Read Online My Bittersweet Summer by Starla Huchton - Free Book Online
Authors: Starla Huchton
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me the courtesy of a response. Maybe my dad was picking me up instead.
I sat on the front step, reading, when I heard a car coming up the drive. The motor gunned as it pushed up the hill, and I stood, brushing off the butt of my black slacks and straightening my white button down shirt. The staff dress code was officially in effect beginning that day, including the steel-toed safety shoes all kitchen staff were supplied with.
As the blue Audi screeched to a halt in the driveway, my jaw nearly hit the ground. The driver’s window rolled down, revealing a grinning Zachary Robinson.
“Need a lift?”
I glanced at my watch and scowled. It would take me at least forty-five minutes to walk to Le Beau Tournée, and the meeting started in fifteen. Backed into yet another corner, I fixed my face into a determined mask of displeasure before heading for the passenger door. He leaned over and pushed it open for me, still smiling.
“Hey Margie,” he said.
I answered with silence and fastened my seatbelt.
Shrugging, he turned around and pulled away from the house, driving a little faster than was probably safe on a gravel road. I cringed as a large rock flew up and hit the undercarriage with a loud clang, then realized he probably couldn’t care less about damaging the car. It wasn’t like his money bought it or would have to pay for repairs.
“Excited about our first day?” he asked when we were on pavement.
“It’s not my first day,” I answered. “I’ve been working there all week helping with refurb.”
“You have?” Why the hell did he sound surprised?
“If it’ll help my parents make Le Beau Tournée work, of course I would. Wouldn’t you?” I paused, snorting. “Never mind. Forgot who I was talking to.”
“Look, Margie, I know you’ve got issues with me, and maybe that would’ve been true a year ago, but that’s not me anymore. I’m not doing this to spite you, and I don’t have ulterior motives for taking this job.”
I nodded. “Right. Trying to be better and all that stuff. Got it.”
The car skidded over to the side of the road, jerking me forward as the seatbelt snapped me back against the seat. Before I could yell a string of profanities at him, he spun at me, fixing me in place with mix of hurt and anger in his eyes. “So, what, I don’t get be better? You get to decide who is and isn’t worthy of changing their life? Why, Mighty Mouse? You got to change. Why not me, too?”
A wave of nausea gripped me under the brunt of his sudden aggression. I pinched my eyes closed, my breaths coming in quick, shallow spurts through my nose. “You think it’s that easy, huh?” I managed to whisper. My knuckles ached as I clung to the cushion, struggling to rein in my panic. “You think I just woke up one morning and decided I was going to be different?”
When he didn’t respond, I opened my eyes and looked at him, swallowing the urge to vomit all over his car. “Six years of therapy. One before I could talk to another kid my age again. Two before I made a best friend. Three before I got a solid night of sleep without waking up screaming at least once. Four before I figured out how to step down from a panic attack in under thirty minutes. Five before I went a full day without hating myself. Six years, Zach. That’s how long it’s taken for me to say to you, to any of you, that I don’t care about you anymore. I don’t care how you feel about me, or about yourself. Apathy is the best you’re gonna get from me. Don’t talk to me about change. You don’t have a damned clue what that means.”
He stared at me, face slack in shock.
I looked away and crossed my arms over my stomach. “Drive. I don’t want to be late because I wasn’t serving your inflated ego to your satisfaction.”
Without a word, he put the car back into drive, keeping to himself the entire rest of the way. The minute we were stopped, I got out, slamming the door behind me.
I stomped up the wooden ramp wrapped
I sat on the front step, reading, when I heard a car coming up the drive. The motor gunned as it pushed up the hill, and I stood, brushing off the butt of my black slacks and straightening my white button down shirt. The staff dress code was officially in effect beginning that day, including the steel-toed safety shoes all kitchen staff were supplied with.
As the blue Audi screeched to a halt in the driveway, my jaw nearly hit the ground. The driver’s window rolled down, revealing a grinning Zachary Robinson.
“Need a lift?”
I glanced at my watch and scowled. It would take me at least forty-five minutes to walk to Le Beau Tournée, and the meeting started in fifteen. Backed into yet another corner, I fixed my face into a determined mask of displeasure before heading for the passenger door. He leaned over and pushed it open for me, still smiling.
“Hey Margie,” he said.
I answered with silence and fastened my seatbelt.
Shrugging, he turned around and pulled away from the house, driving a little faster than was probably safe on a gravel road. I cringed as a large rock flew up and hit the undercarriage with a loud clang, then realized he probably couldn’t care less about damaging the car. It wasn’t like his money bought it or would have to pay for repairs.
“Excited about our first day?” he asked when we were on pavement.
“It’s not my first day,” I answered. “I’ve been working there all week helping with refurb.”
“You have?” Why the hell did he sound surprised?
“If it’ll help my parents make Le Beau Tournée work, of course I would. Wouldn’t you?” I paused, snorting. “Never mind. Forgot who I was talking to.”
“Look, Margie, I know you’ve got issues with me, and maybe that would’ve been true a year ago, but that’s not me anymore. I’m not doing this to spite you, and I don’t have ulterior motives for taking this job.”
I nodded. “Right. Trying to be better and all that stuff. Got it.”
The car skidded over to the side of the road, jerking me forward as the seatbelt snapped me back against the seat. Before I could yell a string of profanities at him, he spun at me, fixing me in place with mix of hurt and anger in his eyes. “So, what, I don’t get be better? You get to decide who is and isn’t worthy of changing their life? Why, Mighty Mouse? You got to change. Why not me, too?”
A wave of nausea gripped me under the brunt of his sudden aggression. I pinched my eyes closed, my breaths coming in quick, shallow spurts through my nose. “You think it’s that easy, huh?” I managed to whisper. My knuckles ached as I clung to the cushion, struggling to rein in my panic. “You think I just woke up one morning and decided I was going to be different?”
When he didn’t respond, I opened my eyes and looked at him, swallowing the urge to vomit all over his car. “Six years of therapy. One before I could talk to another kid my age again. Two before I made a best friend. Three before I got a solid night of sleep without waking up screaming at least once. Four before I figured out how to step down from a panic attack in under thirty minutes. Five before I went a full day without hating myself. Six years, Zach. That’s how long it’s taken for me to say to you, to any of you, that I don’t care about you anymore. I don’t care how you feel about me, or about yourself. Apathy is the best you’re gonna get from me. Don’t talk to me about change. You don’t have a damned clue what that means.”
He stared at me, face slack in shock.
I looked away and crossed my arms over my stomach. “Drive. I don’t want to be late because I wasn’t serving your inflated ego to your satisfaction.”
Without a word, he put the car back into drive, keeping to himself the entire rest of the way. The minute we were stopped, I got out, slamming the door behind me.
I stomped up the wooden ramp wrapped
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