It’s been three days since Justin gave me a jump, and I still remember every word he said. All few of them, because it was more than he’s said to me in the last three-odd years combined. He behaved almost humanely toward me; I actually forgot about our animosity for a single blissful moment. He gave me advice on how to stay alive.Alive!Before that, I’d have bet money the only advice he’d ever give me would be to go skydiving without a parachute.
I’ve had a crush on Justin Attleborough since I was thirteen years old, and he was eighteen. He was the boy everybody either wanted to be, be friends with, or be with. Cheerful, energetic, handsome. Dreaming of making the world a better place. Besides making him an extremely positive and likable person, the universe decided to put all eggs in one basket and make him an ultra-attractive specimen on top of it. Tall, blond, wide-shouldered, and always with that lopsided grin on his far-too-symmetrical face that I want to punch every time I see him now.
He was the boy from the right side of town. I was the girl from the wrong one. He was the guy everyone loved to see—and God, what I would’ve given for him to see me.
When he turned twenty, that was the beginning of the end for the female population of Little Hope and the surrounding towns. Including me. He was always attractive, but now his shoulders grew wider, his face prettier, and his abs sharper. With one physical change came another one. He stopped being that good guy who held everyone else’s interest above his own.
He became a glorious manwhore, solely focused on his own pleasures and needs.
And hestayed that way ever since.
That’s precisely what I’m witnessing right now in front of my face. He’s standing outside the diner where I’ve worked since I was fifteen and flirting with a new teacher from the local school. He looks gorgeous as always, even with grease smudging his jeans and shirt, his tight, lean muscles bulked up from hard work at the mechanic shop. I imagine him carrying big, heavy tires across the floor all day, every day, shirtless, and just like that, I need to fan myself.
"Wipe the drool from your chin." A rough chuckle brings me back to my sad reality.
“Wasn’t even watching,” I counter Marina, my boss and unofficial adoptive mother. She’s watching me through her sky-high false lashes with a smirk on her perfectly contoured face. She has a pen tucked behind her ear, sticking out through her dark red bob. I’m scared for a second that she’ll reprimand me, as she’s tough and intimidating in her posture and Russian heritage, but I know she would never. She’s loyal to a fault and equitable in every aspect of life. They say you can’t choose your family. Well… sometimes you can, and we chose each other.
Marina hired me at her diner when my own family left me behind, and I had no money for food or a place to live but already had a debt to pay. She let me stay at her place rent-free for almost three years until I was standing on my own two feet and could afford a place of my own. No matter where I go next, I’ll always come back to her on Mother’s Day. She never had kids of her own or a husband, saying she didn’t need an anchor to weigh her down. I’ve seen her cozying up with Paul Rogers, Justin’s right hand at the mechanic shop, though. But regardless of anyone else, she’ll always have me.
“He’s no good for you.” Marina purses her lips as if scolding an ungrateful child—me, in this case—and shakes her head. “As if you could lie to me, Kay. I knew you were ogling him way before you even thought of glancing his way.” She takes a sip of coffee and throws a hand towel at me. I catch it in the air and begin wiping the new cups we just bought—they’re the most adorable mugs in the world.
“I know.” I sigh in defeat. “God, why did nature give such a hot body to an asshole like him?”
“He’s okay looking, I guess,” she declares with a shrug after another long assessment. “But his core is rotten. There’s nothing pretty in here.” She taps the left side of her chest with a French manicure, reminding me to do mine—new nail polish always makes me feel better, along with colorful streaks in my hair, which usually match. “You can’t ride far on just his face.” I spit out the sip of coffee I’ve just taken and burst into laughter. “Or maybe you actually can.” Now, she is thoughtfully tapping her chin. “Yes, you most certainly can. Still not far, though.”
“Do you mean he can’t get far on just his looks?” I ask her, confused.
“I think you understand what I meant perfectly.” She winks at me, barely containing her amusement.
“Okay, ma’am. I hear you.” I finally stop laughing hysterically and wipe the tears from my eyes, trying to erase the image she put into my brain. As a matter of fact, scratch that. I should copy and paste this image into my spank bank for later use.
