I’d been right. I felt even worse after sleeping. I couldn’t fathom how anyone could run several miles every day. All I’d done was walk more than I normally did—plus stairs, so many stairs—and everything hurt. My bones, my brain, my eyes. I swore even the fat cushioning my body was twitching.
My shift last night had been insanely busy due to the game that was playing, and I’d brought home more tips than I had in a long time.
There were times when drunk patrons forgot to tip, but more often than not, they tipped way more than they needed to. Usually because they were too gone to count or because they wanted in my pants.
Either way it was good for my pocket, but it also meant I worked past one o’clock.
When I’d texted Layla to tell her I had a feeling it’d be a late night, she’d offered to pick Jamie up this morning so I could get an extra hour of sleep. God bless that woman, I’d needed it. I owed her an actual, real bottle of wine…and maybe a male stripper. She was the kind of partner every parent needed.
Flopping myself over the comatose dachshund under my comforter, I rolled out of bed, whining every bit of the way. If this wasn’t my sign of how severely out of shape I was, I wasn’t sure what would be.
I made my way to my bathroom like a glob of silly putty, turning on my shower and lying across the counter while I waited for it to heat up.
Shucking off my pajamas, I climbed under the hot spray, hoping the sauna-like temperature would bring some life back into both my soul and my face. The circles under my eyes were officially setting up permanent residence to the point I’d considered naming them.
After spending a solid five minutes unmoving under the shower head, I went about my routine. For a curly girl, the routine went something like this, condition, condition again, condition some more, scrunch.
It was time consuming, but I’d learned years ago, spending a few extra minutes babying my curls was the difference between “Yes, girl, work it,” and having animals bow down to me as their new king.
Wrapping my wet mane into a t-shirt on the top of my head, I headed to the closet to change and wiggled my butt into a fitted, knee-length black dress.
Practically dislocating my shoulder, I reached back and zipped it up before buckling a skinny white belt around my waist and grabbing a yellow cardigan for a pop of color. Digging around the floor, I found my favorite black flats. There was no way my sore ass was putting on heels today.
My mother taught me, if you ever feel like shit, make sure to at least dress cute as shit because it’s a whole lot easier to feel awful if you also look it. So, I made sure to spend the necessary time to properly dry my hair and apply makeup to convince myself otherwise.
I stared at myself and practiced my ‘I can do this’ smile, but it quickly fell. Even I didn’t believe it, and I was glad Jamie wasn’t home to see the exhaustion my makeup couldn’t hide.
I tried to prevent him from ever seeing how truly tired I was, but it was really damn hard some days. Not to mention the effort of pretending I felt otherwise often made me feel even more run down.
It’s challenging to keep a mask in place around the people you love. One of the more difficult lessons I’d learned was if someone you cared about easily masked their emotions around you, they weren’t as invested in the relationship as they tried to make you believe.
Everyone hid pain at one point or another, but the key was how often and how effortlessly and consistently someone could hide things from you.
Locking the door behind me, I descended the stairs, pulling my cardigan closer and wishing it had buttons as the wind batted against me. I’d have to dish out some funds soon to buy a coat since my previous one had finally met its maker, but I’d deal with that issue another day.
I hadn’t walked far enough out yet to see onto Garrett’s porch when I realized he was outside. I’d been preoccupied with my thoughts and hadn’t immediately noticed it, but he had what sounded like soft rock playing. When I finally approached my vehicle and had a straight-on view of his front door, there he was.
Sitting on his front steps, he was leaned over, elbows resting on his bent knees, head hanging heavy between them, with one hand cradling the back of his neck while an unlit cigarette dangled lazily from the other. He looked as exhausted as I felt.
His music wasn’t blaring but had apparently drowned out my steps, and he didn’t seem aware I was outside. For once, I was the one doing the scrutinizing.
The smart idea would be to jump into my Jeep and get to work on time without a run-in with Garrett’s foul mood, but I hesitated. How many times had I sat outside during those bad months, wishing for a friend to talk to? Wishing for somebody—anybody—to see I needed help and offer it?
Setting my purse on the hood, I walked toward him, stopping a few feet away from his legs. “Garrett?”
His head whipped up with such speed I instinctively stepped back, stumbling, and almost fell on my ass. Righting myself, heat filled my cheeks, and I waited for the frown or even a curt word telling me to get lost, but he didn’t do either.
His eyes, which had first gone to my face, lowered, caressing down every curve of my body and then lingering on my legs. He pulled his bottom lip into his mouth, taking his time as those hazel eyes slowly retraced their path back up.
Warmth coiled in my middle, at odds with the cold wind hitting my cheeks, and I shuddered. Goosebumps decorated every inch of my body, but they weren’t from the cold.
Taking a shaky breath, I tried again. “Hey, I’m sorry to bother you. I know we’re not friends or anything, but I was heading to work and saw you sitting here. I just wanted to make sure everything was okay.”
Surprise flashed across his face, there and gone in a second, but he said nothing. He just rolled his cigarette back and forth between his fingers, watching me. I could practically see the thoughts swirling behind those full lips, but I had no idea what they were.
I shifted on my feet, feeling stupid and irritated. It was one thing to not seek me out or be a chatterbox but ignoring me to my face when I was trying to be a decent person pissed me off.
I’d put up with a man treating me that way for far too long, I sure as hell wouldn’t continue to do so.
“Look, if you have a problem with me, tell me to my face. Ignoring me is childish, and at the age you appear to be, I’d like to think you’re more mature than that. I’m not a sleazy ass woman, I was only trying to be nice. I’m not interested in you, and that includes both your dick and your pockets.”
His lips parted, and his tongue pushed against the inside of his cheek. I wasn’t sure if he was actually listening or if I was pissing him off, but I wasn’t done.
“I walked over here without an invitation, so that’s on me. Trust me, it won’t happen again. But this whole judgmental bullshit you have going on isn’t working for me. I get enough of it from everyone else, I don’t need it at my own damn house.”
I crossed my arms, “We can either be cordial all the time or not talk at all, but you have to quit this hot and cold thing you got going on. Be civil or fuck off completely…which is it going to be?”
My entire face down to my neck was flushed, and my chest heaved in and out. But whatever reaction, or lack thereof, I thought I’d get from him, I didn’t expect him to drop his cigarette and practically launch off the porch.
One second, I was looking down at him, hands on my hips, and the next he was only a foot away, towering over me. Adrenaline shot through my veins, and I reared back, battling the urge to retreat several steps.
Instead, I held my ground, tipping my head to keep eye contact, but he wasn’t looking at my face. His eyes focused on my neck, his jaw clenching before they snapped up, freezing me in place.
“You’re right.”
I dropped my gaze to his mouth, confirming that it had, indeed, opened to speak to me. “What?”
“You’re right. I’ve been an ass.”