Stained

Chapter 2

"What the fuck, Damien! You blew smoke right into her face!" Kenzie yells.

I cover my mouth with my palm and peer up at him as I struggle to free my lungs from the unwelcome poison.

Through the side view mirror, I can only see the bottom half of his face, the top half masked by the shadow of his drawn hood. Despite being unable to see his eyes, I feel them, hot and heavy as lead on my skin. And in the bottom half, I'm clearly able to see his full lips, pierced with a lip ring and curved into a smirk. A cheeky smirk.

My hand drops from my agape mouth, the shock boggling my mind and killing the cough in my throat.

He did it on purpose.

Not wanting to deign him with a glare, I snap my lips shut and yank my head in Kenzie's direction as she leans over the centre console to grab a water bottle from the cup holders between the passenger and driver seat.

"Here, water," she says, holding out the bottle to me whilst buckling herself back in.

I shake my head no and reach into my bag for my own water bottle. I can't drink from anyone else's bottle or glass—germ anxiety.

As I'm tilting the bottle against my lips, I catch Kenzie's bewildered expression and stop. I mouth, "sorry," against the bottle's rim with a shy smile, then tilt my head back and take a ginormous gulp.

When I lower the bottle, I find Kenzie shuffling through her handbag.

I lick the bead of water that threatens to drip down my lips and onto my chin and lean back in my seat to look out of the window.

I'm socially awkward and struggle to instigate conversation or keep it going.

My best friends' seem to be the only exception in that regard, conversation constantly flows between us as we veer from one topic to the next, never really managing to finish any one.

But those truly are the best conversations.

My phone buzzing with a message almost makes my soul leap out of my chest. Despite my heart racing a mile a second, I calmly lift my backside off the seat by placing my hand on the passenger seat in front of me for support.

Too late, I remember the Rude Guy is sitting in the seat and my fingers end up touching his shoulder.

I see and feel his body tense.

With the speed of lightning, I retract my hand, ignoring the feeling of blood rushing to my cheeks as I pull my phone out by clutching the window cill instead, my elbow banging against the door in the process. Luckily, the loud bang goes unnoticed.

It was only an accident. It's not like I touched him on purpose, so I don't understand why I'm so embarrassed.

Fortunately, when I check the notification, I forget all about my mishap and smile.

My mum sent me a picture of my cat, Rosie, sprawled out on my bed, asleep.

Leave it to Rosie to bring a smile to my lips. Even in slumber. It's like she has magical powers. I will be pouring my eyes out and, like magic, she will manage to make me smile and laugh with her mere presence.

Kenzie must notice my sudden glee because she leans into me and sing songs, "are you texting a boy?"

"A boy being my mum? Then sure," I chuckle.

Kenzie being the nosy person she is, peers at my phone screen. "Oh cute, is that your cat?"

I nod my head yes.

"She's grown so much," she says, observing the picture.

I jut out my bottom lip in a pout. I can't believe she's five, I could've sworn she was turning five months old yesterday. Time sure flew by like a whirlwind.

Then without telling her or asking, I begin showing her more of Rosie's pictures and videos like a proud mother, gushing over each one. Though it's not entirely a lie, I am Rosie's mother. In my head, there's a whole scenario of me giving birth to her after twenty-four hours of excruciating labour.

It is said, the greater the pain, the greater the love.

By the time we pull up to Flavourville, I've shown Kenzie a quarter of Rosie's pictures and videos in my camera roll.

Kenzie's brother, Kyron, stops the car beside the operator's machine. He turns down the music, and I let out a relieved sigh.

Kenzie captures my relief and teases, "don't look so glum, it'll be back on very soon, and loud as ever."

"Can't wait," I joke, rolling my eyes and resting my head back against the seat.

"Iced tea, please," I hear Kyron say.

Then Damien murmurs, "Black coffee."

I scrunch up my nose, the mention of coffee staining my tongue with its foul, bitter taste. I hate coffee. My best friends' love it and have made it their mission to get me to like it too, have bought me every concoction imaginable.

None have done it for me.

On the contrary, all the tasting has made me hate coffee even more, but they won't accept defeat. The last concoction I was bribed into having was two days ago. I ranked it third worst. Unfortunately for me, my best friend never backs down from a challenge and has thus made it her life's mission to find me a coffee concoction I like. Aside from the bitter taste, coffee makes me jittery and shaky; caffeine in general has that effect on me. Thanks to my ADHD, it also induces drowsiness—the very opposite of its intended purpose.

"Hazel, what do you want?" Kenzie asks.

I sit up and reach inside my pocket, retrieve the right amount of money for the double chocolate chip frappé I always get and hold it out to her. I gesture in her brother's direction. "I want a double chocolate chip frappe with almond milk, please." Got to love being lactose intolerant.

She shakes her head no.

Confused, I blink at her. Is she saying I can't get a frappé?

She pushes my hand back. "Damien is paying. He said he would if my brother gave him a ride. Keep it."

I am someone who is extremely independent in all aspects of life. I generally hate the idea of anyone paying for me, the thought of this stranger, who purposely blew smoke in my face paying for me. No way. I'd sooner walk barefoot on Lego. And I get that can sound stupid, but to me someone paying for me feels very personal. I don't quite know how to explain it. Maybe it's my daddy issues. I can't allow it and it just doesn't sit right with me.

My friends are always making jokes, asking, "what are you going to do when you start dating?" My simple answer is "splitsville." At that, they burst out laughing and say they want to be in close vicinity to see my date's reaction to me saying that, and that if he agrees to go "Splitsville" he isn't the right man, period. I always argue with "no, it's him respecting my independence." And like clockwise, their counter argument always is: The right one won't allow you to remind yourself to be independent. I highly doubt that. I'm the eldest child of two sisters; removing my independence would be like removing a limb.

