I Hated You First by Rachel John

Lauren

 

 

Pulling out of the lot after work, I was in the mood for some angry rock music. Not quite the garbage Parker listened to, but something that would match the frustration I felt inside. I settled for a girl power rock band I’d listened to in high school long after it would have been considered cool. In fact, the more Parker and Clay made fun of Shadow Behind the Sun, the more l had clung to the band’s cheesy, angst-filled lyrics. Their songs filled me with nostalgia for a time when life had been less complicated, when straight A’s and not getting speeding tickets was enough to make my dad happy.

Dad had lectured me when I talked to him about Parker’s scissor lift purchase. He said I was tattling, as if I’d caught Parker using Mom’s good sewing scissors to cut poster board. And yes, I’d tattled that time, too.

Dad didn’t get it. We were adults now. I was happy about the scissor lift being a good buy. Anything good for the company was good for me. Team player right here, ladies and gentleman. This was about Parker’s undying confidence in making gut purchases. Like gambling, there was an ugly side to any lucky streak. I wasn’t being petty; I was trying to be proactive. But Dad missed all that, and when I tried to explain, he’d turned the conversation to the new guy in my life. Or tried to. I shut that down like a strict librarian with chatty patrons.

Once again, I considered leaving the company I loved, the one I’d help build up to what it was today. I’d been battling for my place with Parker and my dad for so long that it was hard to tell whose fault it was that we were like this—so stubborn, so in each other’s business. Connor was the smart one. My older brother hadn’t worked for the company since high school.

I merged onto the freeway, loving the punchy power of my old ’92 Chevy Silverado. Dad had offered to get me a new work truck several times, especially after we had to replace the alternator and the transmission and finally give my Chevy a paint job worthy of the Harwood fleet. But there was no better engine than the small block 350 in this thing, and I’d fight anyone who said differently.

By the time I reached my apartment, I was calm. Jenny stood at the stove making dinner. It smelled amazing.

“Best roommate ever,” I said, hanging my cross body bag on a hook and coming into the kitchen to have a look at the stir-fry sizzling in a pan.

“How was work, dear?” she joked. She pointed at the wooden spoon next to the rice pot, silently commanding me to stir. I complied.

“Are you looking for gossip or do you actually want to hear about my work?”

“Gossip, of course.”

“My dad found out about Denver.”

Jenny laughed. “You hide him like he’s a shameful secret. Denver is just about the most respectable specimen you could drag home.” She ticked off his qualities on her fingers. “He works for a bank, he has good personal hygiene, nothing on him is pierced, and he takes you on real dates.”

“You make fun of him.” I stole a piece of carrot out of the pan and ate it quickly.

“Too much salt?” Jenny asked.

“Nope, perfect.”

“I make fun of him because he’s a little too perfect, a little too cookie-cutter. You need someone who’s going to challenge you once in a while. And, you know, maybe someone with less gel in his hair.”

I sighed. Jenny knew me too well; enough that she could see all the reasons I’d picked Denver out in the first place, even if she didn’t fully understand the motivation behind it. Denver was nothing like my family, nothing like Clay, and I liked that.

Clay Olsen. It always seemed to come back to him.

Stupid childhood crush. I’d like to crush it until it was a fun little detour in my history that no one had to know about, like the Justin Bieber poster I used to keep on the back of my bedroom door.

Case in point, after talking to Dad about Denver today, my mind had dwelled on the fact that it was Herbert who told Dad about my boyfriend, not Clay. I’d asked Clay not to say anything, and as far as I could tell, he’d kept his promise.

It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t matter. Clay had always been there. I should be bored with him by now, despite his dark blue-gray eyes, his wavy brown hair, and his big strong hands that could fix anything. Stupid crush.

“So, what does this mean? Did your dad ask to meet him?”

“Huh?” I pulled myself out of my thoughts and back to the conversation at hand. “No, but that’s not good news. Normal dads ask. My dad? He’ll probably recruit a spy or go visit Denver while he’s working at the bank and pretend he’s interested in a home equity line of credit.”

Jenny stopped stirring the meat and vegetables and looked at me. “He’d do that?”

“I certainly wouldn’t rule it out. Let’s discuss this with food in our mouths.”

“So lady-like, Lauren.”

“So hungry.” I grabbed a plate and dished myself up a nice helping of rice and stir-fry. I loved that Jenny cooked. You would think the more you enjoyed food the better you’d be at making it, but I’d proved that theory wrong over and over again. I couldn’t even properly make brownies from a mix.

After a few bites, I continued. “He’s never liked anyone I’ve dated. Okay, he liked one guy, and that turned out to be the biggest disaster of all.”

“Because your dad got too attached to him?”

“Because he was my dad’s best employee, and he immediately quit after we broke up. His name was Boyce.” I didn’t like to think about Boyce. I still felt bad about him, and not just because of my dad.

“Boyz?” Jenny leaned forward. “Did you call him Boyz, like Boyz II Men?”

I rolled my eyes. “B-O-Y-C-E. Boyce. And don’t try to make everything about Boyz II Men. Your obsession with them is weird. You weren’t even born when they had their ten seconds of fame.”

“It was way more than ten seconds. They set records with their number one hits.”

“Anyway…”

Jenny rolled her hand. “Sorry. Continue. When did you date Boyce with a C?”

“When I was twenty. And my dad has never gotten over it. He still brings him up from time to time. It’s not like I deliberately tried to ruin his favorite employee.”

Jenny swirled rice around her plate. “Dating coworkers is always tricky. I’m assuming you were working there, too, right?”

