“Maybe he doesn’t see it that way.” I shrug and wipe my snotty, swollen nose again.
“He should be thanking you.” He comes closer. “I do.”
I shake my head. “I didn’t do anything.”
He gently touches my shoulder. “We both know you did, and I owe you.”
I try to smile again. “Stop. You don’t owe me anything.”
“Do you want me to talk to him?” His voice becomes firmer, his eyes searching mine.
“No!” I exclaim too loudly, then smother a wince. “No,” I add more quietly. “It’s fine. Don’t get involved.”
“I already am,” he points out.
I offer him a sad smile. “We don’t know that.”
“Bullshit.” His voice rises slightly. “The whole town knows that’s when it all started.”
“Mark,” I plead, waiting for him to calm down as he ignores me, pacing. “Mark.”
“What?” he snaps. I’ve known him way too long to fear him in this angry state, especially knowing it’s not directed at me. I know his bark is bigger than his bite.
I walk to him, and he finally stops. I want him tosee. “It’s not your fault.”
His features twist in a snarl. “Kayla, you get treated like shit by half this town for sins you didn’t commit, and he just keeps adding fuel to the fire.” His voice drops an octave in anger.
“Just like you were,” I reason sadly. “And it's not because of that night. It's because we were born on the wrong side of Little Hope." Mark has a younger sister, who he essentially raised. Their father was—still is—an abusive son of a bitch, and Mark often drew attention to himself so his sister would be spared. Like I said—a protector. Reminds me of Alex a little, but rougher around the edges—yes, even rougher than Alex, if you can imagine that. Mark didn’t have a supportive upbringing or caring parents, so he fended for himself. And I’m happy to see the man he’s become. Doesn’t hurt that he looks good, too. Not that I’d ever look at Mark as more than a friend—he’s practically a brother since he got his knuckles scraped for me a few times, too—but objectively speaking, he’s an attractive specimen. He’s tall, very bulky, and very hairy. He has a man-bun, a beard, and on few occasions now, I’ve seen him shirtless—his chest is very yeti-like, in both size and furriness.
I poke him in the chest, testing how hard his muscles are. “Man, you got, like, super big,” I tease to lighten up the mood, stepping back to look him up and down. “Are you shooting something?”
Mark was always a scrawny kid, tall with long limbs and shaggy hair, so it’s a huge surprise that he filled out his long body with so much meat.
“Good diet does wonders.” He pats his rock-hard belly with a laugh.
“It sure does. Speaking of which, want something to eat?”
“Nah, I’m good. I gotta go.” He hikes a thumb over his shoulder. “I just got off a double shift, so I could use some sleep. I just sawhimwalking this way and wanted to make sure you were okay.” He scratches his chin covered in a neat, trimmed beard.
“Everything in this town is ‘this way.’” I laugh, but it’s true. In small towns, there is always a Main Street, and everything usually leads there. As it happens, the diner is on Main Street, so we get more action than most.
“Yeah. Take care, Kayla. Call me if you change your mind about the talk.” He waves and walks outside.
I let out a breath I’ve been holding since he asked if I needed his help. Honest to God, I considered taking him up on his offer, but Mark and Justin have a lot of bad blood between them. This is my battle with Justin, and I’ll deal with it. Eventually.
I look around the diner and sigh. I’ve been painting the mural I’ve drawn for this wall for a long time, and my inspiration just got squashed by a sandy-haired asshole with a killer ass. The rest of the work will require way more time than I initially anticipated. I finish as much as I can, hoping to be done tomorrow morning, clean up, and drive home, saying a silentthank youto the universe when my car starts on the first try. It must have felt my distress.
* * *
The next morning, my mood is a little better. It took me a few tries and a jump start from my generator, but my Jeep was back on the road, and we were rollin’, baby.
A couple hours ago, Freya dropped off her “old” phone—in pristine condition, without a single scratch on it, and now I ditch my thousand-year-old iPod that jams every two minutes. I tried to give it back, but she refused, saying that if she ever needed me, how would she contact me? And she needs me every day, per her words. That sneaky fox.
So, I have a phone now; the only thing missing is a new SIM card I need to get from the store.
I’m finishing painting the wall in the kitchen when Marina walks in, her hands full of bags.
“What are you doing here?” She looks around and whistles. “Kayla, honey, did you spend all night painting?”
