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I do try again. My parents didn’t raise a quitter. One time in third grade, I tried to quit the science fair and they took me out for ice cream, sat me down, and lectured me about how this family doesn’t quit. About how this farm was built by my father’s grandparents not quitting. It was quite inspiring, even for nine-year-old me.
Never forgot it.
So, here I am. Not quitting.
I’m walking out of the barbershop that sits on Main Street, my short, wavy blond hair looking mighty fine, when I see Braxton walking out of the local bookstore two shops down.
My feet stumble slightly as I approach, and I come to a stop when he glances over at me, his hand nervously rubbing at his chest when he meets my stare.
I lift my own in a wave, and he wets his lips.
I expect him to turn around and walk away, but he doesn’t move, almost as if his feet are rooted to the ground.
“Hi,” I say softly and his eyes flick up to meet mine. His tongue peeks out and fiddles with his lip ring. I stare at the movement a little too long, and he shifts on his feet.
“What do you want?” he asks, his voice slightly raspy.
I glance down at the bag in his hand and gesture toward it. “What you got there?”
His cheeks flush. “Why do you want to know?”
I sigh and run a hand across my jaw. His eyes slide across my face before he quickly looks away. I wonder if he finds fault with my light-wash jeans and my light-pink shirt. Maybe he doesn’t like color.
“I’m just trying to be friendly, Braxton.”
“I don’t want to be friends.”
He says it with a hitch to his voice, and I cock my head at him. He shifts on his feet and then fumbles with the bag in his hand.
“Look,” I begin. “I’m sorry if I made you feel bad for coming to choir practice and watching?—”
“Don’t.”
I shake my head. “It wasn’t nice, what I said. I really am sorry.”
He rolls his eyes and then turns and walks off, apparently not accepting my apology. Not even answering me.
I sigh and then turn back to my truck, running into my stepbrother, Ryan, in the process. He always seems to appear out of nowhere. Sometimes I think he’s a ghost. Just always lurking.
“Hey,” I say, and he wiggles his tattooed fingers at me. Each knuckle has a little dinosaur on it. I asked him about that once, and he just shrugged and said that they were fun. That kind of encapsulates Ryan, to be honest.
“Yo, big bro. Whatcha doing?” he waggles his eyebrows at me, and I stifle a laugh. This guy, I swear.
“I was just getting my hair cut.”
Ryan closes one eye and then the other, taking me in. He moves around me and pokes at my head.
“Looks alright. I could have done a better job.”
“You’re not cutting my hair, Ryan.”
He huffs and then reaches up and puts a hand on my shoulder, tugging me down a bit and biting at my ear.
I chuckle, trying to shrug him off. This little asshole, always tormenting me.
“Get off,” I say, but Ryan only seems to hold on tighter.
I stumble into the side of my truck, and it’s only then that he unlatches from me, grinning widely.
