Page 1 of You Belong With Me

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Chapter One

Alana

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” I headbutt the steering wheel of my shitty red Pontiac G6 and groan. I’ve only had it for two years, and the check engine light has been on since the day after the 30-day warranty expired. Considering the price I paid, it’s no surprise that it’s falling apart. I’d expected to have enough money saved up for a down payment on an SUV by this point in my life, yet here we are still driving Greta.

Of course, my battery is dead when I’m already running late for work. Typically, I wouldn’t give a shit, but I’ve only been bartending for Hometown Wings and Beer for two weeks. I don’t want my manager to know that I’m habitually late this early on. I like to ease my bosses into the fact that I’m lacking punctuality. In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have watched that last episode ofSchitt’s Creek,but it was the episode where Patrick serenades David with his rendition of “Simply the Best.” What kind of sociopath would I be if I turned off one of the most endearing scenes in television history?

I get out of my car and slam the door. Then, I give the tire a nice kick for good measure. Hopefully, my neighbor will be home to jump my car again. I run into the main entrance of my semi-rundown apartment building and rush up the stairs.

The dilapidated state of the entire complex makes me wonder where all the rent money the tenants are paying goes. The smell of marijuana and feet always lingers in the hallways, and the security door doesn’t latch properly. Ugly interior and exterior aside, the rent is on the lower end of the scale, and it’s only fifteen minutes away from work. Being the broke bitch I am, I can’t complain.

My footfalls on the stairs are heavy and impatient, and my foot catches on the frayed gray carpet at the top. I fall face first, skinning my hands on the exposed concrete. I consider staying there on the carpet, contemplating the life choices I’ve made that led me here, but I slowly stand.

As I’m assessing the damage to my hands, the door to apartment number six swings open. My hands fly behind my back to cover the evidence of my fall, and I look up at her, smiling.

“Hey Skye, I was getting ready to knock. I’m late for work, and my battery is dead. Is there any way you can give me a jump again?” I rush, hoping she didn’t hear me eat shit two seconds earlier. I rub my palms together while I wait for her answer. The friction helps ease the burn in my hands.

“Of course, Alana, but you need to buy a new battery. You’ve lived here less than a month, and I’ve already jumped your car five times. Now, it doesn’t bother me, so don’t feel you can’t ask me. But what happens if you get out of work late and there’s nobody around to jump you?” She laughs while she says it.

And she’s right, I should buy a new battery. Unfortunately, I used up all of my savings when I moved in. That’s what happens when every place in the area requires a registration fee, the first month’s rent, a security deposit, and separate deposits to turn on the utilities. Thankfully, I found some secondhand furniture pretty cheap. If I hadn’t hit up Habitat ReStore, I’d be living in an unfurnished apartment. Uprooting your life and moving two hours away from your hometown is expensive.

Skye and I head down to jump start my car, and I glance at the time on my phone. Four fifty-two and my shift starts at five. Ugh. I cringe as I dial my work number so I can give my manager a heads up that I’ll be late. While the phone rings, I pop the trunk and grab my jumper cables, and Skye pulls her car up next to Greta.

“Hello, Hometown Wings and Beer, Katie speaking. How may I help you today?” the cashier who answers the phone says dryly.

“Katie, it’s Alana. Can I talk to Jim?” I greet her.

“Yeah, sure. Let me put you on hold for just a second.”

The hold recording states our specials and our address while I attach the jumper cables to Skye’s car and then my own. My battery dies often enough, I could do this in my sleep.

“What, Alana?” Jim questions gruffly.

Great, he sounds like he’s already in a shitty mood, and my tardiness will only make his attitude worse.

“Hey Jim, my car battery is dead. My neighbor is jumping it for me now, but I wanted to call and let you know I’ll probably be twenty minutes late.“

Nervously, I think I should offer to cover a serving shift in Disneyland, the nickname the bartenders aptly call the dining room full of families, this weekend so he hates me less. I’d be lying if I said I couldn’t use the money.

I hate any kind of confrontation; I prefer passive-aggressive acts of the silent treatment. The line is quiet for a few seconds, and I can tell he’s stewing. The bartender I’m coming in to relieve is an ass, and I know Jim isn’t excited to tell her she has to stay late.

“Sure, Alana, I’ll let Samantha know. Y’know she’s gonna expect a favor from you. You’re cuttin’ into her craftin’ time. Thanks for givin’ me a call,” Jim finally says.

“I know, I know. I’ll see you in just a few. Sorry,” I say.

I hang up the phone and turn the key to start my engine. It groans to life, and the heat blows directly into my face. Yes, the heat. The air quit working, and the knobs don’t make the heat stop even if they’re cranked to zero. Sweat instantly beads on my top lip, and I quickly scan my bag to make sure I have my deodorant packed. I hop out of the car and thank Skye for the jump, throw the jumper cables back into my trunk, then slide back behind the wheel.

“Please God, don’t let 465 be a nightmare today, amen,” I pray aloud as I crank the radio up and sing as loudly as possible to a Whitney Houston song.

* * *

“Hey, can you remake the frozen margarita for table one sixteen? There was a gnat in her glass,” a cute server named Trent asks me. The disgusting Indiana summer humidity, spilled beer, and cut-up fruit makes for a helluva battle with fruit flies.

The clinking sound of glass fills my ears as I quickly grab another margarita glass hanging from above the bar well and pull out the tequila, lime sour, and triple sec. Inwardly, I groan because I hate using the blender. This is a damn sports bar, for God’s sake. Why on earth does anyone order a frozen margarita when there are $3.50 domestic drafts on sale? Service industry complaint.

I finish the drink and slide it toward Trent. He winks and saunters back toward the dining room. Why do I feel like he’s swaying his hips to get me to look at his ass? It’s a nice ass, but I’m currently on a dating hiatus, so he’s barking up the wrong tree.

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