LOVE BONE [H.S. AU]

T W O

R O N N I E

"-severed in a gruesome fashion. The people of this town are terrified, and rightfully so, it's not something you expect in a small town, it's much more common in a big city
like Lo-"

"Wes, turn that off and get your shit or you'll be walking to work today." I didn't even get a good look at him, I'm in such a hurry. My hair falls into my face and my cardigan hangs off one shoulder as I whip around the kitchen trying to grab something to eat and simultaneously find my favorite sunglasses.

I hate being late. I own the fucking store, and I still hate being late. Unfortunately, I also hate being a fucking bore; so I often find myself out very late at night, or very early in the morning, however you want to look at it.

Last night was no exception. I stumbled into the house about five hours ago after a night at The Park with Dare and Vin, and I'm paying for it this morning. Which means Wes is paying for it too.

Wes sat hunched over his bowl of cereal with his eyes glued to the small television that sits in the corner of the tiled kitchen counter like he does every morning. I swear he thinks the world revolves around him and his warped sense of time.

"Whatever." He rolls his eyes and pushes his hand through his hair as he stands and takes his leisurely stroll to the sink.

I manage to grab my bag, find my sunglasses, and lace my chucks all before Wes makes it from the sink to the door. "Let's go, worm. I swear to God someday I'm dropping you at a fire station with a sticky note on your forehead that says 'I tried' and a bottle of vodka for them."

He just shrugs at me and pushes his way out the front door. I love him, I really do, but sometimes I think he might be the stupidest 19-year-old boy on the planet. Just air between his ears. Absolutely empty under that floppy hair. The only time I've witnessed his eyes light up is in the presence of a joint or a woman's nipples.

I follow quickly behind him, leaving a sticky note with a heart for Mom on the door before racing down the stairs and into the driver's seat.

Mom works nights at the hospital so she would be home in a couple of hours, our schedules meant that we didn't see her too much so I tried to leave her little love notes when I remembered.

It only takes about 10 minutes to get to the library and shove Wes out of the car with a quick "Love you, worm! Don't be a shit today!" Then it's back on the road and only eight minutes to my little slice of heaven.

My eight-minute drive is basically a traveling Bikini Kill concert. Rebel Girl, Magnet, Lil Red, and Sugar are on the setlist today as I drive the hills of Seattle.

My windows are down, the crisp September air whips my hair into my face like tiny little razor blades kissing my skin. My tiny bangs separate against my forehead but I don't mind, they'll be easy to put back into place once I get inside.

The air is cold on my bare legs, my little black skirt doesn't offer much warmth, but it does offer much thigh and I like that. My thighs are dimpled and flawed, with little red bumps and too many hairs that hid from my razor. They're darker on the inside, where the skin has rubbed together since I was ten years old. Darker, and once again flawed by razor bumps and skin tags, things that sometimes keep me up at night. Things that sometimes make me feel sick to my stomach, but sometimes don't make me feel anything at all.

I've never had a complaint. Darren never complained when his head was between my legs, and Kerry didn't either. Now, it could be different because I was dating them, and neither of them would have ever been cruel to me, but no fleeting partner has ever complained either, so I've determined that any issue I have with the state of my thighs is made up in my brain by the greedy, evil, men who tell the media to tell me that my "flawed" thighs are not perfection.