3. Veronica
3
Veronica
D id I get any sleep last night? Probably some, but it certainly doesn’t feel like it. Between all the crying sessions and the panic attacks about how I just messed up my entire life, there really wasn’t much time for anything else, and that includes sleep. I was hoping blocking Pete’s number would help, given the millions of texts he’s already sent, but if anything, it only made my guilt intensify, twisting it tighter in my stomach, so much so that the thought of eating made me absolutely nauseous.
It was nice of Blair and Miles to try and force-feed me, but I just couldn’t do it. After taking one bite of the bean and cheese burrito, my nerves had me throwing it up in record time. However, my body didn’t seem to reject the sweet and tangy bag of red Skittles, so I’m counting that as a win. Take that, Miles Bennett.
Not that I told him. The fact that he’s clearly worried about me says a lot, since most of the time I assume he couldn't care less whether I live or die. But at least I now know he does, in fact care, even if it’s more for Blair’s sake than mine.
However, despite the dark circles under my eyes from the lack of sleep, I’m determined to enjoy this time away. When we get back and I’m forced to face the consequences of my actions that’s when I’ll let myself worry. That’s future Ronnie’s problem. She’s the one who gets to deal with the fallout, and this Ronnie gets to live in the present and let go of all her problems—or at least that’s the plan. Whether I can actually do it is the question.
“Looks like you got some of your appetite back,” Miles notes as we walk through the aisles of the local gas station after not only filling up the car with gas, but also getting some snacks for the road.
Not only did I devour a heaping bowl of Fruity Pebbles this morning, but I also polished it off with a tall glass of orange juice—pure, vitamin-packed perfection. And just to prove I’m practically a health aficionado now, I followed it up with an even bigger glass of apple juice. That’s practically two whole fruits in one morning. Of course, Mr. “Health Expert” didn’t agree, rambling on about too much sugar this and too much sugar that. Honestly, what doesn’t he understand? Sugar is the elixir of life, or at least my life.
“And none too soon, either. What’s a road trip without stuffing your face full of food?”
“I personally prefer the interesting and unique views,” he disagrees.
I roll my eyes. “You would say something lame like that. Sure, the scenery is great, but it’s like when you go to a movie. Of course, the movie is the main attraction, but how are you supposed to enjoy the movie without a drink and some popcorn?”
He lets out a small scoff as we head toward the back of the small convenience store to get some drinks. “Do you always talk this much about food?”
“Of course I talk about way more than just food. Plus, in my defense, you were the one who kept pushing the subject yesterday, and you’re the one who brought it up again just now. I’m just very opinionated about the best kinds.”
He, of course, goes straight for the water, while I reach for not only a blue Powerade but also a Diet Coke. I can tell he’s judging my choices, but I’m judging his right back, so I suppose that makes us even.
“Well, remind me not to bring it up again. I’m not sure I can take much more of this,” he decides as he follows me into the candy aisle.
I, of course, start reaching for a wide variety from Skittles to M otherwise, you’re going to have a pretty depressing drive.”
“Fine,” he grumbles, reaching for a bag of pretzels.
“Oh my God.” I laugh, shaking my head. “That’s really what you chose? Actually, you know what, it all makes sense.” Sure, there are likely healthier choices than pretzels—he could have gone for a protein bar or something similar, but out of all the snacks, he actively chose pretzels. “You truly are the most boring person on this planet. You are doing very little to dispel me from thinking you truly are an old man in a hot dude’s body.”
“Okay, come on now. I’m sure there are plenty of people more boring than me out there,” he huffs, seeming to ignore the rest of what I just said, and likely for good reason.
“Not really. Then again, you are a dog daddy, so I suppose you have that working in your favor,” I concede, reaching for a bag of dill-flavored sunflower seeds. “But I’m not sure that totally invalidates the fact that you absolutely refuse to have fun or even smile.”
“I smile,” he challenges, clearly defensive. “And I know how to have fun. Just because my form of fun doesn’t involve doing something illegal doesn’t mean I don’t know how to have it.”
“Okay then, Mr. Ball of ‘Fun,’ what exactly does Miles Bennett do when he’s out there having this so-called ‘ fun ?'”
“Hanging out with my buddies, watching games on TV, going to concerts, driving around, fixing cars...” he trails off, clearly trying—but failing—to come up with more.
“Fixing cars?” I smile, turning to face him. “That’s your job. And while I’m glad you’re doing something you love, if that’s on your very short list of what you find fun, you’re clearly not a very fun person.” Okay, so maybe I’m being a little mean here, but until yesterday, I could count on one hand the number of times Miles Bennett had done or said something nice to me.
Plus, he’s a certified grump. While I can understand some of his need to be standoffish and broody, given what I know about his childhood from Blair, I don’t think that gives him the right to be mean or, oftentimes, outright cruel.
I know I got his sister into trouble from time to time, but it’s not like we ever ended up in jail or faced any serious consequences. It was all just silly, harmless fun. What else do you expect from a bunch of kids and teenagers stuck in a small town? When there isn’t much to do, you have to create your own entertainment, and we definitely did just that.
