Your Picture On My Phone (The Scar Series - Book One)

1 - Fight

I have always hated traveling alone, but to be honest, I hate almost everything. That includes but is not limited to winter, waiting in line, canceled flights, having nothing to do, small talk, smart-asses, my parents, and people that try to test my patience for whatever reasons.

Good for me that almost all of these things were part of my reality while I waited alone in line at the airport customer service desk.

My smartphone reminded me that it was only 5:25 pm. You can usually see arriving and departing airplanes on the runway through the tall windows to the left. Now, there was just a dark black void filled with snow, turning the glass into mirrors—throwing back the sad, tired after-holiday spirit of people stranded in an airport.

In total, I could spot about sixty people behind me. Most of them seemed to be just as annoyed as me, which made me feel better for some reason. In front of me was only one guy. Oversharing Pop-type. His black trench coat was so long that it made him look like the retiree version of a Matrix character. And his hat (one of those black ones with a wide brim and a grey band wrapped around them) just looked stupid. It drove me nuts how he was living his best life, joking with the airline dude as if it was funny that all of our flights got canceled due to the heaviest blizzard in the last decade. I groaned, hoping he would notice that he wasn't the only person in the world. But his trolley case waiting behind him was almost like a wall, shielding the entire world from them.

Just as I was about to bawl at him to finish his shit up, I got distracted by someone behind me, who, for some reason,found it amusing to poke a pointed finger into my back.

I took a deep breath. I can't explode at a kid. Not again. Don't want to have that call to my parents a second time. So I turned my head to the windows to get a look at the reflection of whomever the culprit was. But it wasn't a kid. That prick behind me was about my age! His head jutted out of the crowd, with his black short side long top hairstyle with bangs. A thick red winter jacket wagged in his arms as if he was a torero attracting a bull.

But something about him isn't...

I wanted to check out his face because he somehow seemed... familiar. More than some random dude usually would.

I focused my eyes on his reflection. But it was of no use. The mirror image was fuzzy, thanks to snow constantly hitting the windows.

What's his deal? Why is he poking at my back? If he wanted to talk to me about something, that's what he'd probably do.

As he started to move his poking game from my upper back down into the direction of my butt, I lost it. I had to do something about it.

Turn around, give his ass a motherload full of shit, and you can live in peace in an instant.

"What the fuck is your problem! Are you trying to come onto me, or what?"

"Would that be a problem for you?"

When I finally got my eyes on his face, the guy smiled at me like he was crazy.

Fuck.

Not only did he look familiar, but indeed he was. I closed my eyes for a moment to realize who I had just screamed at. Conor Hart, my former linebacker on our middle school football team and... my best friend until—

"What the... What are you doing here?"

"I'm waiting in line, Ash. Just like you."

Conor wasn't the short guy anymore that I outed in front of all of our friends and shoved into a swimming pool the last time I saw him. (Yep, that's what I did after he betrayed me—destroying his friendships, self-confidence, and most certainly his phone. Not one of my proudest moments and, in all likelihood, not his fondest memory either.)