Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap.
It’s the principle of the thing. Being mad at a stranger’s kindness is dumb. And I’m sure my own ire is misdirected frustration at my current overwhelm, but she feels like a good enough target for it.
I write “enemies to lovers” under “brother’s best friend” on my list of tropes as my phone vibrates on the table, making my cup clink against the saucer.
It’s work. The on-campus bookshop, The Book Bin.I’m tempted to watch the call go to voicemail, but I just can’t. When my phone rings, I have to answer it. Telemarketers love me.
“Hey, Frieda.”
“Justin, how goes the word count?”
She knows I’m behind, and she knows I’m on a deadline. That Amazon countdown clock waits for no one. She also knows I need the occasional kick in the balls to get my shit together.
I sigh and rub the back of my neck.
“That good, huh?”
“I get stuck on the same part of my outline every damn time.”
She laughs. “And every damn time it all comes good in the end. Quit yer moaning and gimme my next happily ever after already.”
It’s my turn to laugh. “What’s up?” There’s no way this is a social call—she’s not that kind of boss—and she’s not calling to check up on my progress on my current WIP, either.
There’s a long pause before she speaks again. I scrawl “forced proximity” under “enemies to lovers” while I wait for her to talk.
“I know you’re super busy…”
Understatement of the century. Between school deadlines, author deadlines, hockey, and my part-time job in The Book Bin, I’m running on fumes. I’ve even been contemplating pushing my pre-order out a bit to give me some breathing room, but God knows I need those royalties sooner rather than later.
“…but we need a couple of shifts covered if you can manage the extra hours.”
“No luck filling the open position?”
Her sigh probably carries with it an impressive eye roll. One I’ve been on the receiving end of many times over the past couple months. “I thought I had it covered, but the guy who aced the interview never showed up for his shift. He totally ghosted me.”
My head lolls back as I take in the bright lights on the ceiling. We both know I’m not going to say no. “When do you need me?”
As I scribble down the three shifts Frieda needs me to cover, movement draws my attention back to the blond-haired stranger who looks like Elsa—right down to her ice queen temperament. If she wasn’t so standoffish, I’d have offered to buy her dinner just so I could stare across the table into those sea-blue eyes and at her perfectly pink, pouty, Cupid’s bow lips.
When I hang up with Frieda, I add “fake dating” to my list of tropes to consider forGet Lit. I’m starting to feel a little better about the idea so I take a shamefully large bite of my donut.
“He cheated on my best friend in high school okay? Drop it.” Her voice cuts through me like an ice pick. Then her words register like a bucket of cold water to the face.
Cheated.
High school.
The donut in my mouth turns to dust as I chew. She’s talking about me. I know it. Her words are a lightning bolt into the depths of my memory, and I also know who she is now. Though she changed her hair, I’m kicking myself for not recognizing those bottomless green-blue eyes of Savannah Bowen.
Her best friend, Molly Morrison, was my girlfriend in high school, and ofcourseSavannah believes the narrative that Mol told her, told everyone. Justin Ashe is a cheating asshole. Justin Ashe kissed another girl at Applebee’s. Justin Ashe broke Molly Morrison’s heart.
I absently rub at my jaw. Molly’s personal brick wall, Finn O’Brien, left me with some bone-deep bruises that night when she fled Applebee’s like her ass was on fire. I never wondered why it was him and not her brother Will who beat the shit out of me for “cheating” on her. It was written all over his face, clear as day.
I heard through the hockey grapevine that Finn finally found his balls and made a move on her after all these years. Good for him. It’s about damn time. He’s loved her forever.
No one beats the shit out of someone over a woman if they don’t love her. Everyone knows that. Everyone it seems, except Molly and Finn. It took them a while to put the pieces together.
I shake my head, irritation prickling my skin like needles. The whole damn school heard only half the story. No one cared to hear my side. And the girl I kissed hadn’t said a goddamn word in my defense either. Of course she wouldn’t. She wasn’t the home-wrecker—I was the asshole cheater.
