Chapter 5
I 'm mortified, and furious for feeling mortified, because of Reid fucking Andersen and the toxic word sludge that poured from his delicious, manly, sexy mouth at the banquet last night. Why do the hot ones always have to be jerks or taken? Part of my mortification is because somewhere deep inside, I’ve always held a candle for Reid.
I know he’s too old for me. Nine years isn’t chump change.
Looking back, there's no way a twenty-something-year-old man would have even glanced at a middle school girl, and for good reason, but my little heart wished he’d notice me.
I never let myself hope that one day I’d be one of the girls warming his bed, but I’ve fantasized about him a few thousand times over the years.
None of the men I’ve ever encountered came close to measuring up to him.
Or at least the version of him I've painstakingly constructed since puberty. My stomach sours realizing he’s not the man I thought he was.
I'm a bit heartbroken my image of Reid has been shattered.
I'm embarrassed that my new bosses saw my outburst and were reminded of my past. I have to work in extremely close proximity to a man who seems to despise me.
I can do that. All I have to do is rock a brand-new job I'm less than qualified for, get him to tolerate me, all while pushing down this foolish crush and pretending to be unfazed by him. Easy peasy.
I need to end my pity party because I'm going out for lunch today to celebrate Olivia’s college graduation and her twenty-second birthday. And a little bit also to celebrate me coming home and landing my new job. I start work on Monday, so the girlies and I are taking this weekend to reconnect.
Delilah knocks on my door, even though she always comes right in anyway.
My sweet sister comes to stand beside me while I finish my makeup.
We have a single shared bathroom in the trailer and no room for excess furniture like a vanity, so I sit on my bed with the same Caboodle I’ve had since fifth grade and do my makeup using the reverse camera on my phone.
Delilah finger combs my hair, and I close my eyes enjoying the scalp tingles.
“Are you about ready Iz?
“Yep, let me do my eyeliner and we're good to go.” I look over at my sister, who always looked nearly identical to me, but eleven months younger, and take in our now striking differences. Whereas my hair is chopped into a blunt lob, Lilah’s flows down her back nearly to her waist. I used to have hair just like hers.
I bite the inside of my cheek to distract me from the reason I keep it short.
She's fresh faced, clear skin, kissed with lip balm and a touch of mascara. She's glowing, the love and positivity radiates from her like a fallen angel. I'd look just like her if I didn’t hide behind layer upon layer of shame, pessimism, and makeup. To the outside world, those layers look like sharp winged black eyeliner and spidery black lashes hiding behind oversized pink cat-eye glasses, paired nose piercings, resting-bitch face, and clothes that don’t exactly match our small mountain town. I might be the only person in town who walks around in lug-sole combat boots. No matter the weather, I’m in leggings or torn jeans and one of my signature pink graphic tees beneath an old jean or bomber jacket.
I look like a wreck next to my fawn of a sister.
She's wearing a cream sweater that feels like it’s made from stuffed animal fur, high waisted dark wash jeans, bootcut and hanging perfectly over her favorite cowgirl boots.
Growing up without much, Delilah learned how to darn her socks, patch holes, and make her items last. I, however, used and abused my things, because everyone already thought I was a worthless mess.
Deciding this is as good as my appearance is going to get, I lock my phone, pack away my Caboodle, and give my sister a peck on the cheek. “Let’s go babes.”
Delilah and I walk arm in arm to The Flying Pig, the dive-y, cliche, nostalgic, incredible pub on Main.
Swiftwater is a town that most people pass through on their way to larger towns deeper in the hills or down the pass back to Denver.
A truck route glitzed up with an adorable main street and loyal residents.
Most of the families have been here for generations, so everyone knows everyone—one of the main reasons I got out as quickly as I could. A sigh escapes me as I steel myself to see a sea of familiar faces. Faces that have judged me and looked down on me and my sister our entire lives.
We push in through the heavy wood door and revel in the warmth. It’s crisp outside, the fall air cooling by the day. A loud shriek draws our attention to a booth along the back wall. Olivia beat us here, unsurprisingly. Our bestie, Miss Type A+++, is always early for everything.
