Page 25 of Love Me Knot

“Good girl,” I purr.

Her eyes narrow as if she’s thinking about taking the phone back. I pull away so she can’t and set things up, finishing by sending myself a text from her number. She can delete me from her contacts, but I have her number now. And she won’t block me.

Without a word, I return Chelsea’s phone, and she storms away, just as mute.

Chelsea

I can’t get out of here fast enough. Why did you tell him, Stupid?

Now, all Jackson is going to see are my flaws. Too much cushion around the middle. Thunder thighs. Uncertainty in my eyes. Pathetic people-pleaser.

Once people notice those traits about you, they respond in one of two ways: one, they take advantage of your giving tendencies, or two, constant ridicule because you don’t fight back. I’ve seen plenty of both. In high school, the it girls enjoyed making a servant of an ugly duckling starved for friendship. I don’t like reliving memories of the other kind.

After slamming my door shut, I grip the steering wheel and bite my tongue to keep from screaming. The years of groveling and humiliation come roaring back, pain and shame just as sharp as they ever were. A honking horn reminds me of the PMCs filtering through the parking lot, and I rush to crank the car and leave before someone sees me breaking down.

Here I am again. I thought high school was my rock bottom. My third year of college proved me wrong, but I thought I was finally past all the drama. It’s not like life can ever get that bad again. That year changed me forever, and not for the good.

My boyfriend at the time was in law school, working in an internship his last summer. We met through a civics class team project. I did much of the work, and he was impressed by my dedication, or so he’d said. I was happy to be working toward a life with an exciting career and devoted boyfriend.

Looking back, I can easily see I was little more than a functional placeholder. All it took was a few flowery words, and I was happy to service Trace as he wanted.

The firm Trace interned for held a fancy banquet, and I was his date. Because of our work schedules, I planned to meet Trace at the venue instead of riding together. I found him quickly after arriving, and we’ll say he was less than pleased with my appearance.

“You’re not wearing the dress I bought.”

“I forgot my shapewear and couldn’t get the zipper closed. I think the sizing is labeled wrong. I found this in a boutique on campus. I think it looks good.”

“If you had time to shop, why didn’t you just go home to get your girdle?”

I tried to explain that I only had thirty minutes and we lived twenty minutes away, but Trace stormed off, walking into the party without me. To make matters worse, I mispronounced the name of something during dinner. I don’t even remember what it was.

Halfway through the evening, Trace had enough. He pulled me from the ballroom and didn’t stop until we were inside a janitor’s-closet-slash-maintenance office. I guess my usefulness outweighed his benevolence that night. Trace told me I was humiliating him. I wasn’t charming and intelligent. I was frumpy and inept. He said that I should do him a favor and go home before I embarrassed him further.

Everything changed for me that night. I watched my first real boyfriend stalk away and slam the door, abandoning me to the janitor’s closet. I remember dropping onto the beat-up chair in front of an ancient desk, wondering how I could be so careless and ruin Trace’s chance to stand out.

For a long while after he left me there, I sat, eyeing a bottle of drain cleaner. I felt useless, ugly, and unlovable. I almost decided I would rather drink my death than face another day getting shit on.

The bottle was in my hand when a weathered old hag shoved open the door. She took one look at the bottle and then me. “Fuck ‘em. Ain’t a one of ‘em worth it.”

“Wh…what are you talking about?” I asked, clambering out of her seat.

“Psh. Whatever ass lickers got you moping in a closet.”

The older woman motioned for me to sit back down and opened a small fridge above her desk. She pulled out two bottles of water and two candy bars. I accepted the water but waved off the chocolate after looking down at my waist. “Um, no thanks. I don’t need the sugar.”

She put the bar back, nodding her head. “Suit yourself. One day, you’ll get tired of it.”

“Tired of what?”

The weathered woman rolled her eyes in impatience. “I’m guessing you’re tryin’ really hard to be somebody you ain’t just to make somebody else happy. It don’t matter if it’s looks, brains, wants, or whatever. There’s always gonna be some fucker out there that won’t ever accept you because they ain’t happy with themselves. I figure you have two choices. You can keep being miserable with ‘em or give ‘em the finger and go do something else. The truth is, honey, if they don’t already, they ain’t ever gonna like you for you.”

She takes a big bite of her candy bar and talks through chewing. “So, like I said. Fuck ‘em. Be the opposite of what they expect. Then, at least, you won’t have to deal with ‘em anymore.” She swallows the bite and says, “Now, get the fuck out of my chair.”

The next morning, I did the opposite of what everyone expected. I withdrew from engineering school and joined the Marines, psychosis and all.

The Marines didn’t care about my personality, only that I could follow orders and not quit. That’s where I excelled. I was so used to people-pleasing that following orders was as natural as breathing.

They also didn’t care if I was a little soft as long as I met the physical requirements. I had to work up to them and bulked up in the muscle area. By the end of basic training, my new muscles evened out my shape, and my curves weren’t so…much anymore.

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