A Racing Romance

Part 1: Who The Fuck Is Cal Hartford?

Town meetings have been the death of me ever since I was a child. 

I've always hated them; my parents used to have to drag me out of the house to get me to come along. They're so boring and petty, and every "problem in dire need of a solution" that they bring up is never really a problem at all, but an inconvenience. And they feel like they're hours long, which is occasionally true, actually. The third Wednesday of the month at 7:00 PM. Everyone attends, even though no one is required to go by law or something. But they kind of are.

I sigh, rolling my neck to either side to stretch some of the stiffness out of it. It's 9:23 now, and so far, our self-anointed town "president," Ellie Windsor, has rambled on about traffic safety laws, school bus route efficiency, and a neighborhood park with a creaky swing.

And I want to throw myself out the window. 

Ellie is cut off by the sound of a bell clanging, and everyone collectively turns around in their seats to see the door of Cinder's Cafe--the cafe that's been around since literally forever and the chosen meeting spot for this month--opening, revealing a rosy-cheeked, platinum-blond-haired girl dressed in an impossible amount of layers to fend off the cold. Rosalie.

I smile at her, and she gives me a why-is-everyone-looking-at-me-kill-me-now look, then mumbles a sorry to the rest of the room and stumbles through the countless chairs and to me, where I've saved her an extra seat, as always.

As everyone's attention gradually turns back to Ellie, who has now continued speaking, Rosalie sits down beside me, groaning quietly. 

"I still don't understand why these are necessary," she mutters, pulling out a white bag and handing it to me. I take it gratefully, sighing in relief when I see the two cinnamon-sugar donuts--my favorite and just what I need.

"Thanks. And me neither," I say, handing her the other donut and taking a bite of mine. 

Rosalie's been my best friend ever since we were seven years old. Most people who were born in this town stay in this town, and that's just the way it is. I didn't really have a choice of whether or not to leave, with the library and whatnot, but I think if I did, I would've stayed. Rosalie did have that choice, and she's still here, too. For her work. 

She's always been an artist at heart. I remember, in third grade, seeing the look in her eyes when she picked up a paintbrush for the first time. She fell in love right then and there, and she's been happy with her painting ever since. She sells her works at a local studio, and on top of being a fantastic artist, she also works part-time in my library, which is a big help. Or, at least, it used to be. Now, she's kind of just a permanent part of my life. 

We both look up at Ellie, enjoying our food quietly. Or not-so-quietly.

"You would never believe who I saw at the bakery while I was picking these up," she hisses at me, gesturing to our donuts.

"Who?" I hiss back.

"Daniel, from that cooking class!" She somehow manages to squeal while whispering. My eyes widen, eyebrows raising. 

"The guy with the minuscule dick?"

"Yes!"

"What'd he say?"

"He said we should get together again sometime."

"Ew, gross. You didn't fuck him again, did you?"

She slaps my arm, hissing, "Madeline!" 

We chuckle quietly, sighing. Rosalie has one of the most active sex lives I've ever heard of--like, Hollywood-level sex. I mean, she's a gorgeous girl--of course she does. She's got that classic, doe-eyed, loveable look that guys go nuts for. I, on the other hand, do not.