Chapter 5 – GLENNA
GLENNA
I t’s hard to say who sucks more—Cash the fake boyfriend or Toby when he was my real boyfriend. Right now, it’s a toss-up.
Cash and I have been “going out” all week.
Mostly, that means he’s been hanging around the coffee house an hour or two before close, making a nuisance of himself.
He says he’ll restock the creamer station or wipe down the tables, and then a half hour later, someone will come looking for half and half, and Cash is sitting with a customer, chewing the fat.
The rest of the day, he pops in and out, sweaty and dirty from whatever he’s doing.
He stays just long enough to ruffle Toby’s feathers, and then he bails after insisting I give him a kiss.
It’s weird kissing a man on the cheek, so I go for the lips.
That’s weird, too, ‘cause it’s local celebrity Cash Wall and everyone from grandmas to toddlers are staring.
At night, he walks me home. I told him most days I have dinner with Dad first, but then he wanted to come with, and that’s not happening, so I’ve been heading straight to my place after work.
The silver lining is that people have stopped busting my chops.
I confronted Dad about the phone calls, and I check in every day, and he says they’ve stopped.
I have no idea if he’s blowing smoke up my ass or not, but he seems more chill.
Then there’s the added bonus that having Cash around drives Toby nuts.
The downside is that Toby’s decided to turn up the PDA with his new girl, Samantha, to twelve.
And I don’t care. I really, really don’t.
I don’t want him back. I don’t miss feeling the way I felt with him—at all.
But I know he’s doing it to mess with me, even though he’d never admit it, probably not even to himself. I have to act like it’s fine. I’m chill. And that’s too much like how it was being in a relationship with him.
Playing it cool reminds me of how long I had shit in my mouth and didn’t say a word.
So I’m constantly flustered, clumsy, hot, and cranky.
I can’t possibly seem like a woman with a new boyfriend, but people buy it ‘cause Cash Wall says it’s so. And of course, if he showed the slightest bit of interest in me—out of guilt or pity or whatever—I’d fall over myself saying yes, please, sign me up.
And that’s exactly what it looks like I did.
It sucks, and tonight, Cash wants to take it to the next level.
It’s Friday, and he’s taking me out on our first fake date. We’re going to Birdy’s Bar. Everyone under thirty goes to Birdy’s on Friday night. I’ve never been.
I’m getting ready.
On the one hand, I don’t want Cash to think I’m putting forth an effort.
On the other, I don’t want everyone in town to gawk at me all night, thinking I really need to put forth more effort.
So, I’m wearing a teal, silk cami and my best-fitting jeans. I swapped my nose ring out for a diamond stud and curled my hair in big, beachy waves. I’m going the whole nine yards with primer and foundation and concealer and bronzer and blush and highlighter and powder and setting spray.
Toby would hate it. Goes against his oft-stated “natural beauty” preference. It’s been so long since I’ve done my face in full makeup, I had to watch a tutorial to jog my memory.
I don’t usually make time for the whole shebang, but I like makeup. My mom let me play with her samples when I was little, and sometimes, she’d let me do her face, and then she’d wear it out, no matter how it looked.
Mom didn’t care what anyone thought, but not in a dickish, aggressive way. She had an excuse for everyone. Judgmental people were ashamed of something about themselves. Mean people had hidden pain.
If she’d been alive when Cash was bullying me in school, she’d have driven up to Stonecut Farms and told his parents to get him in line or she would—but she would’ve probably said to me that he didn’t know better. Or that he needed something he didn’t know how to get the right way.
Why did Cash give me such a hard time?
I don’t believe in the “boys pull girls’ pigtails because they like them” bullshit. But then again—
He kissed me like he’d always wanted to.
He kissed me like he never wanted to stop.
Or is that just how fuck boys kiss? Is that how they get so many girls falling over them? Kiss them like a drowning man sucking down air?
I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter, because it’s a moot point. I would never date Cash for real. I’m not even sure why I agreed to fake dating.
He deserves it if his unearned sterling reputation finally gets a ding.
And if Dad isn’t getting voicemails, is it because of Cash Wall? He’s beloved in this town, but what mob loves stronger than it hates? They made me read Frankenstein and The Scarlet Letter in school, and I used to have social media. Mobs don’t stop for anyone.
I’m confused.
But I’m going along with it.
And the dirty, shameful truth of it is that everything sucks a little less now that Toby isn’t quite so smug around the coffee house.
And I’m a teeny, tiny, almost infinitesimal bit excited about going on a date with Cash.
