Callie found it amusing that it took her coworkers that long to collectively find two o’clock. “Oh, bless your hearts,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “Y’all have issues with analog time?”
“Shut it, Breaux.” Shane sniffed.
She looked over at Garrett, who was eyeing the women out of the corner of his eye. “Go talk to them,” she finally said. “I’m starting to feel embarrassed for y’all.”
“I’ll do it,” Shane said, taking a long swig of his beer before standing up. The other three followed.
“You sure you don’t want to come, too?” Garrett said. “We might need a wingwoman.”
“Um, no thanks.” Callie pulled out her phone. “I’ve gotta answer some emails. I’ll hold down the table.”
She skimmed through her inbox of press releases that included an upcoming city council meeting and senior citizens barbecue. She input the council meeting into her calendar so she could get a quote about the levee. When she finished, she peeked up at her coworkers.
The women were laughing like one of the guys had just said the funniest thing in the world. What a weird human mating ritual, Callie thought. Pretending to find someone funny just so they would like you seemed like the cheapest trick in the book. The only time they ever made Callie laugh was when they were being idiots. Like that time Kent published a headline that read, “Missippi Student Wins National Spelling Bee,” or when Shane fell off his chair in a staff meeting. She rolled her eyes as the girl with bright red lipstick touched Garrett’s arm.
“Can we get a round of shots?” Shane called out to the bartender, who got to work pouring tequila into a row of tiny little glasses.
Callie’s stomach turned as she remembered how many margaritas she had consumed the night before.
She wouldn’t do a tequila shot, she told herself, no matter how much the guys begged. They were always egging her on to drink more at these happy hours. But after the waiter delivered the glasses to the table, the guys and girls clinked their shot glasses, slammed the liquor into their mouths, grimaced, and then laughed. No one invited Callie over. They didn’t even look in her direction.
“Need anything, miss?” the waiter asked, stopping by her table with the tray of empty shot glasses. “Free shot? On the house!”
Callie reddened at the pity in his expression. “No thanks, I’m good. I’m actually heading out.” She tucked her phone in her back pocket and stood to leave.
Garrett caught her eye. “Are you going?” he mouthed.
Callie nodded and headed outside. She squinted against the evening sun and slipped on a pair of plastic neon green sunglasses she’d gotten from a tequila sponsor at their last happy hour a few weeks ago. Damn tequila, she thought to herself.
“Why are you leaving so soon?” Garrett called out, catching up with her in the gravel parking lot.
“I forgot I had another thing tonight,” she lied, playing with the set of keys in her hand.
“Bummer.” Garrett shielded his eyes from the sun with his hand. “Does that mean I have to babysit Shane without you? You know how he gets when tequila is involved.”
Callie shook her head. “He’s gonna be making out with that stuffed gator up front in no time.”
Garrett laughed. “Better the gator than one of those girls, I suppose—I mean, for their sake at least.”
A lump formed in her throat at the mention of the other girls. She didn’t know why that scene got her so upset in the first place—something had struck a nerve in her that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. It wasn’t like the guys hadn’t flirted with girls around her before. So, what was it that got her so emotional? She shrugged it off.
“Y’all have fun.” She forced a smile and headed to her car. “See you on Monday.”
As she drove down the back roads to her empty apartment, she kept wondering what was different about tonight that made her uncomfortable. Then it finally hit her: It wasn’t the first time Garrett had treated her like one of the guys, but it was the first time he blatantly made her feel like she wasn’t even a girl.
CHAPTER 3 Hanna
Hanna Peck gunned it through the yellow light on Main Street, her five-year-old Nissan Versa whining in protest. She was already fifteen minutes late to pick up her kids from the after-school program at Jefferson Elementary. The principal had called earlier to tell her that her eight-year-old, Drake, would be waiting for her with a black eye. The third-grade bullies had struck again. Little bastards.
The elementary school was a red brick building surrounded by temporary trailers to accommodate the growing population of kids in town. Drake sat on the concrete bench outside, shuffling his feet underneath him. His five-year-old sister, Lucy, was holding hands with the kindergarten teacher, Ms. Hall, who looked almost as pissed as Hanna felt about being late.
“I’m so sorry,” Hanna said, running over to her kids. She clutched her tan cardigan closed across her green blouse, hiding a coffee stain on her right boob. She was the activity coordinator for the local nursing home, and one of her residents got a little too excited with her drink while playing a rowdy game of Pass the Pigs.
“You’re late again—I get extra screen time for this,” Drake demanded as he stood up and walked to the car.
Hanna wanted to cringe at how he was talking back to her in front of the teacher, but just nodded her head and prayed Ms. Hall didn’t judge her. Her mom motto? “Pick your battles.” And today, she didn’t want any more.
“What happened?” she asked him as they drove home. “Why did the other kid hit you?”
“He said I was poor because my backpack has a hole in it,” Drake said with a frown. “So, I said he was stupid, and he hit me right in the face.”
Hanna remembered how excited her son was to find the Minecraft backpack at a neighbor’s garage sale. It broke her heart that some asshole kid had to ruin that for him.
“I’m so sorry, boo,” she said, turning down a road lined with 100-year-old oak trees draped in Spanish moss. The golden sunlight hit the green leaves, giving off an almost glowing effect as the car scooted underneath the kissing branches.
On the left-hand side, she passed the black wrought iron gate surrounding the lush green campus of Evangeline Oaks Academy. It was the town’s best private school. A few of the middle school students were hanging outside by the gate, dressed in crisp baby blue polo shirts, khakis, and plaid skirts. They were all laughing and seeming to have a good time. No one, she noticed, had a black eye.
“How was your day, baby girl?” she asked, looking through the rearview mirror at her daughter, who was kicking the red glitter ballet flats Hanna had found at a thrift store for only three dollars.
Lucy shrugged and then lowered her head.
“What’s wrong, sweetie?” Hanna stopped the car at a red light and turned to face her daughter.
With a pout, Lucy mustered up the words. “You said school would teach me to read, but I still can’t.”
Hanna cracked a smile remembering the conversation Lucy was referring to. Her daughter had snuggled up to her the other night when she was rereading Gone with the Wind on the couch and asked when she’d be able to read a book like that. “That’s why you go to school,” Hanna explained. “You’ll be reading books like this in no time.” Clearly the little girl had been obsessing over it since then.