“You approve of snapping at the waitstaff?”
Eli brakes, turns, his headlights washing across the sign that reads Pine Estates Mobile Home Park. I swallow the rising tension in my throat.
“Hell no,” he says. “But all the same, the man was in a bad position.”
“He snapped at the waitress like he was trying to train a dog, then ditched his date, and he was the one in a bad position?”
Eli slows, turns right down a row of mobile homes, chuckles again. Heat’s creeping up my neck, my body rigid.
Don’t let him get to you. Don’t.
“I’m not excusing him,” he says. “Just saying I don’t envy him.”
I crack a knuckle. Don’t let him get to you.
“The position of taking me out on a date?”
“The position of thinking there’s anything he could do that would impress you enough to have sex with him.”
He points at a trailer on the outside of the loop, with a car in the parking spot, two potted flowers on the tiny front porch, Christmas lights neatly strung around the top, and no rust spots.
“Even I know that’s a hopeless cause,” he goes on. “That’s you?”
“That’s me, and you don’t know a thing about me,” I said as he slows to a stop.
“I know you still live in the nicest trailer in Pine Estates,” he says.
Every muscle in my body tenses, the defensive anger whooshing through me like a flame as I open my mouth, ready to light him on fire.
“And I know anyone trying to buy their way into your good graces is likely to be disappointed,” he goes on before I can say anything.
“Oh,” I say, caught off guard, my anger deflated.
He didn’t say it.
Eli props one elbow against the window, leans his chin on it, and grins.
I don’t hate the grin, though I do hate the way my stomach feels like it’s sliding around inside my body when he aims it at me.
“Have a good night, Violet,” he says. “I’m sure I’ll see you around.”
I pull at the door release. Nothing.
“You gotta —"
I tug on it and the door jerks open.
“Right,” he says.
“Thanks for the ride,” I tell him.
“Told you it wouldn’t be so bad.”
I hop out and heave the door shut without responding, because anything I say will lead to us arguing in a truck, in a trailer park at almost one in the morning, and that’s how an episode of Cops starts.
My heart is still beating a little too fast as I mount the aluminum steps of my mobile home and unlock the door. I can still feel Eli’s eyes on me, even though I don’t look back.
It’s not until I close the door behind myself and lock it that I hear the guttural sound of his engine revving, the slow crunch of his tires on the gravel as he leaves.
He didn’t say it.
Of course he didn’t. You’re adults.
You know he still thinks it, though. Deep down, you know that.
I put my shoes on the rack next to the front door, slide my slippers onto my feet, and head into the kitchen where I pour myself a glass of water.
I drink and the years slide away until I can practically hear him.
I know where you live.
Trailer trash.
He didn’t say it, but he didn’t have to say it. I heard it so much in middle school — sometimes the full moniker, sometimes T. T. for short, if the teachers were around — that it’s practically engraved into my soul.
In the years since then, I’ve been valedictorian of Sprucevale High. I got a full ride to college. I took care of my mom and still graduated Summa Cum Laude before finding a good job in a town that doesn’t have too many of those.
All that, and I still live in Pine Estates.
All that, and I’m certain Eli Loveless still thinks I’m trailer trash. I’ve got a knot in my chest. I’ve had the stupidest day and I just want to cry, the pressure behind my eyes demanding release, but I don’t.
I wash out the glass, put it in the drying rack, wipe down the counter, and go to bed.Chapter FourEliJust as I make the turn, the Bronco slips into neutral.
“What’ll you give me?” the small voice asks from the backseat.
I grit my teeth together, silencing a string of muttered curse words, grab the gear shift, and hit the brakes. The Bronco jolts to a stop, half on the road and half on the gravel driveway of Loveless Brewing. It’s got a tiny hill that’s five degrees at most, but I’ll be damned if my car doesn’t do this every single time.
I really, really need to get second gear checked out. I’ve been putting it off for two months now, but sooner or later I’m going to have to take the Bronco in.
“What do you want?” I ask as I muscle the gear shift into first, then hold it there as I ease off the clutch and onto the gas. Lucky for me, my brothers’ brewery is just past the edge of town right off Highway 39, so there are no other cars in sight.