Page 14 of Detour

I’m jolted back to the conversation. Typical. Men thinking all women need help. And from them of course. What about all the times we need help because of them? What about the idea that we should be able to live out a successful existence without their interference at all? Such a foreign concept, I know.

Bonding time is over.

“Enjoy your day off, Coty.”

His eyebrows pinch together. “Alright, I can take a hint. Just remember we’re here if you need anything. And if your teacher gives you another assignment, feel free to stop by anytime. Nobody will even bother you.” My lips purse together on their own accord making him laugh lightly. “Yeah, okay, Beck will most definitely bother you but that’s just his personality. He’s got a great heart, bigger than people think.”

I don’t correct him that people probably imagine everything about Beckett is big. Instead I nod, giving a thin smile. With a wave, I leave Coty outside, returning to the refuge of my studio.

Dishes clean, I jump in the shower using extra shampoo to wash away the chlorine from last night. It may be the cheapest shampoo sold in stores but it still smells better than the more expensive brands. To me anyway. I’ll take the strong strawberry scent over the faintest of floral notes any day.

The memory of my mother’s overwhelming perfume alone makes me shudder. Luckily, I still haven’t heard from her which means one of two things: she’s plotting, waiting for the perfect moment to spring her bullshit on me, or she’s found someone new to pour her frenetic energy into. For now, at least. She’ll come around. She has no one else to blame, never herself certainly, so she’ll come looking for her favorite toy. Just like Drew predicted. When she does, she’ll try to tear down anything she can. My job, my hair, my new place, my new-

No.

I shake the thought away. I didn’t tell Drew about the nosey neighbors because it’d make them real. Tangible. And Rianne can’t reach what she doesn’t know about. What isn’t there. What will never be there.

My tiny studio doesn’t have a closet so I use an industrial-style clothing rack off to the side of my bed to hold the little bit of clothes I do have. It also adds a pop of color to the monochromatic scheme I’ve got going in the rest of the apartment.

Never wanting to wear my poorness on my threadbare sleeve, I hid it away beneath secondhand athletic clothes. People expect workout clothes to be worn, frayed, beat to shit. Yoga pants look like yoga pants, no matter how much money you spend on them. I think that’s why moms always wear them. They give the illusion you’ve got your shit together when really, it’s anybody’s guess what someone’s actually going through. Clothes should highlight a person’s interests, not define where they came from or where they’re trying to go.

Dressed for work in capris and a logo tee, with two French braids framing the sides of my head, I stroll downstairs, casually checking the boys’ balcony. Unsurprisingly, Coty’s still standing there like some kind of loyal watchdog. His arms rest against the railing and he’s still very much shirtless. And hot. Honestly, he’s just too tempting which most, if not all, females would agree on should I care to ask. A guy like Coty could, and probably does, get any girl he wants, yet he’s been pestering me since we met. Okay, I wouldn’t exactly call it pestering, but he’s working hard for the non-details I’ve been giving him. Indifference has been my approach but maybe that’s his thing. Maybe he likes the chase. The challenge.

The headfuck route is my mom’s game though, not mine. That’s how she managed to land four husbands and countless boyfriends before she’d let the façade slip away revealing who she really is —a cold, cruel woman looking to fill an insatiable hole ripped open when she was just a teenager. She’s never recovered from that first love with my sister’s dad and I doubt she ever will. She tried anything to get him, then everything to keep him. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough and he left her anyway. She gave up the perfect mom act but not the perfect wife role. It became her addiction, to hook a man, then reel him in, only to end up being the one to eventually be released all over again. The vicious cycle is bad enough to put yourself through, but Rianne added a child to the process, one that got a front row seat to watch it play out like a bad movie repeatedly throughout a childhood that should’ve had stability and protection, rather than turmoil and neglect.

I may not fuck with guys’ heads but I’m not completely inexperienced in the dating realm. I’ve hooked up with a couple boys over the last year but none with anything extra attached. No stupid games, no irrelevant labels, no unnecessary expectations, no lovesick declarations, and certainly no introductions to family. Boys make better distant friends than girls. They don’t judge, they don’t pry, they don’t read between the lines, they don’t look below the surface if you don’t let them. It’s just… easier.

I’ve never wanted to keep anyone, friends or otherwise, around long enough to witness the shit show that is my life.

No, that was my life.

I’m not a part of that anymore.

I’ll never be a part of that.

I can’t.

I honk the horn twice at Coty, reversing from the curb and catch a glimpse of him just before speeding away. That sinful smirk plastered to his face should be illegal especially as he’s technically only a short distance from my bed. That image has me pressing on the gas a little harder than appropriate driving through a parking lot.

Once I’m settled back into my Jeep after picking up an iced tea from a nearby café, my phone rings. However, seeing the caller I.D. read UNKNOWN, I let it go to voice mail and mentally scroll through the people it could be. There’s only one real possibility. Only one person that would go through the trouble of blocking their number. My heart starts racing, so I gulp down as much tea as I can without causing a brain freeze. A couple squeezes of the steering wheel later, I’m as cooled down as I’m going to get.

Maybe it was a wrong number. Maybe she’s moved on with her life. Maybe she’s forgotten all about me already.

Maybe I’m lying through my cold-sensitive teeth.

CHAPTER 9

Angela

I jerk an apprehensive nod at Amity, a girl who usually only works weekday mornings, as I pass through to the office. Amity used to be a cheerleader and it shows. Her practiced movements, her overenthusiastic smile, her never-ending pep, all of it practically oozes from her nearly perfect pores. She’s everything I’m not—blonde, bubbly, and beautiful. We rarely work together so I’m confused to see her here on a Sunday. A Sunday I was supposed to open.

“How’s it going?” I ask, swirling my thumb across the top of my to-go cup.

“Great!” She follows me inside after sending the soaked Ram down the conveyor. “It’s been surprisingly steady all morning. Lots of Ultimates today.”

Amity’s effervescent attitude helps push customers toward the more expensive package options. People are so caught up in her animation, they don’t even realize, or care, they’re being suckered into spending more money. She works exclusively in the back at the register because of this and she rocks it.

“Did you open today?”