“I see you’re making yourself at home,” he says, and he doesn’t sound particularly thrilled about it.
“Oh. Yeah. I didn’t think Mel would mind.” My eyes widen, and I glance from the bottle to the man. “Unless this is yours. Is it okay if I have this?”
He doesn’t answer my question. I shift awkwardly in the silence, trying to think of something else to say.
“You have a really nice house,” I try. Still nothing. “It’s really well organized. And super, um, clean. I mean, look at this counter. Look at this floor! You could practically eat off it it’s so pristine.”
“Want to know how we keep it that way?”
I blink at him. “Sure.”
Now, I’m not a self-conscious person by any means. In fact, sometimes I think I’m a little too confident, but the long look he gives me, scanning from head to toe, makes me want to run to the nearest mirror to check for lipstick on my teeth and make sure my underwear’s on the inside of my clothes and not the outside.
Finally, he says, “We don’t take in strays.”
It’s not what he says, but the way he says it, that makes my spine stiffen.
“They make a mess. They take up space. And,” his eyes flick toward the bottle in my hand, “they beg for shit that doesn’t belong to them.”
“Are you…are you comparing me to astray dog?”
He doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed. “Don’t get too comfortable,” he says. “Or attached. Now is not a good time for you to be here.”
And then he walks out, leaving me standing there staring after him in complete shock.
The thing is, I try to be kind to most people despite how they treat me because I have an innate desire to be liked. And if I can’t win them over the first time, I try harder the second.
Sometimes it works, but sometimes I hand out too many chances. Like that time in the fourth grade, when I gave Nathan Fowley a Valentine’s Day card even though he’d stolen my lunch money the week before. Or when Miranda Hastings started a middle school rumor that I worshipped the devil, and I still let her copy my math homework on occasion. And then there’s the time I drove my ex-boyfriend to school for a month after he’d cheated on me, though I made him walk when I found out the girl was pregnant. I do havesomeself-respect.
It was difficult to fit in after my mom’s death, and unfortunately, I was deemed an outcast through most of school. Suicide wasn’t something our community understood, and no matter how hard I tried to change people’s opinions about me and my family, they never truly shifted. I knew they never would in that town. Not really.
I want things to be different here.
So, I didn’t win Landon over on my first day. Big deal. I’ll have plenty more opportunities, it seems. Especially with Mel gone.
I’ll just have to try harder.
FOUR
“We’re not hiring. Sorry.”
The brunette behind the counter—Ashley, according to her name tag—gives me a shrug, not looking sorry at all. My shoulders slump in defeat. This is my fifth stop of the day, andno oneis hiring.
I’m trying not to take it personally, especially since the guy working at the last coffee shop told me most places just hired back the college kids home for the summer. Even so, a girl can only take so much rejection in a twenty-four-hour period.
Mel took me to pick up my car first thing this morning, and then, with my credit card screaming and my bank account bleeding and my confidence just a little bit shaken, the job hunt began. Doing my best to stay positive, I headed to a few of the coffee shops and restaurants Mel suggested. I haven’t had luck with any of them.
“Well, thanks anyway.” I manage to give her a half-hearted smile, one she doesn’t return. Instead, her eyes narrow in on me with a look I’m more than used to from other women, and I sigh. Maybe it’s better that I don’t work here.
I turn abruptly toward the door, nearly knocking over one of the other employees who’s wiping down a table.
“Oh, crap. I didn’t see you. I’m so sorry,” I say, crouching down to grab her rag off the floor.
“All good,” she says, and I hand her back the towel. “Thanks.” Opposite of the prissy brunette at the register, this girl appears out of place with her heavy combat boots, vivid red mermaid hair, and black t-shirt with a familiar purple graphic in the center. I’d recognize that big, block lettering anywhere.
“I love your shirt,” I gush, unable to help myself. “I’m such a huge fan.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “You know Accident Prone?”
