Expecting an Argument

Chapter 1

“Why can’t this bitch GROW UP???”

My phone lit up in my hand as the text came in. I quickly dropped my buzzing phone into my tiny purse and sucked in a breath.

Damnit, Ashley. Did she have to text me now?

I looked over my shoulder as I was halfway out of the window of the grungiest apartment I had ever seen. Thankfully, my hookup from last night was still snoring on his stained pillowcase.

The angry texts kept rolling in, so I quickly made my exit with my stilettos in one hand and my vibrating purse in the other.

Only after I hopped off the final step of the fire escape did the message alerts finally stop. With my bare feet safely on the pavement, I scrolled through Ashley’s rapid-fire texts.

“Remember how I couldn’t book the Silver Hall for our class reunion?” Ashley had texted. “Remember how I said it was bullshit that the Hall had EVERY weekend next year booked? I just found out that CAITLIN COLE is the Hall’s new manager!”

The memory of Caitlin yelling “Trailer Trash Ash and Off-brand Olivia!” from her Mercedes still lived on in the back of my mind. I was about to ask Ashley if the Silver Hall was still the only event venue in the county when my screen lit up with another text.

“She’s trying to force me to have our ten-year reunion under the rodeo pavilion. I would DIE of embarrassment! Caitlin is pushing thirty and hasn’t changed since she tore my dress at prom!”

As happy as I was to have left all that small-town shit behind, I wasn’t about to let my best friend suffer. If Caitlin Cole and all those other rich assholes back in Elren wanted to be petty, I could be worse.

I started my walk of shame and quickly typed a response. “Sounds like Elren needs a new event venue, then.”

Our old bullies rearing their ugly heads had been the kick Ashley needed to take on the renovation of the abandoned department store in downtown Elren.

Ashley and her husband were already social media famous for documenting the renovation of their house, but turning the dusty department store into a ritzy event venue was a feat even her most devoted fans doubted.

But Ashley and I never backed down from a challenge.

We grew up as the trash without fathers, the girls the church ladies would pray for but wouldn’t let their kids play with. If we wanted respect, we had to work for it.

Though Ashley had charmed her way to become class president and I had taken up a second residence in the library to be valedictorian, throwing the best class reunion in our hometown’s history would prove to all the gossipy diner dwellers and social media stalkers that our success wasn’t a fluke.

And after a year of planning and hard work, we were finally put to the test.

When our class trickled into the reunion after the Friday football game, Ashley and I beamed as we showed off the “Copeland Corner” event venue.

Fairy lights strung high on the exposed brick walls glittered off the restored copper tile ceiling.

Silver mylar balloons spelling “10” surrounded the room.

Boots danced scuffs onto the new varnish of the stained pine floors as throwback hits from high school played through the speakers.

The old cliques reunited around the cocktail tables, but an unexpected few blurred the previously un-crossable lines between groups.

The jean-skirt wearing church girl was now sporting a full tattoo sleeve and was sharing cigarettes with the old potheads.

The lanky star of the boys’ basketball team married the quiet farm boy.

The kid who got suspended for drawing dicks on the door of every bathroom stall stood with the honor society members and bragged about his Ph.D.

Though one might think a passing decade was powerful enough to metamorphose a burnout into a better person, I doubted that anyone truly changed.

People don’t get better, they just get braver.

Even Ashley, who had cowered in the gym bathroom after Caitlin Cole stepped on her train and split the seams of her prom dress wide open, stood in the center of the party with the confidence of a newly-crowned homecoming queen.

She wore a silver cocktail dress that hugged her slim figure and complemented her strawberry blonde hair.

Her husband, Tyson Copeland, proudly held his arm around her waist as the crowd gathered around him.

The crowd of Elren locals congratulated Ashley on the renovation, but those who had moved out of town were falling over themselves to snap a selfie with Tyson—the college football star turned hometown hero.

After enough insistence, Tyson bashfully rubbed his tightly-coiled black hair and raised his hand to show off his national championship ring for photos.

As soon as the crowd broke, I took out my phone and snapped my own photo. I had the perfect vantage point from my barstool, but I still smiled at my luck of capturing the candid shot of Ashley’s sparkling eyes as she mooned over her husband.

