She frowns. “That sucks.”
“Maybe next time.”
On the way to my aunt and uncle’s, I stop at a Dunkin Donut’s drive-through to get a much-needed coffee for myself. Skylar agrees to one glazed munchkin.
Don’t ask me how someone can eat one munchkin. It’s unnatural.
“Hey, Jude,” the young girl at the pay window sings in an overly friendly voice as she leans past the glass partition like she does every time I come here. As if I’ve never heard someone mimic the song of my name before. “You’re here early today,” she says.
I nod at her as I take my order and throw a tip in the jar.
“Oh, hey, Skylar,” she continues, peering past me. “I didn’t see you huddled way over there. Are you hitchhiking?”
“Yes,” Skylar replies. “But now we’ve teamed up to look for airheads to murder. When’s your shift over?”
“Shut up, bitch,” the girl tosses back.
Before pulling away, I reach into the tip jar and take my dollar back.
“You know her?” I ask, shoving the dollar into my front pocket.
“Yeah, we go to school together.”
Ah. Now I remember. She was one of the girls giving Skylar a hard time on the first day of school.
Nodding, I say, “She’s usually here on the weekends.”
“Seems like it. She knows your name. And the time you usually come,” she grumbles.
Is that a hint of jealousy coming from my little fake wife?
“She usually fucks up my coffee.”
“I’m not surprised.” She picks at her munchkin, pulling tiny pieces off before eating them. “Paige is an idiot.”
Not wanting to fuel the flame of high school drama, I flick on my Doors playlist, and we sing People Are Strange together.
“Morrison was one of the greats,” Skylar comments when the song ends. “So deep and poetic. Not to mention, dammmn sexy.”
“Not at the end he wasn’t.”
She bobs her head to the side. “True. But in his prime, he was everything.”
I don’t know if he was everything. He was known for being moody, stoned, and emotionally unstable most of the time.
“You have any INXS on your playlist?” she asks. “Michael Hutchence gives me Jim Morrison vibes.”
Skylar obviously has a distinct fascination for damaged men. I see a broken heart in her future.
“As a matter of fact, I do.” I pick up my phone, find the song I’m looking for, and hit play.
“Oh!” she squeals when she hears it. “Don’t Change is sooo good. This and Never Tear Us Apart are my favorites. Have you heard the cover of Never Tear Us Apart that Ashes and Embers does? It’s seriously so amazing.”
“I have. It’s wicked good.”
“Asher Valentine has the most emotional voice ever. And that dude on violin?” She fans herself with her hand. “Epic on every level.”
“Should I turn the AC on to cool you off over there, Sparkles?” I tease.
She smirks my way. “Be quiet, you. A girl’s gotta have someone to lust over.”
“Does she now?”
“Yes. Just like men do. I’m sure you get all stupid when girls like Paige with her mile-long eyelashes are flirting with you,” she playfully accuses, and pokes me in the arm.
“I can assure you I have zero interest in a girl—no, make that a woman because I’m not into girls—like Paige.”
“Why’s that?” She narrows her eyes at me curiously. “She’s pretty in that I must look runway perfect at all times way.”
“That’s what I don’t like. I like natural women. Not with all that makeup. Someone who doesn’t blatantly flirt to get my attention. I don’t like when women are always ‘on,’ trying to look and act perfect 24/7. To me, they’re much more attractive when they’re sitting around in sweats with messy hair acting goofy.”
“Like me?” Her voice rises with hope. “In my footie pajamas?”
“Actually, yeah. Cute can be sexy.”
Shut up, Jude.
“Maybe older men are different then, because all the guys at school go after the gorgeous, popular girls. They don’t even notice girls like me.”
“Trust me, they notice you. My guess? They’re intimated by you because you don’t act interested in them. The so-called pretty girls flirt with them, invite the guys to pay attention to them. But you? You’re not trying to get their attention. You’re confident and unique. That scares them.”
In hindsight, I may have spent too much time watching Skylar walking to and from the high school parking lot every day.
She turns to me, her forehead creased with thought. “You really think so?”
“Yup.”
“Meh,” she says dismissively, and leans back in her seat to stare out the windshield. “I’m not interested in any of them, anyway.”
“There aren’t any brooding, emo, musician-types in your school? It was full of them when I was there.”
“None that I’ve seen.”
“Check under the bleachers,” I say. “That’s where they usually hang out.”
She laughs. “I’ll do that.”
I have lots of memories of hanging out under the bleachers with friends, smoking cigarettes and joints, having random philosophical discussions.