Dare You to Hate Me

is smitten with the local. He’s got the physique of most sports players, but not the personality of the ones I’ve encountered. His laid-back outlook on life makes it easy to get along with him, but his no-nonsense attitude when telling handsy frat boys to buzz off is bonus points in his favor. Since words aren’t my forte, I thank him with homemade baked goods which he takes to his place that’s rumored to house a handful of other football players.
I never ask for confirmation, and he never remarks on the double batch of desserts I send his way figuring there are other massive men to feed. He simply brings back the clean dishes for the next time he has to fend off some asshole who can’t take no for an answer.
My shift at the local bakery is like any other when I clock in, tie a small white apron around my waist, and help Bea’s granddaughter, Elena, get the pastries out for the day. There are early morning regulars, older couples who love the Sunday specials, that I get to greet and make easy conversation with, and a few grad students who don’t totally piss me off when they hang around using the Wi-Fi.
In Lindon, everyone knows everyone even though the college brings in over 3,000 students each semester. It’s what I imagine a real-life Stars Hollow from Gilmore Girls would feel like if it were a small city. The customers who come in the bakery always have a new slice of gossip to share, and you’re never safe from being one of the topics.
The sixteen-year-old sitting on the back counter with her legs dangling over the side in a swinging motion pokes at my hair. “When are you going to redye this?”
I make a face as I pour myself a cup of coffee since the one I brought didn’t cut it. I’ll need the extra caffeine after the last hour and a half turned into a nonstop morning rush. “I don’t know. I’m not sure what color I want to do next.”
And I’m broke, I silently add, blowing on the steam billowing from the cup. No matter how hard I save up what little extra money Bea not-so-subtly sneaks into my paychecks each week, it’s still not enough to justify buying pointless little things.
“I can do it,” she offers, sipping on some disgusting concoction that only she drinks.
Setting my cup under the counter so I don’t accidently spill it, I say, “I’m good, Lena.”
Lena is sweet enough. A little too talkative and bubbly for my liking, especially first thing in the morning, but I’ve worked with worse—spoiled teenage brats and older people who are asses. My biggest problem with the social butterfly is how much she reminds me of what could have been before I messed everything up. It’s not her fault that her tender age and obvious naivety to life triggers something dark inside of me that I prefer to bottle up.
It’s something I have to deal with every time she complains about things like her mother refusing to extend her curfew, let her date, or wear certain types of clothing when she’s out. Her nose always crinkles when I say, “I don’t see why you’re so upset. Your mother loves you, that’s why she’s hard on you.”
Lena’s about to say something when her eyes get big and she kicks me a little too hard in the back of the thigh with her favorite checkered platform Vans. “He’s back!”
I know instantly who she’s talking about before I even turn to scope out the entrance. The little bell on the door goes off at the same time every Sunday, and Elena feels the need to point him, and his staring, out each week. He’ll wait to order until the line is down before he gets the same thing as always—a small coffee, no cream or sugar, six milks, and half an everything bagel.
All the bagels are homemade and probably the best things I’ve ever eaten. Bea makes them herself, never trusting anybody else to get them right. She stays late, makes the dough, bakes them, and leaves them for us to heat whenever they’re ordered the following day. They sell out every time.
The only reason I don’t raise a fit about the not-so-mystery-man’s order is because I get to eat the other half since nobody in their right mind would only order half of the delicious doughy treat.
I manage to roll my eyes without the person I’m cashing out seeing. “Calm down. And no kicking. Your excitement gives me bruises.”
She scoffs behind me, and I’m sure if I glance over my shoulder I’ll see her arms crossed and her pink glossy lips sticking out in a pout. Sure enough, when I steal a look, she’s doing just that. “It’s not hard to make you bruise when you’re barely a shade darker than white.”
I grin to myself and pass the man his change, coffee, and bag of pastries, before turning to her. “Whatever. And he’s just another customer, so chill.”
Now she rolls her eyes, disbelief coated in them like they always are when I brush off the appearance of Lindon U’s star tight end. He’s a guy who excels at what he does, I’ll give him that. But he’s still just a guy—a guy who orders half a bagel like some kind of carb-hating demon while still paying full price for it.
“He’s coming over,” she squeaks, cheeks turning red like they always do in his presence. It’s why, as much as I want to pass him off to her to avoid any conversation, I have to handle it so she doesn’t make a fool of herself.
I know some of the guys on Lindon’s U football team from my intro classes this semester, making it easier to handle the mostly overbearing team members better than some when they come in. Biological Anthropology is where a lot of athletes wind up because of the professor’s reputation for giving out easy A’s.