~~~This is a prequel, spin-off from Ties~~~
Briar Hayes has lived her entire life being polite, never daring to express the crazy and wild thoughts running laps in her head. At almost twenty-five, stuck in the throes of monotony, she finally snaps...
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* "Court!" I whisper-yell into my phone. I'd fled that hellacious situation as fast as possible, saying I forgot something, ditching my beloved road snacks, and hightailed it back into the store.
Fuck, balls, shit-sticks. What am I doing?
Trey's sister was friendly as can be. Though there was no mistaking her obvious entertainment with my spouty-mouth.
And poor Trey. Wait. Is he not an asshole anymore? No, he's not. I overreacted. But oh well, gotta own that shit.
I take a breath. Swear to God, I haven't inhaled since I'd sprung from the side of his truck, not thinking before my temper reared its ugly head. After exchanging awkward introductions, I tore off in search of a hiding space, catching a matching fluster fuck on Trey's face.
My bad, dude, my bad.
I give the clerk a hurried smile and rush to the restroom, seeking solitude. Or just a place for a freak-out moment. It's incredibly clean for a quick-fill convenience store.
I gotta tell you, in matters of hidden gas station goldmines, the one by my apartment has the absolute best nachos in the world. Standards have heightened as far as staying on the up and up with sanitation, and all that stuff, from when I was a kid. You know, when you'd ask the clerk for a key to the sketchy outdoor bathroom and it usually came attached to a chipping piece of painted wood. Just me?
This place is blue-ribbon material. I could probably eat the Philly nachos off the floor in here.
Too far.
I'd swapped introductions with Trey's sister, Teagan, who seems great, though I know she was dying to figure out whatever the fuck we've got going on. Which is exactlythat, whatever the fuck. Only it's not. If I'm being honest, the last place I want to go is the hotel. Not without him.
I wanna be around Trey. I want to apologize.
An apology? Moi?
While I'm not super happy about that sticky ending, as I sit here, gnawing on the side of my thumbnail—nasty habit—I think I really was... wrong.
I'd been adamant in New York, casual, casual, casual. Blah, blah, blah. Dream girl? How am I someone's dream girl? Am I still his? Has he moved on? Why didn't I reach out? Why'd I pretend like it was nothing? I know it wasn't.
I don't care what version of him he wants to be. Maybe not a serial wad-shooter, but if that's his thing, I suppose I've had worse. I haven't. Well, there was this one time—no!
Stay.
On.
Topic.
Can we—and by we, I mean me—admit that he's crossed my mind approximately eighty-six thousand seconds every day. Fact check it. Fine, it's eighty-six-thousand-four-hundred, if you wanna be precise.
