.
I tell myself that over and over again but it never registers. I’m never good enough. Never will be.
Giving in, I glance at the scale.
One fifteen. A little lower than what my doctor said was appropriate for my body type. It’s okay. A little low is okay. A little high is not.
I step off the scale and look at myself in the mirror, tilting my head to the side, examining my waist. I pinch my side, a flashback of my mom doing the same thing, reprimanding me for eating too many potato chips. I’ll do crunches tonight before bed.
I turn to the side and pat my stomach. A little bit of a swell, but I’m getting my period any day, so it could be from bloating. Just an apple for breakfast tomorrow, especially after what I’m about to eat tonight.
Facing the mirror again, I lean forward and stare at my face. My brows need shaping again, and these freckles, God, why won’t they just go away?
I’ve always hated my freckles, spent countless hours in the bathroom covering them up, never wanting to give anyone fodder to make fun of me.
Guys don’t like freckles.
They make your face look dirty . . .
Gripping the edge of the counter, I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. She will not cloud my mind; she will not be present in this moment.
You are beautiful, Ryan.
Without another glance at the mirror, I slip my clothes back on, turn off the light, and walk down the hallway of my apartment just in time to see Rory and Stryder walk through the front door, Stryder propping the door open with one giant paw.
Not everyone would notice the adoring look Rory gives Stryder as she walks by, but I catch it. It’s a small glance, but one that packs a powerful punch, one full of so much love that for a brief second, I’m envious.
All I’ve ever wanted is for someone to love me. It’s not a secret that my dating record hasn’t been pretty, I continue to fall for the wrong man, I can’t hold a relationship longer than three months. And for the life of me, I can’t figure out why.
I want to blame it on the guys I choose, which I’m sure is part of it, but a deeper, darker side of me chooses to believe it’s because I’m not pretty or intriguing enough for the men I come across.
Hell, I couldn’t keep Stryder’s attention when I first met him and Colby . . . I shake my head at the thought of him. The two nicest guys I’ve ever met and neither showed an ounce of interest in me.
I swallow hard, trying to push back the negative thoughts roaring through my head as Rory speaks up.
“Ryan, you knew we were coming over.”
Putting on a happy face, because that’s what I always do—mask firmly in place—I say, “Yeah . . .”
Rory motions around my apartment. “You have bras and thongs hanging everywhere.”
I walk to my friend and her husband—HUSBAND, so weird—and give them both a hug, with an extra tap to Rory’s stomach. “It’s laundry day, what do you expect? Got to let these guys dry out.” I flick a thong with my finger. “Come on in. Did you bring pancakes?”
Stryder holds up a bag and nods. “Pancakes. No bacon, sorry.”
“What?” I ask, outraged. “Why no bacon?” Whenever we get pancakes from Uncle Sam’s Pancake House in Manitou Springs, we flirt with the manager, Derick, and always get ourselves free bacon. Every single time.
Rory thumbs toward Stryder. “He picked it up.”
With a stern brow, he sets the pancakes on the counter and says, “And to hell if I’m about to flirt with Derick.”
I sift through the bag, pulling out the to-go boxes. “If you loved Rory enough, you would have flirted.”
“You’re going to pull that card?”
I nod with a smile. “Yup.” I take my box to my little kitchenette table along with syrup and a drink. “Juice is in the fridge. I got apple for Preggo.”
“You’re such a good friend,” Rory says, pulling two glasses from my cabinet for her and Stryder. They work in unison in the kitchen, helping each other gather their dinner items. It’s adorable. Some would say sickening, but not me. I know their history and the bumps in their road they faced.
Once settled and pancakes are being consumed, Rory asks, “So, why were we beckoned with pancakes?”
I take a deep breath and look them both in the eyes. “I’m pregnant.”
“What?” they both say at the same time, their eyes widened. Rory coughs a few times while taking a sip of her juice.
“Are you serious?” Stryder asks, while concern laces his brow.
“No, I’m not.” I smile and take a bite of my pancakes, chewing happily.
“Wait, what?” Rory sets her fork down. “Are you or are you not pregnant?”
