Luke clears his throat. “Not gonna lie. I was really into her.” Aww, Luke!
At least now that I know what’s going on, I can explain and clear the air. Luke and I can get back together, or at least part as friends.
I just read that men mature fully a whopping eleven years after women, but that’s no excuse for Olly. He’s supposed to be the smart one out of Bash’s buddies. How could he think I’d have it in me to betray my boyfriend, or anyone for that matter?
“Nah. You can do better, man. Maggie’s pretty, I guess, but any chick who would lie to your face like that is not worth the time.”
He “guesses” I’m pretty. We all know what that means.
My eyes fill, and I try to blink away the tears. Hearing how Olly really sees me is somehow worse than Luke’s grunt of agreement.
It’s not like I think I’m some beauty queen or anything. My mom says I’m a late bloomer, which is code for not having any boobs. And my butt is pretty small too. Would it be wrong to say a rosary and ask Jesus for better endowments?
I clench my jaw and barely resist leaping out from behind the couch to smash this crusty chemistry book on Olly’s smug mug when Luke says, “I’m over it. Fucked Virginia ten ways to Sunday last night. Maggie had decent tits and all, but Virginia’s…” He growls like an animal. “Virginia has two giant handfuls of beauty. Why I was wasting my time dating a virgin is beyond me. Senior year is the time to get laid, am I right?”
Virginia. His best friend. The one he swore was “just a friend.”
Before the other dumbass can respond, my brother returns with dinner.
The guys stuff their faces while I cry quietly behind the couch and vow to get back at Michael Oliver.
They say revenge is a dish best served cold.
And I plan to serve it.
1
OLLY
FOUR YEARS LATER
“I was thinking I should hire a dancer… from Heavenly Hunks,” my sister says.
All the girls cackle, and I nearly choke on my coffee.
I slam down my mug. “Y’all know I don’t really work there, right? For the millionth time, that’s a stock photo.” My ex-girlfriend Amelia set up that shoot last fall. She said it would be “great exposure.” Somehow, a billboard of me on the main drag of Charming, advertising a strip club, isn’t the kind of exposure I had in mind.
Those assholes seem to be doing a whole series. The first one popped up before the holidays. It featured me in a Santa hat with something about putting a Heavenly Hunk under your mistletoe. In the latest one that went up last week, they gave me a bow tie to ring in the New Year.
I glare at my sister Kayla when she keeps joking about it. “Doncha think it’d be pretty gross for your own brother to show up as the dancer at your bachelorette party, sporting a thong and shaking his banana?”
My mom can barely contain the mirth in her eyes as she darts around the dining room table, serving everyone her famous cinnamon rolls. “Don’t be such a prude, Michael. It’s just a joke.”
I look to my father at the head of the table. I can’t see him over the newspaper, but his shoulders are shaking. At least he has the decency to not laugh out loud.
But my sister’s friends are snorting and giggling and making crude gestures at me when my parents aren’t looking. I’ve never catcalled a woman before, and this moment right here is why I never will.
“Here, have another cinnamon roll,” my mom says, as if vast quantities of carbs and sugar will solve all my problems.
I have more than one at the moment.
And I’m not even talking about that damn billboard or the ex-girlfriend who was behind it.
I hold up my hand as I struggle to stand. “I’m good.”
“Oh, honey, don’t go. They’re just teasing.” My mom holds out her oven-mitted hands.
“I know. We’re cool. Just want to check on Gramps before I leave.”
