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

to be cocky but can’t pretend it’s untrue. “That’s the plan. Are you coming to support us?”

I happen to know the teen bouncing on the counter is a huge football fan just like most of this town. According to some of the locals that come in for coffee, the university has broken the records for most wins at home and away because of the team they’ve had the last two years.

“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss it! Bea was going to shut down early until Ivyprofen here said she’d stay and close.” Lena snorts while I roll my eyes at her nickname for me. “I don’t know why. Nobody will be here except her.”

A new set of eyes focuses on my face, but I busy myself by spreading the olive oil and sea salt butter he likes over his bagel. “Ivyprofen?” There’s amusement in his tone, but he doesn’t let either of us explain that Elena calls me that because she says I’m a pain and she needs medicine after dealing with me. Instead, he proceeds to ask, “Not a fan of football, huh?”

All I give him is a stiff shrug, and even the smallest upward movement feels draining. I know better than to believe it’s from exhaustion but refuse to acknowledge the real reason behind the tightness consuming my body.

I remind myself I’m here to work, not make conversation with every customer that comes in. Especially not him.

As Elena goes to answer for me, her grandmother walks out from the back. “Lena, I need you to help me take out the bins of dough from the back and set them in the kitchen for me. We have a lot of baking to do today for the week.”

I usually help with the week’s preparations, but Elena expressed interest in learning her grandmother’s recipes, so I took a step back. I want to believe Bea, or Bets as I call her, sees me as another grandchild—one of the twelve she lays claim to. But I know I’m not, and that I shouldn’t try so hard to be.

You’re here for a paycheck, I tell myself again silently. Not a family.

Feeling my throat close up as I wrap up the bagel and stick it into a bag, I begin folding the top to complete the order when I hear, “Ivy.”

It’s not a roll off the tongue like he’s testing its sound.

It’s in familiarity.

You’re here for a paycheck, I tell myself once more as I turn on my heels and pass him the white bag and coffee cup without meeting those bright blue eyes that I know are on me. “That’ll be $4.25 please.”

“Ivy,” he repeats, and I wonder if he can hear how hard my heart thumps with the sound of my name coming from his lips again.

“Cash or credit?” I press, staring at the machine’s buttons, ignoring the pumping organ in my chest.

“Iv—”

“We also take Dragon Dollars,” I cut him off, gesturing toward the new promotion. Any college student that comes in can pay by scanning their student I.D card.

He cusses under his breath. “You’re just going to keep pretending then?” Even though his words are barely more than a hushed murmur under his breath, I feel them deeper than that. They sweep under my skin and squeeze my heart until I hear it crack from the pressure.

All I give him is, “Yes.”

Because pretending is all I can do to get through today without remembering the past or the girl who confided in a boy before he left her to her demons.

I don’t blame Aiden.

And I’ve never forgotten him either.

That’s the problem.

Chapter Two

Ivy

For almost two weeks, I busy myself with school and work until I’m too tired to care that there’s another party going on when I get home. I ignore the red plastic cups and abandoned half-empty beer bottles, step around the mass of bodies gyrating in the crowded halls, and collapse in a heap on my bed downstairs, tuning out the music thumping and people laughing above me as best I can.

Unfortunately, lulling myself into a peaceful oblivion is nearly impossible. Not only because the bass from upstairs rattles the windows, but because my thoughts run rampant in my head, bouncing to the beat of the techno music. Trapping myself in my thoughts is dangerous territory because I always wind up in the same spot.

Two years ago.

The cold tile.

And every single moment leading up to it.

The small green establishment with an Underwood’s Grocer sign hanging crooked from the side became the center of all our problems.

My father spent every second he could at the store while my mother stayed home fulltime to take care of me and my little brother Porter. Every night when Dad got home from the store, there’d be bags under his eyes, and a new streak of white in his hair, and nothing me, Mom, or Porter could do ever got those tight lips to form even the tiniest smile like we used to be able to.

Whenever I asked Mom if Dad was okay, she’d pat my back, pass me a plain sheet of construction paper and a box of crayons, and tell me the same thing. “Your father is just stressed.”

But every resounding explanation came with a heavier delivery, timid pat, and demand for distraction. When drawing wasn’t enough, Mom’s tired honey-brown eyes that Porter and I get from her would look to me after a hushed conversation with Dad after dinner and tell me to check on Porter then go to my room.

She never failed to come in later, pick out my favorite book from the small shelf of fairytales and fables we collected, and read until I fell asleep.

The moment the atmosphere changes is when I look up from the TV Porter and I watch our favorite Saturday morning cartoon on to see Mom gaping at a piece of paper she took from the mailbox earlier. The lips she always paints pink are parted, her hand holds her head up