Page 7 of Wicked Little Secret
TOO SWEET - HOZIER
Five a.m. sharp.
The birds haven’t even started twittering yet when my alarm blares. I turn it off with a swat of my hand and then reach blindly for my glasses.
Eyesight restored, I’m up to start my day.
It begins the same as always. Ten minutes in the shower. Five minutes in front of the sink trimming my facial hair and brushing my teeth. A quick change into some gym shorts, and then it’s off to the kitchen to get the coffee started and take out Atticus.
He wags his fluffy tail as he dashes out the kitchen door to go do his business.
The rest of the neighborhood is dead silent, a neat row of equally perfect family homes that scream Americana. Part of the charm of living in a suburb outside of Castlebury.
Many years ago, I bought this house with the intention of starting a family.
Many years ago, I was hopeful, if not bordering on delusional.
These days, spying the manicured lawns and painted shutters fills me with nothing more than hot irritation.
Atticus races back into the kitchen just as my coffee machine stops tinkling. He’s ready to chow down on his breakfast while I’m more preoccupied with grabbing the newspaper off the front step.
Some would say it’s archaic that I still have the daily paper delivered.
This isn’t the twentieth century anymore. In today’s era of instant gratification, I could have the news at my fingertips. A quick internet search away.
Most people are too self-involved to truly appreciate the printed word. They’re addicted to their electronic devices like junkies hooked on crack cocaine. I see it day in, day out on campus.
Students glued to the glowing screens in their hands, pupils dilated.
I prefer tradition. The silken feel of the freshly printed paper and the potent smell of the black ink. The crinkling sound you make when you turn to the next page in between sips of hot coffee. Quality writing instead of mind-numbing internet jargon.
I’ve never seen an article in theCastlebury Tribunereference anyone’s ‘rizz’ nor do I give a damn to learn what the latest ‘bop’ is.
But before I can turn back inside my house to indulge in my morning ritual, I stop short. My gaze lands on my BMW XI parked in the driveway and the giant scratch mark keyed into the side.
Veronica.
I go from priding myself for not touching my phone in over twelve hours to desperately fumbling for it, fumingenough to shake. My breaths come out of me in ragged puffs as I dial her number by memory.
Once, she’d been saved as a contact. Mymost frequentcontact.
That was before we started hating each other…
She answers with a sleepy yawn. “Hello?”
“My BMW,” I snarl. “It’s been keyed!”
She yawns again. “Theron?”
“You know who it is!”
“Why’re you calling so early? It’s barely even?—”
“Answer me!” I bellow. “Did you key my car?”
“I’ve been sleeping.”
“It’s a simple yes or no question. Just when I think you couldn’t stoop any lower.”