Style | Dallas Winston

Chapter Fourteen

"Stupid Cupid you're a real mean guy, I'd like to clip your wings so you can't fly, I'm in love and it's a crying shame, And I know that you're the one to blame"-Stupid Cupid, Connie Francis

The frigid winter winds blew through Maeve's hair, sending chill through her body. While Tulsa wasn't known for cold weather and snowstorms, it definitely was more than just a light breeze outside. Maybe all those cigarettes finally rotted her brain, because she had to be crazy to sit outside in the freezing weather voluntarally.

The rodeo had taken place only two days earlier and Maeve hadn't left her house since. Partially because she didn't feel like taking the chance of running into Dally or Scott, and partially because she didn't want to miss the soap opera coming on that night. So despite the bone chilling cold and the fact that she was in no way a morning person, she decided to sit on the roof to watch the sunrise.

She was bundled in a long sleeve shirt, jacket, and a blanket attempting to keep the cold out, without success. A dense cloud cover hovered over, with only a few breaks to the twilight sky above.

The streets were mostly empty, with kids off on Christmas break and the adults still sleeping before work. There was a sense of calm in the air—a feeling of peaceful loneliness as she sat out there, letting her mind run free.

She had contemplated that day–that moment–often before she went to bed, even though she didn't really want to. It gave her an uneasy, guilty feeling, even though she knew that she hadn't done anything wrong. When she was kissing Scott... it felt good. It felt good to be wanted, to be desired—but it didn't feel right. She felt foolish for allowing Dally to corrupt her mind, letting a few stolen glances influence her life so heavily. It was just a silly little crush for God's sake!

But then why did he look like that when he saw them? She tried to rationalize it as overthinking, but there was no denying the look on his face, the hate, the anger in his eyes. She fully expected him to punch Scott in the face—it sure looked like he wanted to.

But the idea of that was crazy. Maeve couldn't wrap her head around why. Why would he care if she was kissing some other guy? Dally didn't care, he never cared. She had no obligation to him. Nothing even happened between them, certainly not anything he would consider to be of importance. He flirted with girls, kissed them, fucked them, but he didn't care about them. And sure, it wasn't a rare occurrence for him to beat up whatever guy Sylvia was messing around with out of jealousy, but it wasn't love. It was never love.

Guys like Dally didn't fall in love, they played with girls, but they didn't love girls, it was the whole reason she decided to ignore her feelings. Her and Dally were so different—there was no point in wasting her time on something that could never work. So many words could be used to describe him, not many of them good. Coldhearted, mean, and dangerous. The papers called him a reckless delinquent, and most people in town wouldn't say anything different. She knew all of it was true, but then he would look into her eyes and all of that would go out the window.

Falling in love was never a difficult task for Maeve, becoming infatuated with guys she hardly knew was a trap she often fell into. She got lost in romance novels and daydreamed of her own love story. She wasn't someone who could ever be happy with anything less than love. Not that she only wanted to be a housewife, she wanted to make something of herself, a task that wasn't easy for girls. She knew it wasn't realistic, wanting love and career as a woman, but it wasn't fair that men never had to choose, they always got both.