9. Thrift Store Sweats
nine
Thrift Store Sweats
Onyx: 2024
T oday’s been shitty with a capital — FUCK YOU. I’ve not had an adrenalin crash this bad in months. All my muscles are lethargic. My face is blotchy and swollen. Annnd , my eyelids feel like tiny little weights are dangling from my lashes.
I lean over the vanity, swiping away the steam coating the mirror. Smoke slithers over my reflection as I stand, observing the mess my life has become. Exhaling slowly, I release another cloud from my lungs, watching as my fingertips gently graze over my chest.
After tapping out the end of the joint, I locate the empty tampon, hiding the leftover. I mean, I don’t envision Mr. Respect Me to go rooting through my box of plugs, which makes it a stellar hiding place for my stash.
Facts: showers are supposed to be for relaxing. Not steamy confessionals spent admitting to yourself that you didn’t hate the jackass’s DNA on your skin. If I’m being honest, it was kind of hot. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely cringed once I calmed down and Zoey pointed out her stupid observation.
She called it a curse, but something deep down makes me think it was more of a claiming.
Do I want to be claimed?
I think the more appropriate question is… do I want to be claimed by him?
Let’s come back to that puzzle later. Instead, I’d like to circle back to the spitting. I’m not a prude. My cookie’s been licked and nibbled on a time or two. I know how to push my own button. I’ve just not found a stick that I’m ready to test drive. Playing with them is different from taking them on a joy ride because you have to worry about feelings and attachments. Which is shit I don’t want. I can’t deal with a clinger.
Because Mom would have never allowed it.
On my way to grab a water to alleviate the cottonmouth in my near future. A knock at the door startles me, gaining what little bit of focus I have.
“Who are you?” I question the guy outside my door.
“I’m Scott with The Moving Company, I’ve got a delivery for Onyx,” he says, glancing down at his iPad.
“Right.” Stepping aside, letting him enter.
“It’s a small delivery – just some boxes,” he explains.
I remember Nolan mentioning movers while we were packing, which is why he made me label all the boxes. “Can you just put them in the correct rooms? They should all be labeled,” I explain.
“Of course, I just need a signature, and we’ll get out of your way.”
Quickly, I scribble my name on the screen before hiding out in the kitchen until they’re done. Which barely takes them thirty minutes.
I lock up after they leave on my way to start putting things away. I can’t be crawling over boxes. My anxiety will freak out from the clutter.
By mid-afternoon, I’m a bitch on a mission. If I don’t get some coffee in me soon, I can’t be held responsible for the things I may do to people.
The cottage turned into a cage, taming the feral lioness I’d become as the day wore on.
The GPS calls out the directions because why would the backward town have a coffee shop? That would be too convenient. Instead, I’m forced to drive across the bridge into West Virginia — where the town appears to be smaller than River’s Edge.
The drive hardly takes fifteen minutes before I pull into a small gravel lot, smiling at the sign on the building across the street. Nix that, I’d say it more resembles a two-story white house.
The Purple Cup is a clever play on words, drawing you in to find the perfect cup of whatever you’re craving.
A cluster of tiny bells hangs from the top of the door, tinkling when I enter. Before I’ve even taken a step, I’m surprised to find the plain exterior is a poor representation of the eclectic inside.
The place reminds me of Mad Hatter's den, with its mismatched, colorfully painted wooden chairs and tables littering the small space. In the center rests a glossy purple counter with a glistening display case of goodies underneath.
Waiting for the blonde behind the counter to notice me, I read over the glowing chalkboard menu hung high on the wall above her.
“Just give a shout when you’re ready,” she tells me over her shoulder while she continues to transfer cookies onto a display tray.
“Whenever you’re finished,” I answer, leaning over to get a better look at the yummy treats.
“What’s your poison?” she asks cheerfully after slipping the tray into the case.
“I’ll have a large black river, two pumps of butterscotch, milk, and two shots of espresso,” I tell her, noticing she pauses as she starts to turn pale.
“That’s —” she stops suddenly, confusion filling her blue eyes as she stands in front of me like a statue.
