Chapter Eleven Stand Up for Yourself
Chapter Eleven
Stand Up for Yourself
Frankie
Hayes seems even grumpier than usual. I wonder if something’s wrong between him and Malibu Barbie. The Grumpillonaire and the Barbie . . . it sounds like the title to a cheesy romance novel. I decide not to dwell on their drama. Not my circus, not my monkeys.
Malachi’s nice at least. He told me a story on the walk over about his last trip to Hawaii—it was right before he graduated from high school—and he got stung by a jellyfish in a very unfortunate spot on his body. His mother insisted on helping him, which was awkward, to put it mildly.
After we place our lunch orders at the counter, Malachi and I find a picnic table to sit down at to wait while Hayes and Olivia are still in line.
“What’s their deal?” I ask, tipping my chin toward them.
Malachi shakes his head. “That?” He glances to where they’re standing. “That is a result of bad parenting—probably on both sides—and little to no self-awareness. Neither of them is fit to date, especially not each other.”
His assessment is interesting, to say the least.
“Watching how Hayes was raised, it’s no doubt he has issues,” Malachi adds.
Charles kind of said something similar when I complained about his nephew. I’ll admit, I’m curious, but Hayes is a twenty-nine-year-old man. It’s like—grow up, dude. Get over it.
“So you two grew up together?”
He nods. “We met in the fourth grade. Best friends ever since.”
Hayes and Olivia make their way over to us. The way they’re sitting—a wide expanse between them and her glued to her phone—gives me another clue that they’re not quite the happy couple I first assumed they were.
A server delivers our food, and I’m so hungry that I dive right in.
Olivia delicately picks at her salad, pushing the croutons to the side like they’ve personally offended her. Meanwhile, I take a massive bite of mahi mahi and grin at her.
Hayes gives me a hard look, uncertainty painted across his features.
“What?” I ask.
“You seriously ordered grilled fish and spinach? When there’s a walking taco on the menu that’s literally just a bag of Fritos with that horrible, processed meat you like?”
Don’t rub it in.
“I’m trying to make better choices.” Now that I have to be seen next to your waif-thin toy in a bikini.
“How’s that going for you?”
“I’m one day in.”
He laughs.
Him laughing is such a rare occurrence that I pause to appreciate it. He actually has a nice laugh—it’s warm, rich, and genuine. He doesn’t do pity laughs or fake smiles, so if you get one, it’s because you earned it.
Our eyes meet across the table. His expression is curious . . . a little sad, a little hopeful. I’m not sure what to make of it.
I really wish I hadn’t shown his photo to Tessa. I also really wish Tessa hadn’t pointed out how attractive he is.
“Here’s a serious question for you,” I say, watching Hayes stab aimlessly at his plate. He looks up and meets my eyes. “Are you angry at that piece of salmon?”
He grumbles and nearly snaps the plastic fork in two. “This thing is worthless.”
“It’s a fork, Hayes, chill.” Is he seriously so pampered that he can’t use a plastic fork?!
He holds it up. “This is not a fork. Cutlery shouldn’t be biodegradable.”
“Excuse me,” I say, pointing a plastic knife at him. “Think of the environment.”
“I am,” he insists. “Surely it wouldn’t take much extra work to offer actual silverware and throw it in the dishwasher.”
He has a point. And here I thought he was just being snooty about eating with flimsy flatware. Though to be fair, he probably is.
“So where are you and the old man headed next?” Malachi asks me, trying to make conversation.
“I’m actually not sure. I’ve just been taking things one day at a time.”
Olivia sips her cocktail and tilts her head, like she’s weighing something over in her mind.
“You know,” she says, turning her attention to me, “it’s almost impressive how well you’ve managed to keep up. I imagine all of this”—she gestures vaguely at our idyllic surroundings—“must feel a little overwhelming for someone like you.”
I blink. “Someone like me?”
“Stop, Olivia,” Hayes warns.
She tilts her head, lips curving in a faux-apologetic smile. “Oh, you know. It’s just . . . not exactly your world.” She gestures vaguely around us—the cabanas, the designer resort wear, the kind of wealth that doesn’t check price tags. “I imagine it’s a little overwhelming.”
There it is. The little dig wrapped in a velvet glove. The old me—yesterday me—would have just laughed it off, maybe even agreed. This isn’t my world. But today? Today I’m tired. Tired of pretending I don’t notice when people like Olivia talk down to me like I’m some kind of charity case.
I set my drink down, meeting her gaze with a look that says not today, Satan.
