Nice Girls(24)

We weren’t even classmates anymore. We were strangers.

My phone vibrated—I’d gotten a text. It was a reply from Kevin: LOL, how’d you get my number?

I typed back quickly: I’ve had it since high school, I don’t remember, haha.

As the seconds passed, I felt my pulse racing faster. I was groveling, he could sense it, he was ignoring me, I was humiliating myself—

My phone buzzed. Kevin had replied back: Let’s get coffee then! I have Tuesdays off if you want to meet up tomorrow morning. Espresso Haus?

I let out a shaky breath, my fingers flying over the phone screen.





13




“You’re sick?” Jim asked. He sounded incredulous over the phone. I cleared my throat again, sniffling through my morning allergies.

“I think I caught something at work yesterday,” I said weakly. “But it’s such short notice . . . I can still come into work today.”

“No. No need, Mary,” said Jim. “Take the next two days off. You get better, okay? We’ll see where you’re at on Thursday, okay?”

“Thanks, Jim,” I murmured.

After I hung up, I went into the bathroom, primping myself for the day. Dad had already left for work. I moisturized my face and flossed. I drew on some eyeliner and curled my eyelashes. I spent another half hour digging through my trash bags for my best push-up bra.

By the time I finished zipping up my boots, it was already nine thirty. I would be late to the coffee shop, but I didn’t care. I liked the idea of making Kevin wait. It was crucial that Ivy League Mary looked good.

As a teenager, I told myself I was above it all—beauty, clothes, makeup. They showed too much effort on a woman. They showed her vanity, her desperation, her lack of confidence. If she was secure in herself, then why did she care so much? Why try so hard?

Meanwhile, I hated myself. I was too big, and if I couldn’t make my body smaller, I could certainly hide most of it.

But I knew better now. I understood why some girls at school dressed up for every class. Makeup was a placebo, clothes a disguise. They allowed us to embody our ideal selves. A pair of heels gave us height, a sense of power, authority. A red lip made us sexy. A French manicure made us classy.

If I was going to talk to Kevin Obermueller, I needed to be charming, persuasive. Kevin was simple—he loved blondes, but he also liked pretty women who looked fuckable. In his world, they were the only ones worth meeting.



As I parked in front of Espresso Haus, I saw Olivia’s face again. It was a flyer plastered in the window. An old couple sat at a table beneath the sign.

Inside, the coffee shop was snug. The log cabin walls were decked with witchy decals and a chalkboard that showed the countdown until Halloween: 4 DAYS!!! I scanned the rest of the shop. I couldn’t find Kevin in any of the seats.

The asshole had stood me up.

“Mary!”

I turned around. Kevin peered out from behind a wooden pole, one hand languidly in the air. As I came over, he got up from his seat. His face was boxier up close, and it matched his bulky frame. He wore a fleece vest over a plaid button-up.

Kevin looked like a business student, not a cop. I wouldn’t have recognized him. Back in high school, he wore exclusively hoodies and his letterman jacket.

“Sorry for being late, Kevin.”

He reached out and hugged me warmly. I fought the urge to pull away.

We sat down across from each other. Kevin’s eyes lingered on my face, as if he were trying to figure out where fat Mary ended and skinny Mary began. I was embarrassed.

“You gonna order anything?” he asked as he sipped his coffee.

“I don’t really need the caffeine,” I said. My legs were already shaky beneath the table.

“Friday night, I thought I was going crazy. Seeing Ivy League Mary around in the Sewers.” Kevin smiled. “You were one of the last people I thought I’d run into down there.”

“I was driving up from the south metro. Visiting a cousin,” I said, my mind racing.

“Just be careful when you’re down in the Sewers. That area’s a shithole.”

I nodded. I waited for Kevin to mention Dwayne or the other people in the car that night. But he just sipped his coffee. The conversation seemed to end there, the awkwardness seeping in.

“What are you doing here in town?” he asked.

“I’m doing some local research here for my thesis.”

“Funny. I didn’t know colleges let you do that.”

“I got special permission for it,” I said lamely. “And you . . . you’re like an actual police officer now?”

“I am,” said Kevin. He was beaming. “It’s weird, isn’t it? I never thought I’d be someone to join law enforcement.”

“Why’s it weird?”

“I mean, I was a huge shit when I was younger. Always being a dick to the other kids in our class. Picking on people for no reason.”

“Kids are awful.”

“But I was a different breed of it, Mary,” he said, his voice growing quiet. His blue eyes reminded me of toilet bowl cleaner. “Look at what I did to you when we were younger.”

I felt my face grow hot, the anger rising like steam.

We were eight years old and on a school field trip to a farm. It was autumn, only a few months after Mom had passed away. The class roamed inside of a large pen with baby goats. I followed a small brown one with Olivia.