“Oh, so you don’t enjoy your job?” he challenges.
“I love my job,” I happily admit. Being an art teacher is a dream come true for someone who has always had a passion for creating and sharing that joy with others. “But that doesn’t mean when someone asks me what I do for fun, I’d say teaching at the high school.”
"Well, that sounds like a you problem," he says, walking past me toward the register, clearly trying to nudge me toward checking out without grabbing anything else. “Plus, it’s not just working on other people’s cars that I enjoy. I also enjoy rebuilding them for myself. That car out front that we’re driving,” he says, nodding toward where we left the car parked, “I fixed it up myself.”
“Really?” I ask, reaching for one last bag of beef jerky before chasing after him.
In many ways, I can’t say I’m surprised by what he just told me. While the two of us happily avoided each other, I do remember him sticking around after school to work in the auto body shop. Then as soon as he turned eighteen and graduated, he went straight to working at the local mechanic shop before buying out the owner when he retired.
As someone who’s always had a lifelong love for the arts, I completely understand choosing a career that sparks joy and fuels your passion. It makes all the difference, especially when all those minor inconveniences crop up that make you want to quit right then and there. But I suppose I never realized just how deep his passion went.
Then again, Evergreen does have quite a few old clunkers driving around, even if none look as good or are in as pristine condition as his. Plus, the fact that many of those cars you see still driving around are likely only doing so because they have Miles there to fix them and make it all possible.
Given that Miles and Blair’s parents weren’t the most beloved people in town—Mrs. Bennett ran off before Blair’s second birthday, and Mr. Bennett made a fool of himself as the town drunk—a lot of people looked at the two Bennett children and saw nothing but a problem, especially when I did little to help Blair’s case, as the two of us made a point of becoming known as the town’s notorious trouble-makers.
Obviously, none of the stuff we did was malicious, but still. I can see why most people chose to look negatively on her instead of me, especially when my dad was the well-known and beloved town mayor. It really isn’t much of a surprise that Miles took the opposite approach and has gone out of his way to show that he’s nothing like either of his parents. Sure, he’s perpetually grumpy and broody, but everyone knows he’s the go-to guy for any of your mechanical needs.
“Yeah, but don’t go thinking I’m looking for you to see me differently or that I’m fishing for some sort of compliment. I’m just trying to prove a point. Just because I fix cars for my job doesn’t mean it’s not also a hobby. Come on, you can’t tell me you never work on any projects outside of work?” he presses.
I twist my mouth to the side and wrinkle my nose. He’s got me there.
“Okay, fine. Maybe I dabble a little here and there,” I lie, because art is my life. While I didn’t have as much time to fully dedicate to my passion as I would’ve liked when Pete and I were together—especially not when we were engaged—it was something I would’ve loved to focus on more.
“Yeah, sure.” He half-laughs, half-scoffs as we move up in line and he starts to unload our huge haul onto the counter.
It’s fairly obvious the clerk is judging us, and even as Miles sends me an annoyed glance I don’t let it deter me. I’m finally starting to feel like myself again, and if buying a shitload of junk-food is what’s going to make me happy, then I’m going to do it.
I let Pete squash my happiness for far too long, and while I don’t think it’s his intention, I refuse to let Miles do it as well.
“Alright, that will be seventy-eight sixty-three,” the cashier says, doing his best to put all the snacks into one bag, but clearly failing as he’s forced to pull out a second one.
“We’re really spending seventy dollars on snacks?” Miles asks, still stuck in disbelief at the total.
“No, I’m spending seventy dollars on snacks, and you will be sitting there all sad and depressed the entire drive with your sad little water and pretzels,” I hush him, tapping my card on the small reader to pay.
“Wait,” he says, grabbing my hand to stop me, but it’s too late as it dings to let me know the payment was accepted. “I wanted to take care of this.”
I turn to face him. “I get that you feel bad for me, Bennett, but you gotta stop. I’m the one who left him, not the other way around. In fact, I’m starting to think I’d almost prefer it if you went back to hating and being annoyed at every single thing I say,” I admit, gladly reaching out for the bags as the cashier hands them over the counter. “You paying for my hotel was more than enough. Hell, putting the miles on your car is already way too much. I’m just happy that you’re here. So please, let me pay for things, too.”
That thankfully has him relenting as he follows after me. I head toward the entrance door and hold it open for him as we step outside. “Fine, but it did only feel fair, given that you just paid for the gas,” he mutters. “And for the record, you annoy me, but I wouldn’t go as far as saying I ever hated you,” he casually suggests as he heads toward the driver’s seat while I take my spot as the resident passenger princess.
“Well, you’ve never road-tripped or been forced to spend more than a day or two around me, so let’s save your opinions on how much you hate or dislike me until the end of our little adventure. There’s still plenty of time for me to change your opinion on that one,” I playfully advise as I set the bags to the side and buckle myself in.
“True, but one thing I can promise you, princess. If you spill any of that shit or stain the interior of my car, I will definitely hate you.”
“Noted.”