Oh, how Caitlin and all the other overgrown mean girls would seethe when I posted that tomorrow.

I leaned against the bar and my cheeks strained from how hard I was smiling.

Ashley and Tyson were the twin stars of the show, but we had wanted the other entrepreneurs in the class to shine too.

Ashley had posted a video of Marisol Martinez giving me a blowout for the reunion to promote her salon.

Two months earlier, Ashley had staged a photoshoot inside Nicole Liu’s boutique where I modeled my navy dress that Nicole had ordered in a size 16 just for me.

Each post was strategic, crafted to highlight the local businesses, expand the reach of the reunion, and persuade more of our classmates to buy tickets to fund the renovation.

Nearly every one of our graduating class of 170 showed up. Trailer Trash Ash and Off-brand Olivia had won again.

Even better, all the pampering I had received on camera made me look hot.

My dark brown hair was glossy and full and my navy dress sparkled like the night sky.

Everyone wanted to look good for their first high school reunion, but I was determined to erase the image of the valedictorian hiding beneath a hoodie from everyone’s minds.

I swiveled on my barstool and gently leaned on my toes, showing off the bright red soles of my stilettos—my reward to myself after securing a big money verdict on the case I had worked on for the past two years.

Was it a slimy lawyer move to flash the red-bottom heels at a small-town class reunion? Sure, but I wanted to make it loud and clear that my “off-brand” days were over.

My career was taking off like a rocket to Mars and I was leaving the small minds of my small town behind for good. The success of the reunion was the first step to healing my inner child, but I was beginning to suspect the wounds from poverty never truly closed.

Being away from the office for so long was making my nerves twitch. I needed a distraction before I started mentally calculating how much money I was losing by partying instead of working.

As I waited for the bartender to return, the tips of my acrylic nails traced the small tiles on the bartop—made from the remains of a century-old floor mosaic that was once at the store’s entrance.

Ashley and Tyson had recovered most of the original department store while completely modernizing the antiquated building.

Instead of changing rooms, they added bathrooms. Instead of clothing racks, they had purchased circular tables.

The bar used to be a soda fountain, so instead of a soda jerk in front of me…

…there was just a regular jerk beside me.

I held back a scowl as a familiar face sat on the bar stool directly to my right.

Even after ten years, I couldn’t forget that oh-so-perfectly combed head of blonde hair.

His cheekbones cut deeper across his face and his eyes had hints of crow’s feet like most of us, but otherwise Beau Fontaine looked exactly the same.

Back in high school, Caitlin Cole and the other rich assholes followed him around like designer-bred puppies because he was too much of a snob to associate with anyone else.

Beau groaned any time we got paired for a group project, threw hard candy at my head from the homecoming float, and even tried to run me over in the school parking lot once.

And he couldn’t have picked anywhere else to sit?

“Adams,” he said in greeting, not bothering to even glance in my direction.

I cringed at the sound of his voice. He was still too good to say my first name, huh? Was Olivia really that hard? Even Liv would have been easier.

“Well, look who strolled out of his manor to pay the peasants a visit,” I said with a laugh that anyone else would interpret as friendly.

That made him slide those blue eyes my way. In true Fontaine fashion, he wore a midnight blue suit rather than the typical sportcoat-and-jeans combo that most of our classmates showed up in. He didn’t have on the white lapel rose that all the other former members of the football team wore, either.

He was probably too afraid to sully his thousand-dollar suit with a grocery store flower.

“Drinks?” asked the baby-faced bartender.

“Old fashioned,” Beau ordered.

I took a quick glance at the chalkboard drink menu and gave the bartender a smile. “I’ll have the ‘Top of the Class,’ please.”

The bartender turned to make my drink and Beau scoffed. “Rub it in, why don’t you?”

This time, I turned to face him. The moment he mooed at me as I crossed the graduation stage still haunted me in the brightly-lit hell of dressing room mirrors—so, yes, I was going to rub it in.

“Don’t be such a sore loser,” I teased. “Some men are happy coming second.”

His eyes locked with mine. A heartbeat passed and the corner of his mouth flicked up as we both caught my unintended innuendo. Just as my cheeks started to grow hot, the bartender set my drink down in front of me.