“I’m not, but wasn’t that fun?” I tip my juice in their direction and take a sip.
They exchange glances between each other and then look back at me, Rory speaking first. “No, that wasn’t fun. What would possess you to say something like that?”
Casually, I shrug. “Not sure really, thought maybe it would be an icebreaker.”
“That is never an icebreaker, or something to joke about.” Rory takes a deep breath to continue her lecture when I jump in to stop her.
“I’m lost.”
This time Stryder lifts his brow at me. He really is so handsome. Rory scored such an amazing man. Handsome, loving, and worships the ground she walks on. “What do you mean you’re lost?”
I toss my fork in my to-go box, not feeling too hungry anymore. “I’m in a rut. Nothing is happening for me right now.”
“Why?” Rory asks.
I play with my napkin, dragging it between my fingers as I speak. “I’m still doing makeup at Ulta for people who come in to buy nothing but the products they already use, except for the occasional serious customer. There is no room for growth, and I’m bored. I don’t want to match people’s foundation anymore. It’s not what I went through all those classes for. I want to be a serious makeup artist. And forget my love life.” I roll my eyes. “It’s non-existent. Pathetic actually.”
“What happened to Glenn?”
“He never returned my phone call.”
“Zack?” Stryder asks.
“Got back together with his girlfriend after a date with me.” I let out a long sigh and prop my chin up in my hand. “I’d rather not run the gauntlet of men who’ve appeared in my life. It’s depressing.”
“Okay,” Rory answers, mouthful of pancake. “So you want a different job then?”
I nod and take a deep breath. This is going to kill Rory, but . . . “I do want a different job. I, uh, kind of got one.”
“Really?” Rory’s eyes sparkle with excitement. “Where?”
“Well, remember that girl we went to high school with, Leah Cameron?”
Rory takes a second to mull over the name. “Leah, is she the one who’s the—” She stops short and lowers her fork from her mouth before swallowing what’s in her mouth. “Is she the Vegas showgirl?”
Oh God, she knows where this is going.
“Yes.”
“Ryan. What are you not telling me?”
I twist my hands in my lap, more nervous telling the news to Rory than I was to my parents. Not that my mom really cared . . . “She got me a job as a makeup artist on her variet
y show. I have a day to decide if I want to take it or not.”
“But, does that mean you’d move to Las Vegas?”
Stryder squeezes her hand and gently says, “Babe, if the job is in Vegas, she has to move there.”
Stunned, Rory starts to shake her head. “No. Nope. Not happening. You can’t move. What am I going to do without you? I have a baby coming soon, for crying out loud.”
“I know, and I want nothing more than to be here for you when that happens, but I’m in a rut with no way out. I think this might be the break I’ve been waiting for.”
“There has to be something in Denver at least. There are more jobs up there.”
“Not really. I’ve been looking, and you know how much I’ve wanted to get into show business makeup. This could be my foot in the door. The only show business makeup jobs here are local news channels and even those are rare.”
Cutting in, Stryder says, “When would the job start?”
“Two weeks.”
“Two weeks?” Rory nearly flies off her chair. “What are you doing to me?”
“Babe”—Stryder rubs her shoulder—“Ryan wants more.”
“I do. I need to focus on me for once. I feel like”—I pause, biting on my bottom lip, willing the tears back that have suddenly threatened to spill over—“I haven’t been in the best place recently, and I need a change.”
“What are you talking about? Did something happen and you didn’t tell me?”
I shake my head. “No, I just haven’t been feeling great about myself, that’s all.” She doesn’t need to know any more than that; it will just worry her, and the last thing she needs to worry about is me.
“You’re not running away from something, are you?” For once? No. I’m not.
“No. I’m running toward something.” I let out a long breath. “I know this is going to suck, being away from my best friend, but I think this is something I have to do.”
Rory leans back in her chair, crosses her arms over her chest, and groans. “Ugh, why do you have to have aspirations?”
A very unladylike snort pops out of me. “Sorry. I’ll try to be less ambitious.”
The Duets Page 58