Page 35 of Bittersweet


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It’s not polite to brag about your accomplishments, after all.

No matter how bad you want to “nana nana boo boo” in an asshole’s face. “I was calling your name. You almost got plowed by that asshole on a bike who wasn’t paying attention to where he was going either.”

“I had headphones in. I didn’t hear you”

“That’s not safe.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s not safe. A woman like you, alone, walking with headphones in. You should be aware of your surroundings.”

“What do you mean, a woman like me?” He looks me up and down, taking in my outfit, stopping at places a man who might actually like me would stop, a small smirk on his face.

“Ditzy,” he says, and my gut drops out from under me. “A privileged little girl who has lived in her daddy’s shelter for so long, she can’t see the danger around her.”

A mix of humor and anger drips into my veins.

This man has to be kidding, right?

There is so much right there that he has no fucking clue about. So much that he hasso fucking wrong.

I want to argue with him, tell him he’s wrong, to spill my guts like this is some kind of competition to see who is more worthy of their business. Who is more capable, and who has been dealt a shittier hand.

But instead, clarity hits.

Because for the last week, every time I see this man, he glares at me like he thinks I’m the scum of the earth.

Like I don’tbelonghere.

When I walk over to bring Hattie a cookie, always bringing something for her coworker because I’m anice fucking person, he glares at me like I haven’t showered in a week and the smell is permeating his air.

But it’s not that he just doesn’t like me. It’s not that I made a shitty first impression.

No, Benjamin Coleman is like everyone I’ve ever met who recognized my last name. Everyone who read “Turner” and instantly thought the sweet, privileged, sheltered daughter of a politician. The daughter of the town’s beloved mayor. Every award at school Iearnedbecause I worked my ass off, I’d hear the whispers—it’s because of her dad.

I was selfish.

I was privileged.

I didn’t appreciate what I had.

And yes, I’m not going to say that being me didn’t come with its own outward privileges, the obvious ones that everyone else saw.

But it was what no one could see that made those assumptions burn through me like acid until Old Lola was incinerated, leaving New Lola to figure it out.

He hates me because of who he thinks I am.

“Is that why you hate me? You think I’m some kind of privileged brat? That I didn’t earn this?” I put my hands on my hips, the dried, syrupy coffee making my hands stick to the material, but I don’t feel it.

All I feel is rage at this man—this man who at this moment, represents everyone who underestimated me.

And it makes me furious.

I think I hate him.

His face goes slack.

I don’t think he thought I’d respond. He thought I’d be a spoiled princess, shrivel up and cry to Daddy.

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