15. Meghan
MEGHAN
I can not believe the nerve of this guy. Who the fuck does he think he is? He was a complete piece of shit to me the last time I saw him. Then today he just walks right up to me. Does he seriously think I’ll talk to him?
Argh! I want to scream! But that’d probably get me escorted out of the building, and I really need to refill my cupboards.
Hopefully that nosy old bitch will keep him busy with complaints. Then he can scamper over to the cooler section, find some bags of blood (which I’m sure he drinks for dinner), and get the hell out of here.
Might as well get back to my list. No way he’ll track me down after that outburst.
Pulling my cart to a stop, I look around and see I’m in the condiment aisle.
Perfect. I need to replenish my mustards.
An uncultured child might think that one type is enough, but they’d be wrong.
Yellow is great for your classic all-American dishes.
Honey mustard is perfect for turning a panini into something fancy.
And spicy brown is wonderful in vinaigrettes.
With that thought, and a small pile of mustards in my cart, my hand trails down the shelf until I find the large array of vinegars.
Some people are purists, but I’m all about flavor.
I have several at home already, but hmmm…
This cinnamon pear aged vinegar has my gears turning and my mouth starts watering just thinking about the possibilities.
Placing it next to my mustards, I start to think that one new bottle isn’t enough. I should get a second.
When I think, I have a habit of wiggling my toes.
Wiggling my toes now, my gaze moves to my feet.
My feet, clad in sandals, despite the nearly freezing, nearly November weather.
This was meant to be my low-key self-love day, so I dressed accordingly.
A wash of dread starts at my bare toes and rolls up my legs.
The Greek idiot ex god just saw me. Like this.
My footwear is made of worn, brown leather and is what my friends refer to as my Jesus sandals .
They expose my toes, each painted a different fall color.
And it only gets worse as you go up. I’m wearing a pair of very snug, and very comfortable black leggings.
Those aren’t too bad. My sweater is a bit much, though.
It’s an oversized cardigan, and it’s tie-dyed.
By me, I might add. It’s a flurry of green and purple with the original shade of tan peeking through.
It’s glorious, and completely yikes . But the shirt under the cardigan is the real cringer.
It’s a white wife beater with “I like big Bundts” screen printed across the chest. Complete with an image of a Bundt cake.
After that, who cares about my mass of red curls tossed into an extra messy, messy bun.
I look like l walked away from a 21 st century Woodstock, and the purple feather earrings just confirm it.
Movement at the end of the aisle catches my attention. Bracing myself for the worst, I turn and see the bane of my existence. And he’s heading towards me.
Quickly, I decide I’m done with the condiments. If he needs to buy something from here, he can buy it without company.
Refusing to make eye contact, I spin my cart around like a contestant on a reality shopping show and escape.
In the brief glance I took, I saw he was just carrying a basket, so he can’t be here for much. He better fill ‘er up fast because I don’t want to spend my whole time here fleeing him.
Deciding distance will make me safer, I dart past several aisles before randomly selecting one. Pulling to a stop halfway down, I take out my phone to consult my list. Checking off my mustards and pineapple, I still have a long way to go .
Okay, deep breath. I will not let Assface ruin my self-love shopping vibe. I close my eyes and force myself to take several deep breaths. Aware that I’m in public, I chant silently, moving my lips but not making a sound.
I do not care what that man thinks of me. I do not care if I’m dressed like a total goober. I do not care if said man is hot-as-fuck. I do not care if his voice sets my libido off like a match soaked in gasoline. I do not care. I do not care. I do not care.
With a final exhale, I open my eyes. And shriek.
My hands fly up to cover my mouth, attempting to trap in the sound.
I’m face-to-face with Ash-hole. And he’s grinning.
“Hey, Banshee. What just happened there?” He gestures at me, as if I wasn’t sure what he was referring to. “Was that a meditation, or some sort of seizure?”
“It was none of your damn business!” I fume. “You’d probably be thrilled if I keeled over, so what do you care.”
I grab hold of my cart so I can push past him, but he stomps his foot down, blocking the front wheel.
I turn my stormy glare on him, a little surprised to see that his grin is gone.
“What?” My hostility is clear in the word.
He sighs. “I’m sorry.”
I roll my eyes.
