Page 50 of Mr. Swoony

Eloise

I’ve been living with Conor for a few days, and he was right, he’s barely been home. When I wake up, he’s already gone but comes home about an hour or two later all sweaty from the gym. He takes a shower and heads out again, saying he’s going to the rink. His tenacity is admirable, and I’m jealous of his dedication.

Leaving the condo, I push open the security gate and rear back when I see a group of women standing there.

“Who are you?” a brunette says, crossing her arms and looking me up and down.

I look over my shoulder. It takes a moment for me to realize they’re talking to me, and they must be here for either Conor or Tweetie. At least, I hope they’re here for Conor or Tweetie. I don’t want to know what Kyleigh would do if some girl showed up here for Rowan.

“I’m no one.” The gate slams shut behind me.

“You must be someone,” the girl says.

I eye the piece of cardboard in one girl’s hand and the black marker in another girl’s. I’m obviously missing something.

“No.” I shake my head and move to go around them.

The brunette steps in front of me. “Are you here for Tweetie or Pinkie?”

“I don’t know a Pinkie, and I’m not here for Tweetie. Sorry, girls.” I step to the side again to get past them, and the girl purposely brushes my shoulder. What the hell is her problem?

I head down the street, glancing over my shoulder and seeing them pin the sign on the security gate. The brunette attaches a white note to it, and they all laugh, walking down the street in the opposite direction. But right before I turn around, the brunette tosses her hair over her shoulder and glares at me.

Is this what living here will be like?

The convenience store is only three blocks away. When I walk in, the guy says hello but never looks in my direction. A few construction guys stand in front of the prepared food area, rambling about the Chicago Colts. I open the cooler and grab a Diet Coke, biding my time for them to leave.

One guy puts something in the microwave, and another pulls an empty cup out to fill with a slushie. They obviously aren’t going anywhere any time soon.

Whatever. I don’t have to be embarrassed about what I want to do.

I go to the counter, and the guy behind the register scans my Diet Coke.

“Anything else?” he asks, barely making eye contact.

I lean in closer. “Can I have a pack of cigarettes?”

“What kind, sweetheart?”

I scan over all the options. “Um… whatever the most popular is.” I pull out my credit card, prepared to get this transaction over with as quickly as possible.

“Sweetheart, just tell me the brand.”

When I hear footsteps behind me, I glance over my shoulder and see the construction guys headed toward us. I don’t know why they’re intimidating to me.

“The yellow box, I guess.” I point randomly.

“Are you buying these for someone else?” the cashier asks suspiciously.

The door chimes, and the cashier says hello to whoever walks in, but never looks over.

“No, they’re for me, but I’m trying some brands out to see which one I like better.”

He blows out a breath. “You know smoking is bad for you, right?”

“Yes, thank you, surgeon general.”

The guys behind me laugh, and it eases the tension of buying something I know nothing about and making a fool of myself.

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