Page 65 of The One I Hate
I shake my head. “Denial doesn’t look good on you, Simon.”
He pulls at his hair, and I’m pretty sure if we weren’t in public, he’d be letting out a scream of frustration. “Charlie. I don’t know what you want me to say. Because if I did, I’d say it.”
“Admit what you did.”
I must give him credit; he’s earning an Academy Award for this performance of “Confused Asshole in a Comedy.”
“I can’t admit something I didn’t do. Or even know what it is.”
I take a step closer, somehow feeling empowered by his lies and denial. “You know what you did. So when you’re ready to take your share of the blame, then you come and see me. Until then, don’t speak to me.”
I march back to my buggy, leaving Simon staring and seething.
Whew. Things got a bit dicey there for a second, but I think we can confidently call this round another win for me.
I did not want to get out of bed today.
My stomach hates me. I’m tired from pulling double duty at the restaurant and Napoli’s. Mellie’s helping at the diner, but she’s also still working so she’s doing what she can. I just want to curl up on the couch with some Funyuns and the cultdocumentary I still haven’t had time to watch. But no…I have to be a responsible adult and shit.
It’s the worst.
But since it’s a beautiful day, and I’m hopeful some sunshine will serve as the medicine to wake me up, I choose to do the task I’ve been putting off all week—washing the windows and touching up the exterior.
There are people walking along the streets who stop to tell me hello and to introduce themselves. While I hate meeting everyone wearing raggedy denim shorts, a tank top, and my hair in a bandanna like I’m Rosie the Riveter, it’s nice to feel like I’m officially being welcomed into Rolling Hills. I’m also glad that no one seems to be bringing up my altercation with Simon at the grocery store the other day. Then again, another blow-up could happen at any moment if he keeps running past my diner like he has been for the last twenty minutes.
And not just running. Running shirtless.
Asshole.
And even worse than him running shirtless, sweating and tanned, is that he’s doing exactly what I asked him to do. He’s not talking. Not acknowledging me. Not even waving hello.
What an asshole.
I catch him out of the corner of my eye, which to my count would be his sixth time past in I don’t know how many minutes. Is he doing laps around my building on purpose? He must be. Not that I mean to be counting. It’s just hard not to notice when a ripped, tanned, sweating man, who has given you the best orgasms of your life, runs past you.
Don’t think about orgasms.
Or how those abs felt when you trailed your fingers down them.
Or how his arms felt holding you. Or when you grabbed onto them when you were about to fall apart.
Ironically, the sight of him coming past for lap seven is what breaks me from my trip down orgasm memory lane.
“Enough!” I yell, throwing the sponge into the bucket, which of course means it splashes water and soap all over me. “What are you doing?”
He stops in front of me, his breathing heavy as he hits a few buttons on his smartwatch. I wait for him to say something, anything, but he doesn’t. He just stands there, breathing. Sweating. Looking annoyingly hot.
“Simon! What the hell are you doing?”
He leans in to me so he can whisper. “Am I allowed to talk? I didn’t know if I had permission.”
I take a step back and throw my hands in the air. “Oh my God. Yes. Just speak.”
“Phew. I didn’t know what the rules were anymore. In fact, I don’t know a lot of things right now.”
I ignore his comment. “What are you doing?”
He looks down at himself then back to me. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m getting in my cardiovascular workout.”
