Page 7 of Sweet Hate
It’s probably more common to get bitten by sharks while riding a unicycle.
In fact, I’d rather take my chances with the sharks. At least then I’d tick something off my bucket list while avoiding running into Axel in this stupid town.
Not to mention thetinyissue of figuring out how to bake a ten-layer wedding cake forthemostprestigious and well-connected family around here without a working freakin’ kitchen.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Calm, serene thoughts. You got this. It’s fine.
Ugh.
It’s not fucking fine. It’s a dumpster fire.
Why’d I ever let Grams convince me to leave London and come back here?
Wasn’t it bad enough being named after the damn place my parents banged and essentiallymademe?
Apparently I’d forgotten how tough it was being forced to live here. You know what people say—opinions are like assholes, everyone has one—well that couldn’t be more true. I grew up under constant prying eyes and muttered judgements. They all loved to voice their opinion on dad’s choice not to raise me and it didn’t stop there.
Why does she color her hair like a rebel?
Why does she dress like that?
Why does she spend so much time with Axel and not her girlfriends?
It wasconstant.I couldn’t wait to get away.
I side eye Grams as we walk into the grocery store to grab a few things for dinner. At least she’s taking the fire in her stride.
“Go grab the fixings for your lasagna, Havey. I’ll go pick us up a cheesecake for later. I think you need a little something sweet to make you smile.”
Ha, she’s not wrong. Strolling toward the pasta aisle, I’m more than happy to eat my feelings.
My life might be a total shit show, but at least there’s lasagna, although even that’s a piss poor consolation now. My dumb ass didn’t think to pack my favorite Dolmio creamy sauce, to make it London style.
Urghhhhhh. Bollocks.
Now I’ve had it the British way, anything else is going to taste like spag bol but with pasta sheets.
I wonder if Alfredo sauce would taste similar?
Screw it, it’s worth a shot.
Well, if I can grab the damn jar from the top shelf. Apparently the store caters primarily to giraffes, because the height of this shelf is ridiculous.
Glancing around the aisle, I’m hoping to find someone not so vertically challenged to help me, but I’m shit out of luck. It’s totally empty.
Nothing is going to keep my ass away from my lasagna today.
I refuse to be defeated by a jar.
It looks like I’m about to test my skills as a gymnast.
Stepping on the bottom shelf, I stand precariously on my tiptoes, stretching my arm up as far as I can reach. My cami lifts, exposing my midriff, but I can’t worry about that right now.
At least I’m not flashing my tits today. That’s one point in my favor.
I huff out a sigh, trying to make my body stretch just a touch more. This is absolutely ridiculous. My fingers only just graze the damn thing.
Balls.
