snort.
“He’s been fucking me for weeks.” I tell her harshly. “And god knows who else. Better get tested, sweetheart. I sure as hell will. Y’all have a nice night.” I add to the girl’s parents, sitting there, shell-shocked.
I stride away, victory surging in my veins. That’ll teach him not to use me like some piece of ass, then go running back to Little Miss Perfect the minute daylight comes. I can hear him now behind me, begging and groveling to them all. “Don’t listen to her, baby,” I hear him plead. “You know what everyone says about her. She’s just a crazy slut. She’s nothing.”
My steps falter. Now that my rage is fading, I realize the whole bar is staring at me. I can see their faces, wide-eyed and scandalized. Then the whispers start, gossiping tones drifting out to me as I hurry across the bar.
“You know those Ray kids… She gets around, for sure… Just like their mama…”
I keep walking, my anger fading to humiliation as reality sinks in. As far as everyone here is concerned, Trey isn’t the one who made a fool of himself just now. No, that was me, lashing out, flying off the handle, causing some huge scene. And for what?
“What the hell, Brit?” Garrett steps out of the back room in time to catch the carnage behind me.
“I’m on my break,” I snap, grabbing a bottle of whiskey from the bar as I steam down the back hall.
“Brit, wait a second!”
Garrett’s voice and the noise of the bar recede behind me as I hurry up the back stairs. I bypass his apartment on the first floor, and keep climbing, even when the staircase narrows into a winding spiral. Finally, I heave open the rusted fire escape and push outside into the crisp night air.
The rooftop is empty, home to a couple of old lawn chairs and an ancient grill. I walk slowly to the edge and lean out over the railing.
Why do you always do this?
The scene replays in my mind, but I don’t see Trey’s smug face staring back at me. No, I see the blonde girl instead. Sweet, and pretty, and so damn naïve. Sitting there with her perfect family, it never crossed her mind for a second that Trey could betray her.
I can’t tell if she’s lucky or just another fool.
He didn’t take me to dinner. They never do. I’m not that girl, you see: the one who gets dates and flowers and sweet whispered goodnights. I’m the one they screw up against the back wall of a club in a neon-lit alley; who they text at 2:00 a.m. when they’re bored and need something to pass the time.
I always told myself it was better this way. No use believing in a dream that would only fade to ashes in the end. But feeling this used and empty, over and over again… What’s better about that?
I take a gulp of the whiskey, feeling it sting in the back of my throat. The anger, the adrenalin, it slowly seeps away, leaving me with nothing but the low burn of rejection in my gut. I look out across the harbor and the few lights bobbing on the water, down past the row of tourist stores and the new beachfront townhouses. In the pale dusk light, Beachwood lies quiet and still, lights glimmering,—with nothing to drown out the echoes in my mind.
“You know what everyone says about her. She’s just a crazy slut. She’s nothing.”
It’s true. That’s what they do say about me. Growing up in a small town like this, with a junkie mom and a runaway dad, I was never going to escape the gossip. I figured I’d just embrace it instead. Let people say what the hell they want about me: I won’t tie myself up in knots trying to live down the family name. They want to write me off, spread rumors, and ‘tsk’ under their breath as I walk by? Let them.
I even used to revel in it when I was younger: strutting around town wearing the sluttiest outfits, flirting with all the men, seeing the look of disapproval in everyone’s eyes, like their good opinion meant a damn thing to me. It was all just a game, anyway. And this way, I could feel like I was
“He’s been fucking me for weeks.” I tell her harshly. “And god knows who else. Better get tested, sweetheart. I sure as hell will. Y’all have a nice night.” I add to the girl’s parents, sitting there, shell-shocked.
I stride away, victory surging in my veins. That’ll teach him not to use me like some piece of ass, then go running back to Little Miss Perfect the minute daylight comes. I can hear him now behind me, begging and groveling to them all. “Don’t listen to her, baby,” I hear him plead. “You know what everyone says about her. She’s just a crazy slut. She’s nothing.”
My steps falter. Now that my rage is fading, I realize the whole bar is staring at me. I can see their faces, wide-eyed and scandalized. Then the whispers start, gossiping tones drifting out to me as I hurry across the bar.
“You know those Ray kids… She gets around, for sure… Just like their mama…”
I keep walking, my anger fading to humiliation as reality sinks in. As far as everyone here is concerned, Trey isn’t the one who made a fool of himself just now. No, that was me, lashing out, flying off the handle, causing some huge scene. And for what?
“What the hell, Brit?” Garrett steps out of the back room in time to catch the carnage behind me.
“I’m on my break,” I snap, grabbing a bottle of whiskey from the bar as I steam down the back hall.
“Brit, wait a second!”
Garrett’s voice and the noise of the bar recede behind me as I hurry up the back stairs. I bypass his apartment on the first floor, and keep climbing, even when the staircase narrows into a winding spiral. Finally, I heave open the rusted fire escape and push outside into the crisp night air.
The rooftop is empty, home to a couple of old lawn chairs and an ancient grill. I walk slowly to the edge and lean out over the railing.
Why do you always do this?
The scene replays in my mind, but I don’t see Trey’s smug face staring back at me. No, I see the blonde girl instead. Sweet, and pretty, and so damn naïve. Sitting there with her perfect family, it never crossed her mind for a second that Trey could betray her.
I can’t tell if she’s lucky or just another fool.
He didn’t take me to dinner. They never do. I’m not that girl, you see: the one who gets dates and flowers and sweet whispered goodnights. I’m the one they screw up against the back wall of a club in a neon-lit alley; who they text at 2:00 a.m. when they’re bored and need something to pass the time.
I always told myself it was better this way. No use believing in a dream that would only fade to ashes in the end. But feeling this used and empty, over and over again… What’s better about that?
I take a gulp of the whiskey, feeling it sting in the back of my throat. The anger, the adrenalin, it slowly seeps away, leaving me with nothing but the low burn of rejection in my gut. I look out across the harbor and the few lights bobbing on the water, down past the row of tourist stores and the new beachfront townhouses. In the pale dusk light, Beachwood lies quiet and still, lights glimmering,—with nothing to drown out the echoes in my mind.
“You know what everyone says about her. She’s just a crazy slut. She’s nothing.”
It’s true. That’s what they do say about me. Growing up in a small town like this, with a junkie mom and a runaway dad, I was never going to escape the gossip. I figured I’d just embrace it instead. Let people say what the hell they want about me: I won’t tie myself up in knots trying to live down the family name. They want to write me off, spread rumors, and ‘tsk’ under their breath as I walk by? Let them.
I even used to revel in it when I was younger: strutting around town wearing the sluttiest outfits, flirting with all the men, seeing the look of disapproval in everyone’s eyes, like their good opinion meant a damn thing to me. It was all just a game, anyway. And this way, I could feel like I was
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