Page 8 of New Hope, Old Grudges

The memory was blurry, though, and I couldn’t remember what I might’ve done to garner such vitriol from her all these years later.

I rubbed my hand over my jaw. “Were we really that bad to her?” I asked, racking my brain.

Sam chuckled again. “Bro, we were fucking dicks.” He shrugged. “But we were teenagers who didn’t know any better. And she was fucking weird.”

I frowned at my oldest friend, not liking the sound of that chuckle. It sounded mean. Cruel.

“We were old enough to know better,” I told him, the urge to smack him around the ears overwhelming.

The smile went from his face as he understood I wasn’t going to laugh about terrorizing a teenage girl.

“Sure,” he replied somberly. “We’re all reformed here, Sheriff.” He gave me a mock salute. “Why are you asking about…?” he trailed off and went slack-jawed as his eyes went to the entrance. “Who the fuck isthat,and does she want to ride on my mustache?”

My hand tightened around my beer, and I made the executive decision to cut ties with my old buddy. Every week, he seemed to drink more, say more stupid shit and devolve into a neanderthal.

Even though I didn’t want to play into his bullshit, I turned to look at who was coming through the door, if only to catch a glimpse of who I would have to protect if Sam decided to have another drink and forget he was married.

It was then my own eyes went wild.

It was Willow fucking Watson.

WILLOW

Why I decided to go to the bar was anyone’s guess.

Well, it wasn’tthatsurprising. It was either that or stay at home for my mother’s full moon circle. No way did I want to be nearby when it was going on. I had enough of those ceremonies and rituals to scar me for a lifetime, especially the ‘goddess party’ she threw when I got my first period. One she thought was a good idea to invite all of my ‘friends’ to.

I didn’t have any friends when I got my first period. And my mother calling all the teenage girls in my class to celebrate my menstruation was a sure way to ensure I never had any friends.

So yes, the bar made sense. Kind of. Only in the sense that there was liquor for sale. Numbness. That’s what I needed. I would’ve preferred to do my drinking alone in a bathtub like any self-respecting person residing in a pit of despair, but the only available bathtub was full of ‘moon water’ and crystals.

The bar itself wasn’t the kind of small-town bar where every head swiveled to a newcomer walking through the door. Thank God. It was Friday night, and Friday nights in a small town meant everyone was at the local bar to blow off steam, drink away their sorrows or hit on someone. The town was just large enough to have a small amount of tourists who either couldn’t afford Vail and were commuting for their vacation or used this as a pit stop along the way.

I resisted the urge to tug at my dress or play with my hair as I walked up to the bar and felt many curious eyes on me.

I should’ve dressed more discreetly. I should’ve stayed in the stained sweatpants and ratty tee that had been my uniform for the past week. But I’d told myself that I needed to stop wallowing, stop acting like the victim and most importantly, not to sink into the identity of the girl who used to reside in the room I was sleeping in.

The girl who was weak, uncomfortable in her own skin and who let others determine her worth.

Sure, the federal government determined my worth as zero, but that was neither here nor there.

In my hasty exit from my condo in L.A., I’d managed to gather up some clothing. I’d left them crumpled in my suitcase, relics of an old life that taunted me with the places I’d worn them, the person I was in them.

I’d had to sell most of my purses and higher-ticket clothes just to make it back to New Hope, but not all of it.

Not the simple, auburn turtleneck dress that hugged every inch of my body all the way down to my calves. Not the supple tan leather boots that had a pencil-thin heel. Not the deep-maroon wool coat that complimented the dress perfectly.

I wasn’t overly into fashion, labels and brands. I was interested in the power that clothes gave me. It was almost a scientific experiment. If I combined the right number of items together, complimenting shades—I found monotones worked best—and good quality items, people looked at you differently. People looked at you like you were someone who had their shit together. Most importantly, they didn’t look at you like you were an easy target.

That also had to do with the hair, makeup and jewelry. All components must be present for the experiment to be successful. So I’d kept my auburn hair maintained, found the best products to make it shiny and bouncy. I’d watched videos on how to apply makeup in a way that didn’t make my alabaster skin look pale. I’d figured out ways to make my rather small nose look in proportion to my relatively large mouth and eyes.

I’d found a ‘cat eye’ made me look both sharp and professional enough to be taken seriously at the same time as being found attractive by most men.

Another unfortunate fact I’d learned early… People were nicer if you were deemed conventionally attractive.

More so in L.A.

The town of beautiful people where entire industries revolved around making women believe they wouldn't be worth anything unless they ‘fixed’ their noses and erased their wrinkles. In addition to starving themselves.

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