My brows dip, praying a 9-1-1 call isn’t in our near future. “Are you —”
Shaking her head, giggling oddly to herself. “Sorry, thought I heard the oven timer. Wouldn’t want burnt cupcakes smelling up the joint,” she chuckles, tapping on the screen in front of her. “Anything else?” Making an odd but quick recovery.
“Um… a chocolate chip muffin,” I answer, almost forgetting my growling belly.
“Right. Of course, eight bucks,” she tells me before rushing away.
If I had to guess, I’d say she’s in her late twenties, even though she appears kiddish with dark makeup. Her twisted, messy buns reveal her blue and green hair underneath.
Total girly Harley Quinn vibes.
She places the purple to-go cup on the counter, presses the shiny red lid on top, and slides it towards me along with the small bag.
Giggling as she hands me the black card back. “Funny, you don’t look like a Hendrix.”
The sound of his name has my belly twisting into knots. “Unfortunately, I kinda do.” I mumble quietly, dropping the card in my purse before grabbing my order.
Instead of leaving, I maneuver my way to the back, taking a seat beside one of the windows.
I’m not even sure where to start. I’m here in this tiny coffee shop because I’m deflecting reality. Trying to find some clarity that…
“Mind if I sit?” the girl from behind the counter asks, smiling down at me shyly.
Yes, I mind!
“Sure,” I answer, turning my head to glare out the window.
“I thought you were leaving,” she says, placing a small plate in front of me. “For your muffin.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, hoping she’ll get the hint that I want to be alone.
“I’m surprised to see…” her words trail off as her blue eyes skim over me. “Someone as fancy as you around these parts,” she finishes timidly.
I’m anything but fancy!
Taking in the rundown view outside. “What’s this place called?” I ask, holding her stare.
She fidgets with a napkin. “The Purple Cup,” she answers.
“Love the play on words, BTW.” Raising my to-go cup. “It’s the perfect cup,” I tell her, making her blush. “But, I meant the town.”
“Devil Ridge,” she answers quickly, jumping to her feet when the bells tinkle, announcing a new customer. “I’m Amy. Welcome to my place,” she tells me before bouncing back behind the counter.
I stroll through the shop, deciding the clarity I’m searching for isn’t something I’ll find here, at least not today.
“Come back again,” she calls to my back before I reach the door.
By the time I’m back at the cottage, I’ve decided the coffee’s made with crack, and the muffins are a voodoo creation.
A nap’s good for the soul!
Unless you wake up hours later in a twisted version of reality. First, it looks like a small animal tried to nest in the mess on my head, which brings me circling back to my crazy reality.
Who knows, I wear strawberry hydrating chapstick?
I’ve checked three times since waking up just to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. The entire cottage is stocked with food I like, face products, soaps, lotions… the list goes on and on. But it wasn’t this way when I left earlier. Was it…?
Shit!
Realizing I was too distracted by my steamy afternoon confessional to notice when I got home earlier if the shower was stocked.
But how?
Who could’ve known what to buy — without asking? I’m gonna need to ask Donor Pops, who has access to the cottage besides me. Which kind of makes me want to vomit. If I’m being honest, I’d almost rather wonder in silence than ask him anything.
Scanning the walk-in closet for my shoes, my freshly rested mind slips back to this morning’s drama. What the actual fuck is wrong with people? Who thinks it’s okay to spit on someone in public? I’m not saying the idea repulses me. I’m saying I’m repulsed by his audacity to think he can embarrass me in public.
Queens don’t get embarrassed. They get even.
For a good portion of my adolescence, I was thrown into the spotlight. Some days, it seemed like Mom was holding a flashlight over my head. I didn’t dress right. I didn’t act girly enough. Smile more. Don’t slouch. Cross your legs. Stop swearing. Wear more makeup. I did more wrong than I did right, according to her.
At home, I pretty much learned early in life to stay out of her way. But, let her throw a party. Or, have guests over, and suddenly I became the entertainment. It didn’t matter where we were or who was around, she always found a way to call me out on something. That’s why I want my space. I enjoy silence. I don’t want flashy, bright things. Hell, I found the sweats I’m wearing at a thrift store. I like that someone else broke them in for me. I bought the hoodie I’m wearing at a gas station because I was cold one night when I stopped to fill my tank.