“I was. But let’s change the subject. Anything new at your work?” I asked.

She shrugged. “My boss is one inappropriate comment away from me reporting him to H.R., and Noah, the carpool guy who asked me out is… just my coworker now. Today, we didn’t talk the whole ride to work, and once we were at work, we talked about nothing but collating.”

“Collating? Like, making copies?”

“Yep. We had a ten minute conversation on the best page order for the booklets and possible staple placements for the binding. Titillating stuff right there.”

I smirked. “Well, if he turned a thirty-second conversation into ten minutes just to stand next to you, that’s sorta hot. Did he lean over and whisper in your ear?”

“Ew, no. That’s the type of thing my boss does, and then he gets all offended and flabbergasted when you call him out on it. Noah kept a respectable distance, hands behind his back and everything.”

“He kept his hands behind his back because he was afraid his feelings would show if you two accidentally touched and he dropped all the papers on the floor.”

Jenny narrowed her eyes at me, trying not to laugh. “Your interpretation of my day is so much more romantic than my reality. Go on. Tell me more.”

I was embarrassed now, but Jenny’s know-it-all-smirk had me accepting her challenge. “Well, naturally, you’d have to stoop down and help him pick up all those papers, and then your eyes would meet and then your mouths, and then… then…” I rubbed my palms together. “Someone would walk in and you’d both have to scramble to your feet and pretend you were checking each other’s lips for leftover frosting from the birthday cake at lunch.”

“What birthday cake?”

“You work with like five hundred people. It’s always somebody’s birthday, right?”

Jenny grinned. “Pretty much. So, in your fantasy, do we get caught making out or do they buy the whole, ‘I-was-cleaning-the-frosting-off-his-lips-for-him’ excuse?”

“They’re suspicious, but they let it go. After that, the two of you just give each other looks of mournful yearning from across the hall. It’s very tragic.”

Jenny sighed. “Lauren, the secret romantic.”

“Emphasis on secret.” I had a tough-girl image to protect, after all.

My phone rang in the other room where I’d left it on the arm of the couch. I ran and grabbed it, assuming it was my mom or sister-in-law. Denver wasn’t one to call and check in. In fact, the only thing that would make him call anyone instead of text was if he’d suddenly been turned into Edward Scissor Hands, and even then, he’d probably use voice-to-text.

It was a surprise to see Parker’s name. He did call occasionally, but never after a spat at work. We usually just pretended like it never happened; the Harwood version of a truce.

“Hi, Parker.”

Jenny lost interest upon hearing it was my brother and got up to refill her glass with ice water. Business calls bored her to tears.

“Hey Lauren, I have great news for you.” The sarcasm in Parker’s voice didn’t fill me with confidence about what was coming next. “There’s an Aichi bucket truck for sale in Boise, Idaho, and Dad is insisting I fly with you to check it out and haul it back. I guess you’re the expert on Japanese bucket trucks now.”

“Idaho. Yay.” I did not want to drive home in a bucket truck from Idaho, especially with Parker taking me along as punishment. This was Dad’s version of sticking us in the timeout T-shirt together until we stopped fighting. But if he’d found the bucket truck holy grail, we didn’t have a choice. Most of the ones we wanted shipped straight from Japan at a price we couldn’t afford. Finding a decent used one in the U.S. was worth a lot of driving. “How tall is the lift?”

“Sixty feet.”

“What year?”

“2005. Look, I can email you all the specs. But what I really want you to do is talk Dad out of making you go. I’m the one who works on these. I know what they’re worth, and I know what to look for. You’ll just slow me down with bathroom stops. No offense.”

“None taken. You should take someone with you, though. Just in case you break down.”

“You worry too much. Maybe Clay can come along and babysit me. Would that make you feel better?”

“Yes. But only if you cut the attitude, Parker. It’s a little much, even for you.”

“Sorry. I just hate having Dad as my boss. It’s not even that I want to be the boss instead. It’s just…”

“Trust me, I get it. And I’ll talk to him tomorrow about not making me go along with you. If I call him now he’ll know you asked me to.”

“True that. Thanks, Lauren.”

I put my phone down and fiddled with the last bite of my dinner. I wasn’t sure if the business was what kept our sibling relationship going or what constantly tore it apart. Sometimes it was both. Parker was really cool when he wasn’t trying to be such a jerk.

Did Clay treat me the same way out of solidarity, or did I truly annoy him, too? Occasionally, when Parker wasn’t around, I’d catch Clay looking at me, really looking—the way a jewel thief might stare at a priceless necklace encased in glass. Or maybe it was just my active imagination. My secret romantic side, as Jenny liked to point out.

“What was that about?” Jenny offered to take my now empty plate along with hers, but it was my turn for dishes, so I took hers instead and brought them to the sink.

“My dad is trying to make me and Parker take a road trip together.”

“With Clay along, too?” Jenny smirked. “Do it.”

“No way.”

She’d been relentless since the day she’d seen the two of us together, which was for literally about thirty seconds three months ago. My truck had been acting up, and Clay picked me up for work since he lives close by.

Jenny didn’t buy my promises that the two of us were like brother and sister. I didn’t buy it either, but I’d keep trying to convince us both.

I also wouldn’t be accepting rides from Clay anymore. He made me listen to sports talk radio and wouldn’t turn down the air conditioning in freaking January. Even when I closed the vents on my side of his truck, I froze. An all-day road trip in a bucket truck with him and Parker would be a pleasure I’d gladly help wriggle my way out of.