Page 4 of Hooked
Pig.
Perfectionist.
Dumb bitch.
Superficial.
Trashy.
Materialistic.
Ugly whale.
They were all labels that had been thrown her way more than once. Online and in person.
Tayla ignored the haters. People who didn’t take the time to understand why fashion was important—especially to women over a size twelve—grated on her nerves. She’d minored in anthropology at college. To her, fashion and makeup were wearable art, just as complex and individual as any book, painting, or music.
Did the fact that major fashion houses often ignored big women bug her? Of course it did.
Did she wish the world hadn’t become addicted to fast-and-cheap fashion that disregarded the negative consequences of the international garment industry? Yes!
Did that mean she had to look like a slob?
Not in a million years.
Fashion was expression. Fashion was armor. Fashion was art. It was a mask and a confessional. It was a mirror of popular culture and a challenge to it. Fashion made her feel amazing and powerful. Looking at fashion media made her nearly cry with joy at times, whether it was an exquisitely fitted gown on a Milan runway or street styles in Singapore.
Fashionwasimportant.
Someone bumped her hip and nearly made her spill her cider.
“Sorry.” Jeremy’s dazzling smile flashed as he sat next to Tayla on the bench. “You looked mad at the world. Need another drink?”
She couldn’t help but smile back. “I’m not finished with this one, but I’ll never say no to a handsome man buying me a drink.”
“What about an ugly one?”
Tayla looked around the room. “I don’t see any ugly men here, only ugly attitudes.” She grimaced when her eyes landed on the harpist. “Though I am questioning that one’s comb-over.”
“Earl hasn’t been able to let go of his rock and roll past yet,” Jeremy said. “The hair was his trademark.”
“On the wild-and-crazy folk-harp scene?”
Jeremy stood, leaving his near-empty glass next to Tayla. “There were a lot of drugs in the sixties, Tayla. Alotof drugs. Even in Metlin.”
She watched him walk to the bar. He was dressed in his usual uniform of broken-in jeans, a comic book shirt, and a worn flannel shirt. He wore nearly the same thing every day—unless he was dressing up—but it suited him. He nodded to grab Hugh’s attention behind the bar. The bartender walked over and poured two pints, one dark lager and one cider, as he and Jeremy chatted.
They’d probably gone to school together. Hell, nearly everyone in this room had gone to school together at one point or another. Metlin only had two high schools. Hugh and his wife Carly ran Metlin Brewing Company, which sold beer to the Ice House where Hugh worked part time.
All the businesses in town were slightly incestuous when it came to it.
The Ice House was owned by Hugh’s cousin George—also known as Junior—who had gone to school with Emmie. According to Emmie, Junior had been an asshole in high school, but he seemed to have improved over the years. Junior was Frannie’s great-nephew, so she was a part owner of the Ice House even though Tayla had never seen her here.
Tayla looked around the bar where everyone chatted and drank, exchanging stories and listening to the music. Despite her expectations a year ago, Metlin had been welcoming to her. The friendliness had freaked Tayla out for the first few months she’d lived here. She was convinced it was an act. After all, Emmie hadn’t shared the most flattering description of the small California town when she and Tayla had first met.
But it wasn’t an act. People were just relentlessly outgoing.
So weird.
