Dare You to Hate Me by B. Celeste (classic fiction .txt) 📕

She pulls her friend back and shuts the door in my face, leaving my teeth grinding together. Clenching and unclenching my fists, I blow out a deep breath and head back downstairs. The water still drips into the plastic bowl that was left among the other crap in storage.

Knowing there’s nothing I can do until at least eight, I prop myself up in bed and do a search on my phone to save the numbers to a few possible plumbers I can call when the sun is up.

That’s when I see unread messages.

Unknown: You going to pretend you don’t see these? Got your # from a friend. We need to talk

That message is from three hours ago, shortly after I fell asleep. Knowing whoever the person is, because it could be anyone, is probably asleep by now, I send them back a text.

Me: Most people mention who they are before sending dickish messages. I don’t have time for that anymore. Blocking you now

And I do just that.

I’ve had to change my number three times over the years because the people I stayed with liked to harass me. Blocking their numbers on my older cells was never an option, but since I saved up money to buy a decent phone I could finally make the people of my past disappear without a second thought.

My phone screeches at six a.m. sharp, a sound I don’t often hear thanks to my internal alarm clock stirring me shortly before the high-pitched sound on the device does. I’m half-awake when I realize I’ll have to go around town wearing what I fell asleep in, which is nothing more than a ratty pair of black joggers and an off the shoulder green sweater that has moth holes all over it. At least I’m covered. The last time I showed off my scarred arms, the boy whose blue eyes would always see through my barriers looked at me in a dark light, like he was seeing the real me for the first time.

I could handle the stares and whispers from strangers whenever a piece of my deformed flesh would show because they were easier to brush off. But there are two types of strangers in the world—ones that you’ve never met before, and ones you share memories with.

Aiden Griffith is the second. He’s grown into the man that everybody at Haven Falls would be proud of. A man they can cheer on when they see him on the television screen on Superbowl Sunday and brag about. There’s no denying he’s someone that people look up to, and no matter what Bets says, I’m the opposite. I’m the woman people tell stories about so their kids don’t follow in my footsteps. I’m the bad example, he’s the idol.

Shaking it off, I slide into my warm boots and count the money in my wallet, thankful I’ll have enough for one big load.

I slip my wallet into my backpack, shove a few notebooks and textbooks inside, and throw one of the straps over my shoulder. Thankfully, the Center Street Laundromat is open when I finally get there, having to stop a few times to readjust the heavy basket in my hands.

The owner is a cute little Indian woman named Hiya who’s always smiling whenever I come in. She makes easy conversation, asks everyone if they need help, and tidies the place whenever she can. It isn’t like the other laundromats I’ve been to where you wouldn’t want to be caught dead in, especially when the sun goes down.

Finding a seat at one of the corner tables in a quiet end of the room, far away from the machines and flatscreens playing news reels, I dump out my backpack and frown at the cold Starbucks drink in front of me. It’s my last one until I get paid next Friday, which means settling for what I can make myself at Bea’s.

Thirty minutes into my study session, a shadow blocks some of the natural light from the large floor to ceiling windows. When I look up from my notes, I expect to see Hiya, though she can’t be more than 4’11” even with a pair of platform shoes on.

Instead, it’s Aiden.

“What are you doing here?” My voice is harsh, but I don’t have the time or energy to hash out any more insults.

His large arms cross over his chest, stretching out the material of his jacket. It’s a far cry from the leather one he used to wear when we were younger because he thought it made him look cool. This one looks cheaper, no more than a wind breaker for the fall weather, but well worn. “I always do laundry on Saturdays. The guys keep fucking up the machines at home by overloading them, so I come here to do mine.”

“No, you—” I stop myself. Shaking my head, I scratch behind my ear and tap my pen against my study guide. “I’ve never seen you in here before.”

“Because you don’t come in here first thing in the morning. I would have noticed,” he replies easily, glancing down at the table and all my belongings spread out in front of me. “The semester I stayed on campus freshman year at Wilson Reed, the RA told us that the best time to do laundry is Friday night or Saturday morning when kids are either partying or hungover.”

My lips part, then close. That actually makes a lot of sense. I’m tempted to ask him about his time at the prestigious Massachusetts school, but opt not to. Leaning my arms on the edge of the table, I look over my shoulder at the machine still spinning my load. “Huh.”

To my surprise, he pulls out the chair next to mine and sits down. “He also said not to take a shower without shower shoes, and to avoid Red’s on Tuesdays because it’s half-priced everything night. Red’s is a bar, by the way. In Northern Mass. Went to college there for a while