I immediately blush as I feel a wave of eyes flit between Olivia and the infamous Tate sisters.
I take Delilah’s hand, hold my head high and weave through the cramped tables to the booth.
Olivia is standing waiting for us and nearly bowls me over, jumping onto me like a koala.
I catch her and Delilah is jostled out of the way.
We dissolve into a fit of giggles. Some things never change.
She of course looks flawless. Effortlessly chic in dark jeans tucked into gorgeous riding boots and a form-fitting emerald sweater.
Her gorgeous, sleek red hair is braided in a crown around her head, showing off her porcelain skin dotted with freckles and stunning green eyes.
If I didn’t love her so much, I might hate her.
I shrug off my coat and usher Olivia and Delilah into one side of the booth so I can sit across from them with some breathing room.
I’m nervous to be out in public and if I feel confined in this booth I might crawl out of my skin.
The bartender cranes his neck over the crowd and catches my eye.
I throw up my pointer finger and raise my eyebrows at him, signaling that I’d like my usual.
Moving his eyes to the girls, they also give him a smile and a nod indicating their usuals.
LouAnn, Frank’s ballbuster of a wife, unceremoniously delivers our drinks to the edge of the table.
I grab my Pepsi and slide the lemonade over to Delilah, and iced tea to Olivia.
Impatiently tapping her foot, LouAnn awaits our orders.
She never writes anything down and honestly gets your order wrong half of the time.
But the menu is fantastic, and none of the locals want to face her wrath, so we go with the flow.
I haven’t been here in two years and have been dreaming of a Greasy Spoon.
Two scratch-made buttermilk biscuits, stacked and buried in peppery sausage country gravy, topped with over-medium eggs, with a giant spoon stuck into the middle of the pile.
I order as such, and Olivia orders her hallmark double bacon cheeseburger, no veggies, and cheese fries.
Delilah orders the soup of the day and a house salad with extra tomatoes, ranch on the side.
She had abdominal surgery as a kid that left a scar she’s always hated.
I think that’s when she started shrinking herself in ways beyond just trying to avoid our parents’ negative attention—cutting back on food, picking it apart, obsessing over every bite.
It’s taken years to get here. And while I still worry about the way she treats eating like a math problem, I’m just relieved she’s not skipping meals or punishing herself anymore.
If she’s ordering dressing today, I know she’s trying. And that’s something.
Me, on the other hand? I made peace with my shape a long time ago—even if I’m still figuring the rest out.
I’m a reluctant member of the itty-bitty titty committee.
I'd kill for breasts like Olivia, or even for a little bit more like Delilah.
My waist tapers in slightly and my hips flare out giving me a pear-like shape and several handfuls of ass.
“Tell. Me. Everything,” Olivia launches in.
“When Lilah said you were coming home, I told her I’d believe it when I see it, and now here you are!
” She does an adorable little wiggle and claps her hands beneath her chin.
“I mean, it’s not like I’ve been here either, but during school I came back for almost every holiday break and for special occasions.
My parents were upset enough that I was going away for school, so I came back as often as I could.
So, I'm not nearly as out of the loop as you, Izzy. Speaking of. Oh my god, did you hear…” Olivia doesn’t seem to take a breath, talking so fast it’s hard to keep up. I’ve missed my little rocket.
Olivia Dalton attached herself to me and Delilah in elementary school.
She came into our lives like an alien crash landing.
A bright-eyed kindergartener with fiery red hair beelined over to me and Delilah on the playground and started chattering at us.
Her larger-than-life personality enchanted us, and we’ve been inseparable ever since.
It was her home life that felt the most alien to us. We lived in a run-down double-wide in the equally run-down part of town. Beer cans and liquor bottles typically littered our porch and overflowed in the trash cans, and we didn’t always have enough food to eat.
As a matter of fact, we didn’t always have all the utilities running at the same time. Mom and Dad tended to drink or gamble away the bill money. It was a common occurrence for us not to have running water, electricity, and heat all at the same time. We were typically without at least one.