Page 4 of Pucking Matt
Amateur. Just kidding. We have that in common.
Her mom was in and out of rehab.
Tragic, really.
Brother dealt drugs out of their garage.
Quite the family business.
Dated the captain of the debate team for a hot minute.
Poor bastard.
Cried during dissections in bio class but pretended it was allergies.
Weak stomach. Couldn't be me.
Sworn enemy of the school's mean girl clique.
As if she wouldn’t fit right in with them.
The list goes on. It's amazing how much dirt you can dig up when someone tackles you down a flight of stairs. Not that I needed to know anything about her.
I bet she's still telling everyone I'm the asshole in that story. Truth is, I overheard her in the hallway, ranting about her brother's latest fuck-up. Something about stolen prescriptions and a close call with the cops.
“Just shut up about it already,” I had said, more annoyed than angry. “You really want the whole school knowing your family's dirty laundry?”
Next thing I knew, her palm connected with my cheek. The sound of theoohsin the hallway echoed alongside her slap. I began to tell her she would regret that, but then her fists started connecting to my face. I ran because she punched hard, and then we were both tumbling down the stairs. I did my best to cushion her fall, taking the brunt of it. When we landed at the bottom, all I could see was the pain in her eyes, raw and burning. So when she scrambled up, fists raised for round two, I let her wail on me.
Figured if she needed a punching bag, better me than someone who'd hit back. Not many can say they've had theprivilege of using Matthew Pearson as their personal stress relief.
She graduated high school a few weeks later, and that was that.
Until now.
I have to admit, I'm curious why she's slinging coffee instead of running a Fortune 500 company or arguing cases in court. The Amber I knew wouldn't be caught in a dead-end job like this. Then again, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
But hey, I'm not here to judge. I'm here to order a sandwich and protein shake and watch her squirm.
I saunter up to the counter, doing my best to look bored and disinterested. Like I haven't noticed her at all. As if anyone could miss my entrance.
“Welcome to The Grind Stone,” she says, voice clipped. “What can I get you?”
I study the menu board, taking my sweet time because I can. “Hmm. What do you recommend?”
She looks up at the menu. “We have the fuck-off shake and the never-come-back-here-again sandwich.”
I tilt my head at her. “Do you have the this-isn’t-high-school-anymore shake?”
Her mouth opens but nothing comes out. I will never forget the look in her eyes right now.Got her.
I continue, “What about the grow-the-fuck-up sandwich?”
She stares at me, her lips now pressed together.
I tap the counter, glancing around the place. “My regular.”
She scoffs. “The Asshole specialty?”
