Page 27 of Danger

She used to babysit me when I was little. My parents loved her.

They never saw the version that showed up after their taillights disappeared down the driveway. The one who spent the night talking on the phone instead of watching me. The one who sighed dramatically whenever I walked into a room. The one who told me no boy would ever like a girl who talked as much as I did. The one who laughed when I cried and called me a baby for missing my parents.

The one who made me feel like taking up space was something I should apologize for.

Looking at her now, I have the sudden, irrational urge to ask if she's still charging by the hour to torture children.

“Apron girl?” Rylee lifts her cup and nearly sloshes cranberry-vodka on her nude heels. “Wow… didn’t think your parents would ever let you out the flour bin.”

Did I mention she's the one who started calling me apron girl? I liked helping my parents in the kitchen when I was younger. Apparently that wasn’t cool. She shouted it across the elementary school parking lot one afternoon when my parents asked her to walk me home. A week later, half my class was calling me the same thing.

Funny how fast a nickname really sticks when the prettiest girl in town starts it.

Her friends—three of them, all in matching black dresses—giggle in unison. Apparently Ryllee wasn't gone long enough to lose her fan club. One of them—the shortest—checks her phone and looks me up and down, like she’s confirming some embarrassing rumor.

“It’s Winnie, actually,” I say. My voice sounds like a mouse with all the noise in here.

Rylee leans in, all smiles. “Cute apron. Still rocking it, huh?”

I look down and realize I forgot to take it off. This is my hell.

“Are we done here?”

She narrows her eyes. Even her friends freeze—one mid-giggle, the other with a straw in her mouth.

“Oh my god, Rylee, does this girl know you’re, like, famous?” one says.

“Maybe she doesn’t know who you are?” The third, with the straw, adds.

Rylee tilts her head, keeps her eyes locked on mine. “Oh, she knows. Everyone in this town does.”

Her gaze drifts—the worn romper I’ve had for years, the drink stain on my apron, the shoes that used to be white—before sliding back to my face.

“But girls like her?” A faint smile. Almost pitying. “They don’t really register. Didn’t back then. Don’t now.” She shrugs. “I guess maybe there’s something poetic about being… forgettable. Slipping through life without anyone noticing when you’re gone.”

I’ve been told worse things. That’s not what hurts. What hurts is hearing her say something I’ve always been terrified was true.

Their laughter rings in my ears, tangling with the frantic thoughts in my head until I'm convinced the whole bar is laughing at me too. If I cry here, in this bar, I’ll never be able to set foot inside again. I’ll be a cautionary tale for the next generation of women they call apron girl.

One of her friends—the quieter one—shrugs. “Well, there’s enough cowboys in here for all of us. We don’t need to get in each other’s way. Let’s just enjoy the night.”

Rylee cocks her head and looks at me. “Her with a cowboy? Last I heard, she wanted a Stetson and he didn’t want her back.”

She says it like she’s genuinely confused by my existence.

I’m not confused by hers though. I recognize this. I know exactly why she does it. She needs it—to feel powerful. And for a second, I almost let her have it—until I remember I don’t have toput up with that. I’m not invisible. And I don’t have to swallow my words anymore.

I start to speak, but their faces change. All of them look surprised. Confused? Rylee goes pale. And then, right behind me, a deep voice.

“Fuck off, Rylee.”

It’s not a shout, but it might as well be—every word is cold. I don’t have to look. I know the voice.

Danger.

He’s so close I can feel him hover behind me, smell the rainforest and cedar scent of his cologne.

Rylee blinks. “Excuse me?”