Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
From scratch.
Like some domesticated goddess I definitely am not, but tonight I want to try. I bought all the groceries yesterday, and I also want to make a fruit tart to go with it.
The team flew home on a red-eye from San Diego and landed mid-morning. Lucky’s been running errands, catching up on laundry and even snuck in a workout, the overachiever that he is.
I’m excited about seeing him. His travel schedule is definitely going to take some getting used to, but the homecoming I can make sweet. I want to celebrate him and I want to celebrate us.
My steps slow as I reach the teacher lot, the last bits of early spring sun streaking across the pavement. I nod and smile at a few other teachers, but my mind is already creating my to-do list for when I get home. I’m mentally running through my ingredients and the order by which I need to start preparing things when I see it.
And everything stops.
I blink once. Then again.
The shape is still there. Still real.
My car—my ten-year-old, dinged-up, slightly rusty but perfectly reliable silver car—is coated in black spray paint. Slashed across the driver’s side door in crude, dripping letters:
STAY AVERAGE, BITCH
It feels like someone has hit me in the stomach with a sledgehammer and my breath punches out of my chest so forcefully, my lungs can’t quite rebound.
It takes a full ten seconds before my brain catches up. Before I register what I’m seeing, what it means. That this is real.
This happened.
In broad daylight.
In the goddamn school parking lot.
I stumble a step closer, my stomach twisting. My face flames so hot it feels like it might peel off. I glance around—slow, panicked—suddenly aware of how visible I am. The custodian across the lot pretends not to notice. Two parents near the pickup loop glance my way, then avert their attention, like I’m contagious.
No one says anything.
No one does anything.
It’s like I’m frozen in some horrible alternate reality where I’m the punch line and no one wants to admit they laughed. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt this bad in my entire life.
My hand flies to my mouth, and my eyes sting so fast, so hard, I can barely see. I might be on the verge of a panic attack, but all I know is that I need to get away from all this.
I fumble for my phone in my purse. My fingers shake as I swipe to Lucky’s contact and type. Hey. I’m so sorry—I can’t do dinner tonight. Something came up.
I stare at it for a beat, knowing how cold it sounds, how not me. But I don’t trust myself to say more. I’m not even sure I can say more. I only know that I want away from all of this.
I hit send.
Shoving my phone back in my purse, I wrench open the driver’s side door and slide into the seat, ignoring the chemical stench of spray paint filling the cabin. My whole body trembles now—humiliation, fury, heartbreak tangling in my chest. I lift my hands, stare at them… horrified to see them shaking so badly.
One of Lucky’s hoodies is draped over the passenger seat. He left it at my house before the last road trip and I confiscated it. It smells like him and it brought me comfort.
Now for some reason, it makes me angry.
I grab it, crumple it into a ball, and toss it into the back like it’s poison.
I don’t know why.
I just can’t look at it right now.
I know I should call the police and report it, but having to wait here while other teachers and parents could see this… I can’t stomach the thought.
My vision blurs again, but I manage to start the engine. Back out of the space. My tires squeal louder than they should, drawing more attention I don’t want. I drive home with the windows cracked to air out the smell, blinking hard against the tears clouding my vision. I remember I need gas as I’m nearly on fumes, but the thought of people looking at my car is so sickening, vomit rises in my throat.
At a stoplight, a car full of teenagers pulls up beside me. The savage words are on display, and they stare with wide eyes before they start laughing and pointing. I stare at my hands on the steering wheel in their white-knuckled grip and I scream.
Just once. Frustration and anger.
Loud and desperate and raw.
The light turns green and I move in a daze. I drive the rest of the way home in silence, trying not to fall apart.
But I already have.
Because the truth is… I can’t do this. I can’t be strong enough for both of us. I can’t keep pretending the comments don’t cut deep, that the stares don’t matter, that I’m not slowly unraveling every time someone calls me a mistake.