Not because I want him . That would be beyond stupid.
But maybe because I want to know what it’s like to be him?
He walks into a place, and people are happy to see him. They call out his name, smile, light up like a Christmas tree. It’s like fun strolled in to start the party.
What’s that like?
I happen to catch the clock out of the corner of my eye, and panic drowns out the little blip of excitement. While I’ve been lost in my thoughts, time has gotten away from me. He’s going to be here any minute.
I finish with my mascara, jab myself in the eyeball ‘cause I’m rushing, and dive into my closet. I decided to wear nice shoes tonight.
I hate uncomfortable shoes, but I have a pair of black platform high heels with crisscrossed straps across the top of the foot and another around the ankle. They’re tolerable because the sole is so high, you’re not actually at much of an incline.
I quickly buckle them on, and then I take one last look around my bedroom to make sure I didn’t subconsciously sabotage myself by leaving my vibrator out on the night table or something.
The only bathroom in the apartment is through the bedroom, so if he has to pee, he’s seeing the whole place.
I really hope he doesn’t have to pee.
It looks fine, so I shut the door firmly behind myself and go to sit in the living room slash dining room. My heart’s pounding. My stomach’s doing flips. My left eye is watering from when I poked myself with the mascara wand.
If he sees me now, he’s going to know I’m freaking out.
I force myself to take a deep breath in and blow it out to the count of five. This is no big deal. I’ve been to bars with men before.
In Shady Gap to hear old-time music bands with Toby, but still. This is nothing new, I’ve done all this before.
Except.
I haven’t really.
Toby and I started going out before either of us could drive, and besides, people don’t really go on dates anymore. Sometimes we’d dress up and go out, but we always split the bill, and when we got home, he’d usually turn on Netflix, and I’d edit photos.
What’s a date with Cash going to be like? He’s more traditional than Toby—he opens doors, at least—but we are going to a bar.
The clock in the kitchen reads seven after eight. He said he’d pick me up at eight.
What if he stands me up?
I bet that was his plan back in high school when he asked me to homecoming.
The butterflies in my stomach swoop side to side like a flock of starlings. Am I nervous or nauseous?
If he stands me up, I’ll hate him forever, even though I have no excuse for not seeing it coming. If he stands me up, I’m not going to steal his truck nuts, I’m going to steal his dog, and feed him the best food and give him scratches until he loves me, and then I’ll rub it in Cash’s stupid face—
Shit!
His truck nuts are hanging from my mirror.
I sprint for the bedroom, and my first step, my ankle goes sideways and there’s a loud knock on the door.
By some miracle, it doesn’t hurt, and I holler, “Coming!” as I mince as fast as I can on the balls of my feet to the bedroom, grab the nuts, and throw them into my sock drawer.
There’s another knock.
I mince back to the front door and throw it open. I’m heaving like I’ve run a mile, my arm in the sling rising and falling like someone’s working a lever in my back.
I smile.
“What’re you up to?” Cash says, his eyes raking me head to toe and up again to settle on my boobs. “You look guilty as hell.”
“I’m wearing makeup.” It is the best excuse I can summon up while I simultaneously try to will my breathing to go back to normal and my eyes to stop bugging.
Cash looks good.
He’s trimmed his beard so it hides less of his face. It’s shaped like an anchor with a mustache and goatee that traces his jawline. He has killer bone structure. High cheekbones. Square jaw.
The rest of him is cleaned up, too. He’s not wearing a hat. He obviously had his hair cut even though I wouldn’t say he’d needed it. He left the curls at his neckline, though. When we were kids, he had a rat tail. I guess the curls are an improvement.
He’s wearing a blue-and-white checked button-down shirt and nice jeans, the kind that come with premade creases in the lap, and he’s wearing cool dude shoes. I don’t know what they’re called. Like oxfords but with pointier toes.
His sleeves are rolled up to mid-forearm so you can see his chunky, fancy platinum watch and the veins lining his muscles. He looks like a catalog model.
And he’s wearing cologne—spicy and not too much, just the right amount.
“Can I come in?” he asks.
“No.” It’s instinct. Cash in my apartment, us alone, no interruptions, is a really, really bad idea. “Let me grab my purse.”
I head for my coat rack. He leans in the doorway, casual and arrogant, not the slightest bit awkward even though I’m not letting him in. Is he staring at my ass?
When I turn, his eyes flick up. Yeah. He definitely was.
“Your shirt matches your hair,” he says.
Is that a compliment?