Page 11 of Never Sleigh Never
“Hate is mild. I despise him. He makes me all stabby.”
“But why?” Sloane crosses her arms, forearms resting on the table.
“I spent my entire life growing up with Logan fucking Crawford?—”
“Do we need to refer to him as Logan fucking Crawford every single time?” Willa interrupts.
I shoot my stabby daggers at Willa.
Her hands raise in defense. “Just throwing it out there.”
“Since we were kids, he thought his shit didn’t stink, and it stunk. A lot. He always had to be the best at everything. Always had to be number one. On the playground, he always had to have the right swing because the left one squeaked, and no one wanted that one. Then, in middle school, he always got the lead part in the Christmas play. Even though everyone tried out, it didn’t matter. It would automatically go to him.”
“Maybe he was just good.” Sloane shrugs.
“Or because he’s Logan fucking Crawford, and he gets whatever he wants.” I hold up my hand, lifting a finger with each point I make. “Spelling bee champion. Homecoming king. Valedictorian. Which cost me a full-ride college scholarship. Not to forget captain of the hockey team. Guys wanted to be him. All the girls flocked to him. And bile creeps up my throat at the sound of his name.”
“That was eighteen years ago. Some people change,” Willa says.
“Some people yes. Logan no,” I deadpan.
Cara from the Mount Holly Community Club stops at our table with a stack of tickets in her hand. “Hey ladies! A dollar a ticket. Are you in?”
A collective “yes” comes from all three of us. We exchange our dollars for a numbered white ticket before she moves on to the next table.
Sloane turns her attention back to me. “Maybe you’re stuck in the past. He could have changed since then.”
“You can’t snap your fingers and magically turn into a good guy.”
Sloane taps her chin. “I think you’re just harboring a lot of deep feelings. Maybe you need to sit down and talk it out with him.”
Willa brightens like a Christmas tree. “Oh yes! Lock them in a room together!”
I roll my eyes. “This is how true crime podcasts start.”
“Fine,” Willa concedes. “We’ll lock you in a nice room. With snacks.”
“Absolutely not.” I cross my arms over my chest. I spent my entire life settling for second place. A collection of second-place trophies and silver medals doesn’t feel the same. When it comes to the festival, it’s first place or bust, and I can’t afford a bust.
Willa’s phone buzzes on the table. She glances at the screen but ignores the message. “I told him it was raffle night. He’ll just have to wait.”
“Who’s him?” I ask.
“Clearly, it’s not Mason. Otherwise, she would have answered.” Sloane wiggles her brows, and I nod in agreement.
Willa side-eyes us. “If you must know, it was Ryan.”
“The foot doctor? You’re still dating him?” My nose crinkles.
“Podiatrist. And dating is a… stretch,” Willa answers. “More like seeing each other when we each have a spare minute. It’s a mutually convenient agreement.”
“Or in more simple terms, fuck buddy,” I add.
“I certainly wouldn’t see him if all he gave me was a minute, either,” Sloane quips. I raise my hand, and from next to me, she slaps my palm with hers.
Willa rolls her eyes at us. “The ‘doctor’ in front of his name keeps my parents’ scrutiny at bay. Social events with my family are slightly more bearable with him on my arm.” She takes a sip of her drink. “I get fewer questions like when are you getting married? Your little sister has a lot going for her. Why didn’t you finish medical school? You can’t make a living running a diner.”
Willa’s parents own the local family medicine clinic. She was destined to follow in the family’s medical field footsteps, but her passion to run a diner was greater than the eleven years of schooling and training that was in her future.