I slide Kenzie's phone out of her hand and replace it with my change. "No, I can pay for myself." I try for my voice to come out as stern as my best friend taught me to make it.

Kyron speaks to me over his shoulder."Do you want medium or large?"

"Medium, please."

He tells the operator what I want and then drives to the next section to pay.

I look back at Kenzie and harshly nod my head toward her brother, whilst mouthing in the same manner,"give it." 

She shakes her head no, again.

I condescendingly tilt my head. I'm not letting him pay for me. I don't even know him.

Damien hands her brother a card, and he scans it. The familiar ping of the transaction going through reverberates in my ear.

Crap! Crap! Crap!

A brave notion sparks in my head. I fan the coins across my palm, tame the tremor in my hand, and extend my arm across the console. Kyron barely spares the money in my hand a glance. "He owes me. Keep it."

I shake my head no. "I'd like to pay for myself, please."

"Too late now," Rude guy deadpans.

My lips purse in frustration as I turn my head to face him. All I'm met with is his hoodie hiding the sides of his face. "Well, I'd like to pay you for what I ordered then." My arm is growing heavy and beginning to ache. He doesn't bother to turn, treating me like a fly on his shoulder—something beneath notice.

The rude guy ignores me and faces the passenger window.

Why am I not surprised?

I give Kenzie a pleading look. She merely shrugs, grinning. I'm glad someone finds this amusing.

"I don't want you to pay for me." Save your money for your stupid, disgusting cigarettes, I want to say, but bite down on my tongue.

Suddenly, surprise washes over me. I have never found the courage to outright contradict a stranger before. I struggle with those I know, and ninety percent of the time, I never do. For the first time in my life, a rebuke for a stranger has left my mind and met my tongue.

I know the whole rebuttal didn't leave my mouth, but that's wholly because I chose to stop it — I don't usually let rage run my mouth, and I'm not going to start, especially not on his account.

All I receive in response from him is a single huff. A huff.

I force back a groan. If he thinks I'm going to accept a drink stained with his money after he blew smoke in my face, he has another thing coming.

Without a hint of hesitation, I tip my hand and drop the change into his lap. The coins scatter across the folds of fabric, their metallic clink echoing in the silence.

He jerks back, his body recoiling in surprise. His hood conceals his face, but the way he stiffens is enough to tell me I've caught him off guard. That hidden expression feels like a locked door I'll never be allowed to open, and the not-knowing makes the air tighten between us. My heart lurches; I can't believe I actually did it. I've never been this reckless before, never stepped so far beyond the boundaries of my fear. I can't see his expression, but I can feel the tension coiling between us. Pride swells in me, fizzing sharp and hot. I give myself a mental pat on the back. Deep down, something in me shouts with delight:  you did it—and you'll never forget this moment.

I seem to be hitting a lot of firsts today.

"What the f..." he abruptly turns his head, and our lips collide in the briefest brush. My small stature had already forced me to lean far forward to drop the coins into his lap, but the reckless momentum of my spur-of-the-moment choice carried me further than I ever meant to go.

I gasp, my eyes flying up to hooded, green flecked, blue gemstones. I watch his eyes fall to my lips, but when they move back up and lock onto mine, his pupils dilate, encasing almost his entire iris, and sending my heart into a frenzy of something foreign.

"Wow Hazel, you don't give up do you?" Kenzie chuckles, snapping both mine and Damien's attention away from what just happened and one another. He faces the window once more, and I move back.

Once again, embarrassment tinges my cheeks red in regard to him. I refuse to allow it to fester for long; I force the joy from my bold move to overshadow whatever just happened between us. I slump back in my seat with a triumphant smile. I did something I usually wouldn't ever do, and I'm going to feel as proud as I possibly can, rude guy be damned.

After passing the drinks to us, Kyron drives out of the drive-thru.

I bring the straw to my lips and sip greedily, a smile tugging at me that I can't quite suppress. I've never been this brazen before.

And it gives me hope—hope so fierce it nearly aches in my chest—that maybe I'm finally climbing out of the deep hole I dug for myself. For the first time in what feels like forever, joy flickers through me, raw and unexpected, filling the hollow spaces I thought would never be touched again.

I look out the front window, wondering why we haven't moved yet. We stopped at the traffic light more than three minutes ago.

Anxiety unexpectedly seizes my body. I can't be late for my first day of college. I'll be setting a bad example for myself.

I debate bringing it across Kenzie, but she is busy typing away at her phone with a huge smile on her face.

I decide against it. I already know my anxiety is heightening my paranoia as is, so it would be cruel to interrupt her when it could be a matter of the traffic lights going on longer than normal due to the time of day.

'But what if it isn't...' my anxiety rears her annoying head, sharp and insistent.

Anxiety was a stranger to me for most of my life. It moved into my head when I was thirteen, right at the height of my depression, and it's been dragging me down ever since.

At first, I thought I was possessed, that something supernatural had taken hold of me. The doctors assured me it was nothing so dramatic—that it's common for people with mental health struggles to hear negative voices.

But this voice doesn't feel like mine. It slinks in like an unwanted companion, nagging on with cruel persistence: 'What if you're stuck in traffic for hours... what if you never get out... what if it only gets worse?'

Okay nope, I need to find a distraction and fast.

Gazing out the window is the first idea to strike my mind, and so I turn my head to do just that. I pause halfway, feeling eyes on me: Rude guy is watching me through the side-view mirror.

But that's not what steals my attention.

He's removed his hood. Removed the shadow concealing half his face. And he is beautiful.