Page 4 of Wild Card

I was twenty-one years old. I had dealt with this little space issue for most my life, but for whatever reason it still flared to life with big fat colors and warning signs for everyone to see.

“Trevor, I think Mal needs some space,” Lydia suggested from somewhere to my right. I kept my eyes closed, waiting for this prick to take a step back. The seconds stretched, feeling like hours.

“Of course,” he scoffed. “Her little issue. What a fucking nut case.”

My eyes watered as his words hit. He always said something like that when I mentioned my need for space. There were four zones of varying distances for personal space when being social. Right then, he should have been at least four feet away from me. He was stepping over that, into the intimate zone, and I was deeply bothered by it.

“Sorry, I’ll step back.” He raised his hands then let out another laugh.

I lowered my eyes to the floor even as a rush of air filled my lungs from the relief of him moving. I grabbed the file he’d slammed on my desk and slowly followed him to his office. I would sit in front of his desk, providing plenty of space between us while he explained what I’d done wrong. My heart sank as I walked past my classmates. I looked around and found Lydia, Jules, and Ronda all staring at me with grief-laden features. Lydia’s eyes even watered.

That hurt. A shard of pain sliced my chest as I realized how stupid we’d been to celebrate the night before.

Bad luck.

Trevor grabbed for a paper covered in bland yellow sticky notes. I quickly noted that if I were editor, I would use a color coordinated sticky-note system, and not a single time would any of them be bland yellow.

“What about the deadline? You said we were short-staffed…you even had Jamie write for sports this week even though she doesn’t usually cover it.” I tentatively sat, hoping I could talk my way out of being blacklisted. I really needed to be in this week’s paper. I had to. I had worked half the year for that article, and if I didn’t get into this week’s spot, I wouldn’t even have enough time to come up with another story.

“I had a feeling you’d let me down, so I had something ready to go,” the asshole muttered, not even meeting my eyeline.

Motherfucking asshole.

I clenched my fists at my sides, repeating the same mantra in my head that Dad always told me to say when I wanted to hit someone.Not worth the jail time. Picture a beach, maybe a whale birth or some other magical shit to get your mind off it.

“If my article doesn’t make it into this edition, there’s a chance it won’t be seen in time for the showcase…” I hated that I even said it. I didn’t want to show any weakness, but I was desperate.

“Not my problem, Shaw. Find me something that is worthy of true journalism, something so good not even I could replicate it. Get me dirt. Get me something that will have people talking for days after it’s printed.” Trevor leaned forward, bracing his thin hands under his narrow chin. One good pop in the nose and it would make me feel loads better.

Not. Worth. The. Jail. Time.

I didn’t even respond because it would be a dishonor to the article I’d already written. It was pure perfection, and everyone knew it. There was no way it shouldn’t be included. I could have gone over his head, but by the time we all had our little sit-down and hashed out our issues with our advisors, the paper will have been printed and digitally uploaded, and my name wouldn’t be there. So, the point would be moot.

No, I had to figure this out. If not for my internship, then for my mom.

* * *

The greyingsky only darkened as rain pelted my windshield. It boded well for my old Honda, which was in desperate need of a wash. I looked longingly at the white Beemer sitting in the driveway and clenched my back molars together. Taylor was home, which meant she’d probably be entertaining someone…likely some jock who liked eating all my lime-flavored chips and drinking all my flavored water. I wasn’t in the mood for someone to be in my space tonight, so hopefully Taylor would be in a good mood and understand my need for privacy.

Fumbling with my car door, I was careful pulling out my laptop bag since the shoulder strap was barely hanging on with just three safety pins. The rain intensified as I made my way toward the door, where I promptly pulled out my keys and made a great show of trying to unlock it. I always tried to make as much noise as I could so Taylor had enough time to move any hookup activity to her bedroom,where it should always be…but sometimes I didn’t get so lucky.

I pushed the door open, and the soft lighting from the living room wrapped around me like a warm hug. The gas fireplace was on, licking at the glass in jumpy flames. It looked as though someone had cleaned, and…I inhaled the savory scent of bread. Had someone cooked?

“Tay?” I yelled, kicking off my shoes and setting my things on the little entryway bench.

“Mal, you’re home,” my stepsister yelled from the kitchen.

“Yeah…short day.” I padded in my white ankle socks toward the amazing smell.

“Good, I wanted to tell you something!”

I rounded the kitchen doorway, finding my stepsister with an apron tied around her waist and a spoon in her hand.

Her blonde hair was tied back at the nape of her neck, her bangs coiffed perfectly against her forehead. Her eyebrows were threaded or shaded, maybe microbladed. Whatever they were, they were flawless. Same with her lashes. She looked like a filter you’d use to make yourself look prettier—just like her mom, the woman who had married my dad six years earlier, throwing the two of us together.

“Guess what I got in class today?” She propped her elbow up on the counter and perched her chin on her palm, waiting for me to respond.

A marriage proposal? Probably not humiliated in front of all your classmates.

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