Yep, I’m that kind of crazy rich girl.
As for the saliva, screw flowers, and rainbows. Soul mates, and true love are for warm, cozy times when you feel like reading a book to escape. Mom desperately loved the jackass in the main house — who’s gonna bitch because I’m late for dinner — for years, and we’ve already discussed how that turned out for her.
Knowing he’s waiting for me, I drop my purse on the table by the door and head straight to the dining room. I take one step through the doorway, and his eyes land on me, narrowing on my attire.
Why can’t a girl wear thrift store sweats to dinner?
“You’re late,” he announces from the head of the table, nodding sharply at the chair to his left and steepling his fingers in front of his mouth while watching me plop into the seat.
“Forgot to set an alarm.” Shrugging a shoulder dismissively as I glance around the fine dining area.
Does one guy really need a table that seats twelve? Pretentious prick!
Lisa strolls through the doorway tucked away in the corner, carrying two plates. Once she’s sat them in front of us. “Will there be anything else?” she asks him, glaring at me the whole time behind his back.
“No, thank you. Have a good night,” he tells her politely, looking over his plate.
She disappears without a word, and suddenly, we’re alone in a room busting with awkward silence.
Raising his silverware. “Lisa said you came home early from school today,” he states, cutting his steak.
Sighing so loud my lungs deflate. “Lisa’s kind of a bitch,” I grumble.
His head swings to me. “Watch your mouth. You need to learn some respect,” he corrects sharply, eyes narrowed on my face.
Letting the fork clatter on my plate. “Let’s talk about respect, Hendrix . She followed me around this morning like I was a thief in the night,” I hiss, not bothering to hide my anger.
Staring down at his plate. “Are you?” he asks distractedly, cutting another bite.
“Maybe if you stuck around, you’d know,” I counter, stabbing angrily at my salad.
Pointing his fork at me. “You shouldn’t talk about things when you have no clue —”
“No clue,” I scoff, hand pausing mid-way to my mouth. “You ghosted on my fifth birthday. I don’t need a clue, I lived it,” I argue, raising my voice.
Calmly, placing his silverware on his plate, leaning back in his chair. “You will respect me —”
Letting my fork fall from my hand, clattering on my plate loud enough, I wonder if it’s cracked. “Respect’s earned , Hendrix. Not forced,” I challenge, meeting his cold stare. “Where was your respect when you decided to bail on your child?”
Slamming his hand hard on the table. “Don’t blame me for something I —”
Someone clearing their throat has his words instantly dying off. Both of us turn in unison to search for the intruder. My jaw drops at the sight of Zoey standing inside the doorway.
“Sorry to interrupt your dinner, Mr. Whithe. Lisa let me in on her way out,” she explains politely before turning to me. “They changed the time of the study session. The group’s waiting on us.”
Hendrix dabs the corners of his mouth. “We were finished,” he lies, standing and grabbing his plate. “Curfew’s eleven,” he reminds me coldly, brows raised, daring me to challenge him.
I storm from the room without a word, listening to her footsteps follow me down the hall. Snatching my purse from the table on my way out. I march down the steps, spinning around to face her once we’re far enough away from the house.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“Saving your ass, obviously.” She smiles smugly, giving me a wink.
Fine, I’ll admit she might have a point, but it doesn’t answer my question.
Why does it seem like this girl lives to antagonize me?
“Tell me what you want, so I can leave. It’s freezing out here,” I groan, crossing my arms, trying to stay warm.
She tilts her head, staring at me like I’ve spoken an unknown language. “Meet me at the end of the driveway in ten. We’re going to a party,” she informs me, judging my outfit with a quick swipe of her eyes.
“I’m not —”
She spins on her heel before I can fully protest, sauntering down the drive. “Ten,” she repeats, holding up both hands in the air, fingers spread wide giving me a visual.
All I can do is shake my head while I storm down the path to the cottage.
This bitch is a lunatic!