How (not) to date your brother's best friend

How (not) to escape

"Hastings."

The sound of the screeching voice was enough to raise the hair on her arms. Samantha rolled her lips together, tension forming in her neck. Come on, you got this. She took a deep breath, the expansion of her chest smoothening the wrinkles of her beige work polo.

"Yes, Sarah?"

"What is this?"

Samantha turned her body, stiff like a stick, and cast a glance upon the pile of can goods. She had sweated her life out, piling them up in a pyramid, which was the stupidest design, all because Sarah had requested it.

Now she had a problem with it?

"Hm, the cans of beans you asked me to place?"

Sarah popped her lips, her neon pink lipstick cracking in the folds as she pursed her lips. "Really, Samantha, do you think, this," she began, pointing at the pile with disdain dripping from her words, "is what I asked for?"

Bitch you asked for a pyramid, and you got a pyramid.

That was the answer Samantha wanted to give her. But couldn't. Because she needed this job. Like desperately so. If she didn't, she wouldn't be able to keep her apartment for long. And she'd already burned her way through a lot of the low-paying jobs when she first arrived...

She couldn't get fired.

She dug her fingers into her palm, nails scratching at the skin, leaving a trail of red behind. Don't punch her in the face. Breathe. Breathe. She's trying to make you lose your shit, don't let her win.

"You're right, my bad. I'll start over."

"Good." Sarah pushed her shoulders back, her hands resting on her hips as if to feel superior. "When you're done wasting everybody's time, go through the dairy products and put the near-expiring stuff at the front."

"Yup."

"Excuse me?"

Bitch was pushing her luck. Samantha clenched her teeth hard enough to feel her jaw lock. "Yes, I will."

"Hm."

Sarah turned around, her blue heels clicking, and walked away, leaving Samantha free to stick her tongue out at the back of her head. What a bitch. Sarah had never liked her. There was never a precise reason, but Samantha could guess.

It was because she was a Hastings.

Her family was well off. Very well off. She grew up surrounded by nannies, maids, and whatnot. Up until the day she left her family home, she didn't know how to boil water. Everything had been done for her.

Not her finest accomplishment.

For a long time, Samantha thought she was happy with that life. If she wanted something, she had it. There was more to it than the money. It was the freedom she thought she had. It wasn't like she spent Daddy's money on crazy shopping sprees.

As a child, she had gotten scolded a lot - for running around outside in boyish clothes, for rolling in the mud, or bringing home insects. It wasn't what a proper lady should do. But she did it anyway.

Maybe it was then that her rebellion had started. Overalls, pigtails, and freedom.

Her mother always let it go more than her father. Eventually, the rules were stricter, but she could try any passion she saw fit. Piano, painting, singing. If she mentioned it, her father would make it happen.