“You’re right, Olivia. This isn’t my world.
I don’t usually vacation in places where a round of cocktails costs nearly as much as my monthly car payment.
But you know what’s funny?” I smile sweetly.
“I’m still here. Turns out, you don’t have to be born into privilege to exist in a space like this. You just have to be invited.”
Her lips part slightly, caught off guard.
I lean in a fraction. “And before you say it—yes, I was invited. By Charles. Who, last time I checked, doesn’t throw around pity invites.”
Olivia blinks, her smile faltering just slightly. “I didn’t mean—”
“Oh, I think you did.” I say, enjoying this far more than I probably should. “But it’s okay, Olivia. I’d hate to take up any more space in your exclusive little world.”
I grab my trash and rise to my feet, feeling an unfamiliar, almost heady satisfaction roll through me. Huh. That felt good.
I head back over to the beachside shack to order something I can bring back for Charles. And maybe a walking taco for me, because Hayes was right—what the hell was I thinking?
While I wait at the counter, I can’t help but see Hayes and Olivia from his vantage point—they’re in a heated conversation behind the bathrooms. She puts her hand on her hip and gives him a mocking look. Hayes looks down and shakes his head.
When he looks up at her, he says something—calm, controlled—but she throws up her hands like he just suggested she throw her designer handbag in the ocean.
A tense silence stretches between them before she turns on her heel and struts away, leaving Hayes staring after her, hands shoved deep in his pockets.
Anger rises inside me. I don’t know why I care, don’t know why her mere existence should annoy me so much.
“I’m sorry my breasts didn’t come with receipts,” I mutter.
“What?” Hayes approaches from behind, and his gaze drops to my chest.
“Nothing!” I blurt. I didn’t realize I was talking to myself out loud. We both watch as Olivia storms off, her white dress floating behind her. “Trouble in paradise?” I ask, hoping to steer the conversation away from my boobs.
“Something like that. It’s fine, though.” There’s an edge to his voice, and I sense I’ve touched a nerve.
“Order up for Frankie!” the cashier shouts.
I grab Charles’s lunch and return to Hayes’s side.
“It’s okay to feel your emotions.” He glances over at me like this is a foreign concept. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you that?”
He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Except maybe it does.” Maybe I can impart some of the wisdom Charles is bestowing upon me. What was our last conversation . . . something about asking the right questions. “Does she make you happy?” I grab a stack of napkins and some ketchup packets for Charles.
“I broke up with her,” he says flatly, looking out at the water.
Oh. Is this because of me? But I’m not brave enough to ask him.
“She’ll be flying back to New York this afternoon.”
“Okay.” I wish I sounded even a teensy bit sad about that, but let’s be honest . . . I couldn’t care less about some entitled D-lister getting sent home.
“I need to go to the grocery store. Pick up a few things.” Charles gave me a list.
He needs stool softener, apparently, and some special type of toothpaste.
“I’ll join you,” Hayes announces, rising from his chair.
I’d rather he didn’t, but what can you do? Maybe he’s just bored. The house is quiet because Olivia’s cab took her to the airport an hour ago, and Charles is napping. I’m not sure where Malachi’s gone off to.
Since the neighborhood market is only a mile away and doesn’t require any main roads, I talk him into taking the golf cart.
“You sure this thing is street legal?” He examines the electric golf cart, which has been painted an adorable shade of mint green.
“It’s fine, Hayes. Come on.”
We cruise along in silence, just the hum of the road noise as our backdrop since there’s no radio.
“Meet back up in five?” I suggest just inside the store. I don’t fancy the idea of wandering the aisles together like some cozy couple.
“Fine by me,” he grits out.
Six and a half minutes later, Hayes is waiting for me in the front of the store, standing impatiently near the self-checkout lanes.
“Find everything?” he asks, examining the contents of my overflowing shopping basket.
Somehow between my plus-size tampons, Sour Patch Kids, stool softener, frozen chicken nuggets, and green tea eye masks, it feels too revealing, like he has a snapshot not just into my grocery choices, but into my life.
His own basket, in contrast, offers me a look into his.
Organic mixed greens. Vegan protein powder—unflavored.
And the latest issue of a magazine called The Economist. We couldn’t be more opposite if we tried.
Oh my God, the stool softener!
“Some of this is for Charles, you know.”
He eyes the tampons again. “I’m sure.”
Ugh! He drives me insane. Just as I’m beginning to wonder what the state laws in Hawaii are like for assault, he takes my basket and hands it to the cashier before I have time to protest.
“I’ve got it.”