“Car door is open,” states the snobby car voice lady who lives inside my older model Nissan Maxima, and I realize I’ve been sitting here with one leg in and one out, my mind running. No more Wallflower Charisma! Party Girl is back! It’s going to be awesome! I’m not going to be the pathetic creature I was a few months ago. I used to be the life of the party-but look at me now, the girl who’s basically been in social hiding since Blaze ended things. They stumble around laughing and talking, and my heart twinges. My eyes land on the door of the bar as a group of students spill out of the entrance. My future? In six months I’ll be out of Magnolia and living a whole new life, one that doesn’t involve smoking-hot football players with rock-hard abs who tell you you’re beautiful but in the end are just big fat liars. Everyone is back from the holiday break filled with new optimism for grades, social status, and what the future holds. They’re probably rubbing him down with hot oil right now, caressing those bulky, tight muscles on his back, most definitely the wiry, roped ones on his forearms-Ĭlenching the steering wheel, I scan the parking lot for his black truck and don’t see it, but the place is packed for a Wednesday night in January.
I picture him laid up in his dorm room surrounded by jersey chasers. My bottom lip hurts where I’ve chewed on it during the drive from the house to here.
I’m not leaving until my eyes meet his and-ĭang, I don’t know what will happen after that. That was almost three months ago, and I haven’t seen him since.īut tonight-tonight, I’m going to see him face to face, because I have to prove to myself that I’m over him. We were totally fine-until it all went to hell. I’d worn a sleek fedora and carried a kickass whip a la sexy Indiana Jones style, and he’d been in yellow parachute pants and a ladies-sized small tank top that clung to every muscle on his chest. It’s time to face the music, which is the guy who broke up with me in front of all my friends at my own freaking eighties-themed sorority homecoming party last October. Welcome back to Magnolia, Mississippi, and Waylon University, folks. A long exhalation leaves my chest as I turn off the ignition. I shudder at those thoughts as I whip my car into the parking lot of Cadillac’s, a local bar and hangout spot. There are worse things than seeing your ex for the first time since he dumped you: root canal, hairy wolf spider on your pillow, watching your dad kiss your sixth grade teacher.
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