We hung out in the same circles, had the same friends, but we were far from being anything more than enemies. I was comfortable with our hate, too. It felt oddly pleasing. Hating Shay was the most constant thing in my life. Hating her felt like a high I’d always been chasing, and as each year passed, I got more and more high off Shay’s dismissal of me. There was something intense about the hate we gave, and the older we grew, the more I craved it.
Shay grew up in ways most girls dreamed of. Her body developed as quickly as her mind did. She had curves in every place us dicks hoped curves would exist, eyes that sparkled in every situation, and a dimple so deep you kind of wished she was always smiling. Sometimes, if I didn’t hate her so much, I would’ve considered screwing her brains out.
Not only was she beautiful; she was smart, too. She was the top of our class. Brains and beauty—though I’d never tell her so. For all she knew, my thoughts of her were completely filled with disgust and loathing.
We never crossed paths much, seeing as how she’d never go out of her way to hang out at my place, but if we did, we exchanged short words with each other. Most of the time, they were rude, too. It was kind of our thing. We both got off on hating each other.
Except that one time nine months ago.
Maria had attended Lance’s funeral, and Shay had come with her. They came to the reception at my house, and Shay walked in on me during one of my not-so-manly moments.
I wished she hadn’t seen me that way: broken, disheveled, raw, real.
I also wished Lance hadn’t died, but you know how it goes. Wishes, dreams, hopes—all fiction.
“You sure you want a party?” Greyson asked, lowering his voice and pulling me from my thoughts about Shay. Everyone else was chatting among themselves, but Greyson seemed more concerned about me. “With it being Lance’s birthday.”
No one else knew about my uncle’s birthday, and I was thankful for it. Greyson only knew because he kept track of important things. He was that kind of friend. He had a memory like no other and used it for good. Monica only knew because she collected any information she could somehow use as daggers to stab her victims with. She was the complete opposite of Greyson.
I shrugged. “Rather be with people than alone, I guess.” He went to argue, but I shook my head. “It’s fine. I could use the company. Plus, I don’t see Monica letting up on the idea.”
“I could host at my place,” he offered, but I declined.
Besides, me throwing a party was one thing; Greyson throwing one was a completely different ball game. My parents would be annoyed to hear about the party but would shrug it off pretty quickly. If Greyson’s father found out about him hosting it, he would have a much harsher punishment. If there was anything I knew about Mr.East, it was that he had a violent hand and wasn’t afraid to use it on his wife or his son.
He was lucky I’d never witnessed him laying a hand on my friend. That hand would’ve been chopped off quickly. Same ifI saw him harm his wife. It took a real piece of shit man to hit a woman. If I saw that happen anywhere to any girl, I’d punch the hell out of the guy.
Regardless, there was a party happening at my place come Saturday, on one of the hardest days of my life.
Fantastic.
2Shay
My father was the king of our castle, and I was his favorite little princess.
Sure, I was his only daughter, which made me his favorite by default, but Mom always made sure to remind me: “Your father’s love is big, even though he sometimes doesn’t know how to show it.”
That was a true fact. My dad wasn’t a great man, but he was a good father for the most part. He showed his love in his actions and in his critiques. Once when I was younger, Mom was studying for her nursing degree, and she asked Dad to help her study. He told her flatly that he wouldn’t because she had to learn how to do it on her own, seeing as how he wouldn’t be there to help her with the exam.
She passed the exam without his help, and when she told him the news, he had a diamond necklace awaiting her in the living room. “I knew you would pass without my help,” he told her. “You’re smart without me.”
They loved each other. From the outside looking in, it probably appeared that Mom loved him more than he loved her, but I knew better. My father was a complex man. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d heard him say he loved me, but he offered that love in his looks, in his short nods and his tiny smirks. When he was pleased with you, he’d nod twice your way. When he was upset, his ice-blue eyes would pierce a holethrough your soul. When he was very upset, he’d pierce a hole through a wall. When he was sad, he disappeared.
My parents’ love story had years of challenges attached to it. Dad used to get into trouble when he was younger, dealing drugs in their old neighborhood. I knew it was an awkward thing to say, but my father was great at what he did. He was a solid salesman. Mom always said he could sell poop to a person and they’d use it as shampoo. For a while, we lived a pretty lavish lifestyle. It wasn’t until he started using the drugs himself that everything began to crumble. The worst thing a drug dealer could ever do was sample the product. As he partook in the drugs, his alcohol usage grew too, and he became even colder than before. Distant. Hard.
Cruel.
There were many nights he’d come home drunk and high, hollering and slurring his words. There were other nights he simply wouldn’t come home.
The turning point for him was when a buddy of his got shot and killed, and Dad got caught by the cops. He ended up in prison for a few years.
He’d been out for a while and gotten clean from dealing and using drugs and alcohol.
It had been over a year since he’d come home.
A year, two months, and twenty-one days.
But who was counting?