The Guy on the Right (The Underdogs 1)

“I’m not hungry.” She’s on the verge of tears, and I couldn’t care less.

From behind, I lean down, placing my hands on the table on either side of her and lean low to whisper in her ear. “This is the part where I typically give my usual pep talk. You know, to comfort those with conscience enough to regret being used. But don’t worry, Nora, I’m well aware you don’t have a conscience. And there’s no way I could possibly think less of you than I already do. But I can promise you this, you’re still very much the same girl you were when you walked through that door last night.”

She bursts into tears and oddly, I’m not satisfied.

“What the hell is going on?” Troy asks as he enters the kitchen and glances down at Nora before lifting accusing eyes to mine.

“Oh good, you can keep her company. I have a full day.”

“What happened?” Troy asks, leaning down to try and console her, his posture intimate, which only further infuriates me. I spent years knowing her, memorizing her, worshiping her, loving her, and he knows her in a way I never will. It’s dick jealousy, pure and simple, and it should surprise me that I can still feel that when it comes to her. I’m acting like a caveman when I’m the one who gave her the walking papers. And for good damned reason.

Still, the serrated knife that’s just been daggered into my back is unforgiving.

Troy looks between us utterly clueless. I should take some comfort in the fact they’re both bystanders of fucked up circumstance due to their own brand of self-destructive and narcissistic behavior, but I’m just angry. Angry at myself for caring.

“Kudos on this one, she’s a rarity. Truly, one of a kind. She has her picture-perfect future mapped out. But, be careful, she has a pair of sharp scissors and will cut you out without warning.”

“What the fuck, man?” Troy says, bowing up to me in ridiculous defense.

“I’d give you more of a rundown on the girl you just fucked,” I say, spitting the word out with intent, “but time is precious, and I’ve wasted enough on her.”

Gathering my shit from

the hall, I hear their exchanged whispers before I slam the front door and make my way toward my Honda. Fuming, I toss my case and backpack into the backseat when Troy approaches.

“Jesus, man. I had no idea.”

Slamming the door, I cross my arms. “Of fucking course, you didn’t.”

“I don’t know what to say.” He runs a hand down his face. “I fucked up.”

“Did you even talk to her?” I clench and unclench my fists. “Do you ever really talk to any of them?” His silence is deafening. “If you would have spent more than five fucking minutes luring her into your bed, you might have been able to connect the dots. Instead, you’ve fucked my ex!” I’m seething, and I hate myself for it.

“Tell me what to do to make this right.”

“You can’t do anything.” I snap, dangerously tempted to take a shot towards a fight I can’t possibly win. She’s no longer worth it, but I can’t help pointing out the time I thought she was. “That girl meant everything to me, for years, and you fuck her and treat her like she’s disposable. Can’t you see how wrong that is?”

Eyes cast down; he shakes his head. “Tell me what to do.”

“How about you grow the fuck up a little?”

“It was a mistake.”

“No, hell no,” I say as he brings guilty eyes up to mine. “You don’t get to claim that. That was intentional. She was my mistake. To you, she was just last night.”

Slamming my driver door closed, I turn the ignition as Nora comes into view on the porch. Her porcelain complexion splotched with evidence of her tears. I can’t help myself, I drink her in. Long dark blonde hair, dark blue eyes. With the stab of recognition, somehow, I know this is how it would have felt had I caught her red-handed, but then it would have been a million times worse. Most of my anger stems from the time that’s passed and the fact that even though I told her differently, she still has the ability to singe me. Because today she just burned me bad. And why? Because there’s no poetic justice for suckers like me.

Grannism—Everyone should do something bat shit crazy once in a while, it’s good for the soul.

Laney

Theo stands at the back of the line, his eyes cast down on his black high-top chucks. He looks adorable today in dark jeans, a V-neck, and a checkered sweater vest. I love the way he dresses—prep meets rock and roll—and his style is all his own. He’s trimmed his beard a little, and it’s closer to his face. His ear length brown hair curled slightly at the ends framing his jaw.

Though he’s dressed to the nines, his posture is deflated. It’s when I take a second look, and he doesn’t try to catch my eyes while I scribble an order, that I know something is wrong.

I nudge my co-worker, Carrie, who’s just finished layering the perfect dick on top of a cappuccino. Carrie is not a fan of our mostly male customer base either. “I’m taking ten. It’s important.”

She nods, stepping in front of me to take the next order as I walk down the line and approach Theo while he rubs a clenched fist along his forehead. I pull his hand away, searching his face.