When I glance back at Justin, he’s watching me with that hateful expression I’ve grown so accustomed to. It’s been years since he started treating me like garbage, even though, for the love of God, I have no idea why.
It was as if he was released from prison having made the executive decision that I wasn’t worth the air I breathe—and from then on, the bullying began. You would think the crush I had on him would’ve been shattered by that, but no-o-o—some women just love a good ol’ asshole. The “badder” the boy, the worse they treat us, the more garbage they pour over our heads, the better.
Since the fire three weeks ago and then the roadside thing a little later, he’s been even worse than before. He isn’t just ignoring me anymore—now he does it in style: with even more hateful glances and more malicious remarks. Why did he rescue me then? He should’ve left me there to die—less trouble for him. And why give me useful advice on how to stay alive driving my old boy? I shake my head, trying to clear my mind of those self-deprecating thoughts.
"I'll try to clean the wall in the kitchen; the new paint is coming tomorrow," Marina says before disappearing into the space that's left from the “glorious” kitchen we once had. The facility was shitty, the appliances were outdated, and with the demand we’ve had for the last couple of years, we were in dire need of renovation, and pronto. All the other repairs are pretty much done, and the kitchen is the last place that needs work.
“Okay, I’ll come and help in a second.”
Since the fire, Marina pulled all her savings for the renovations we will need to re-open the diner, but it’s not much. I’d put everything in, but I have nothing. Literally nothing. I don’t even have the cash to get a new phone since I lost the old one in the fire, and I’ve recently become well-acquainted with how difficult it is to live without a phone nowadays.
I sigh and look outside: he’s still there. And still flirting.
Even though I grew up in Little Hope—the bad side of it, specifically—and was an obligatory participant in my messed-up family, I thought I’d developed a decently thick skin. Turns out, my thick skin becomes paper-thin where Justin is concerned. His snarky remarks and hateful stares hit the mark every time. Considering we never even dated—hell, we never even talked casually—my infuriation with him and his ability to throw me off my feet might seem a little odd. A lot odd, maybe. Marina keeps saying I need to “get out there” and try to swim among the big fish. It’s good advice, considering the tiny pool size of eligible fish in Little Hope.
Our town isn’t so small, but it’s not big, either. All the datable guys—and I set that definition very widely and very loosely—are either taken or would never look in my direction. Or—worse—would look in my direction just to ask how much I charge per hour. Like any of them would last that long, anyway. Small town folks don’t like unorthodox, and I’m that. Unorthodox. I have colorful tattoos all over my body and piercings in “indecent” places. My hair is ash-blonde with a few colorful streaks that tend to change color along with my mood and whatever hair dye I feel matches it. All of this paired with my family's reputation apparently lends justification to some people’s perception that I’m a whore. That, and my birthplace—as they see it, Little Hope is a charming little town just like any other town, and just like any other town, it has its “bad” part—the trailer park where I was raised.
So my dating pool is even narrower than most.
Half the people who were born in Little Hope are married to their high school sweetheart now, and I’m jealous because I never had one. Back in school, everybody knew about my mom’s work in the red-light district—figuratively speaking—so nobody took me seriously as dating material, expecting me to want to hook up as if her profession translated to my preferences. But after years of being forced to watch my mother’s revolving door of client-slash-friends, I kept my nose so high that they eventually just left me alone. I still am, even now.
I used to watch Justin from afar, but since Freya took over Little Hope with her energy and daytime-TV-worthy story, I was forced to spend time in the same space as him. Justin and her boyfriend, Alex, have been best friends since childhood. They went to college together and then enlisted together as well, but ended up in different branches, I believe. Had different callings, I suppose.
Three years in the navy, then Justin came back, and Alex remained there. But nobody stays in the military forever, so a few years later, Alex got back too—scarred and nursing severe PTSD. Until Freya. She changed that hermit, making him see his worth. He deserved to invest in himself. He went to a rehab because he wanted to become better for her. She’s also changing our town as we speak by planning to open a rehab for people with all sorts of PTSD. At least, that’s what I’ve heard from the rumor mill. The town isn’t accepting the change easily—small-town folks here,hello—but we’re getting there.
Maybe the rehab will attract a few hot young doctors who like tattooed chicks and aren’t scared of a few nasty rumors.
