I tear my eyes from the alluring and perfect heart shape of her lips and blink at her. She shouldn’t be here, with her bag of dog gifts, her expressive eyes, her perfume, and her pin-up girl lips. I can’t remember the last time a girl spoke to me like a regular person, without cringing or staring, and I don’t want or need reminders of the finer things in life I’m missing out on.
She’s looking at me today the same way she did the day I found her. Like she only sees me, not the ugly scars that are like a map imprinted on my flesh. It’s rattling. Back then, in the craziness of those moments, I didn’t attempt to cover my face or keep my head down like I usually do when I meet new people, and I’m surprised she didn’t scream when she saw me, going from one monster to another. But instead, she looked at me like I was some kind of hero or knight in shining armor. And the way she looked at me, a few weeks ago, when she brought the dog back reminded me of how the girls used to look at me in high school. I remember how they used to stare at me, smile, and giggle. All I had to do was flash my infamous smile at them, and they’d be blushing and slipping me their phone number. I reveled in the feeling of being wanted, accepted, and liked.
I steer my brain back to her question.
After the police let me go, I searched for her dog night and day—for a week, actually. Then one day he just strolled right into my yard. Much like she keeps doing. I fed and bathed him, took him to the vet that takes care of the dogs at the shelter to have him checked out, and hunted down Holly’s parents so I could return him. Instead of taking him from me as I stood in the dark on their doorstep, they sneered at me like I was yesterday’s trash, threw a few hundred dollars at me, and told me never to come back. They had no fucking idea how hard it was for me to go to their house and put myself in that position. To show up in the rich side of town in my old rusted truck, with my ripped jeans and dirty boots, scarred to hell, leaving myself wide open to judgment. So I shredded their cash, put it in a box with a fresh pile of the dog’s shit, and mailed it back to them.
Mature? No. Immensely satisfying? Hell fuckin’ yes.
She bites her bottom lip and looks down when I nod in response, sparing her the details of that day. “I thought so,” she mumbles softly then pushes the stray hair behind her ear. When her gaze rises again, there’s a glimmer of defiance and hope battling the disappointment. “Can I see him?” she asks. “Just for a few minutes?”
This girl is getting on my nerves because, seriously, how the hell can I say no? She’s a major block to my usual assholism.
I let out a sigh to let her know exactly how much she’s bothering me and push roughly by her through the doorway on the way to the house. She doesn’t follow me, so I let Poppy out, and he runs directly to her in my workshop like he already knew she was there with his doggy radar.
Ignoring her while she sits with the dog on my garage floor, I go back to my workbench, hoping she’ll just play with the dog for a few minutes and then leave so I can go back to my day in peace. She talks absently to the dog and occasionally to me, but I stay focused on my work, throwing her glances every now and then from behind the curtain of my hair, wondering when she’s going to figure out that I don’t do conversation.
“Is this what you do for work? You make this stuff?” she asks, pointing to the finished rings, bracelets, and belt buckles lined up on one of the workbenches.
I nod, not moving my hair out of my face, afraid she’ll finally come to her senses and see the ugliness that is me and run for the hills.
She stands and takes a closer look at the items. “I really like them. The skulls are a little scary, though.”
When I don’t respond, she resumes her one-sided conversation.
“Last week I started working part time at that frozen yogurt and ice cream place in town. It’s one of the few places close enough for me to walk to. It’s my first job, and even though it’s only two days a week, it’s kind of scary.” Her eyes squint a little like it hurts her to think about it, to have to feel it. “I guess I’m just not used to being around people yet. I love the bubble tea, though. I drink one every day when I walk back home after work. The lady that owns the shop lets me have one for free.”