“I am - " he takes one step towards me. “I shouldn’t have said those things to you.”
Knowing that he’s referring to our last encounter, my emotions rise back up as if it just happened. But I won’t let him get the best of me this time. I don’t care what a man thinks of me.
I do my best to sound calm. “You’re right, Ash. You shouldn’t have said those things, but you did.”
His eyes narrow. “You’ve never called me Ash before.”
“Yeah, well, I figured if all the other slut bunnies call you that, I should too.”
He breaks eye contact, and I use the opportunity to push past him.
“Meghan!” he calls after me .
I don’t stop.
“Please - " his voice comes out quieter.
Damnit!
I stop.
I keep my back to him but listen to his footsteps.
I hold a deep inhale, releasing the breath when he stops next to me.
I want to keep staring forward, but I’ve always tried to face my fears straight on.
And for some reason, part of me is afraid of this confrontation.
I can’t imagine he’s following me around just to be mean to me again, but the mind isn’t always rational.
Slowly, I turn to him. Mustering all my inner courage, I put my hands on my hips and wipe the nervous expression from my face.
Making eye contact this close, his dark eyes show more emotion than I think he realizes.
I can read his worry and hesitation, and it makes me feel a little more at ease.
He should apologize to me, but I definitely wasn’t expecting him to.
And I don’t know if I should believe whatever’s about to come out of his mouth.
As we stand here, watching each other, a bit of his unruly black hair falls across his face. And I have the absurd urge to reach out and brush it away.
“I just… I need to explain.” He runs a hand over his always-there shadow of a beard. I can hear the scratch of it against his palm. “You were right.”
My eyebrows shoot up. Well, that's a good start.
He continues, “I was upset. I don’t do well when we lose. It pisses me off and puts me in a shit mood. Everyone knows it, so everyone leaves me alone after a game like that. They know that I need time to cool off. Otherwise I’m a total asshole.”
I make a humming sound in agreement, and he gives me a half smile, half cringe.
“I’m not sure why you were down there, but I wasn’t expecting it.
I know you were trying to be nice.” He looks away from me.
“Honestly, when I saw you, I thought maybe you were there to try to hook up. Then you started talking about losing the game, and your brothers, and I just didn’t know what to think.
I didn’t want to talk about it, and the fucked up part of my brain figured that being a jerk would be the quickest way to end the conversation. ”
“If that was your goal, it worked,” I reply bluntly.
With his eyes back on me, he gives me a slight nod.
I keep my hands on my hips. “I’m not some jersey chaser.
Just because my friends have found hockey players to be with, doesn’t mean I have some delusion that I’ll find my happily-ever-after on the team.
I’m not after you because you’re an athlete.
” Realizing how that sounds, I add, “I’m not after you at all. ”
“I know. I do. And as fucking dumb as it sounds, I think that’s why I called you… that . It was the most ridiculous thing I could think of.” He runs a hand through his hair, serving only to mess it up even more. “I’m an idiot.”
“Yes, you are.” I agree.
“Do you forgive me?”
When I don’t answer, he squats down, putting us eye level with each other.
His expression is so earnest that I find myself wanting to believe him.
I know how much of a mindfuck losing can be, and I can only imagine how much worse it is to deal with when you’re at his level.
But I don’t want to just be another one of those bimbos who lets a man push her around just because he has a hot face and a heavy bank account.
At my continued silence, Sebastian raises his eyebrows, looking hopeful.
“I’m thinking,” I say. “You really were a prick. A giant asshat.”
He nods. “Don’t forget dickhole.”
I fight against the urge to smile. “How could I forget?”
“That old lady sure won’t. She had quite a bit to say about you.”
“Seems to be going around,” I reply.
He winces. Then, to my surprise, he drops to his knees.
Clasping his hands together in front of him, he literally begs me for forgiveness.
“Please, Meghan. Megs. Banshee. My Fire Goddess of Wisdom and Kindness. Please forgive me. I’m so sorry for the things I said.
I’m a major dickhole and I’ll owe you a life debt if only you’ll accept my apology. ”
“Oh my god! Get up, lunatic!” I motion with my hands for him to rise.
“Not ‘til you forgive me. I take it all back. You’re no bunny. Never were. Never could be. You’re a Banshee.”
“Fine. Fine! You’re forgiven.”