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I’d only lost my virginity to Colton because I didn’t want Sarah to beat me to the punch. Joke was on both of us. Losing one’s virginity to an inexperienced and sexually selfish jock was not a victory. I’d pretended that I’d had multiple orgasms when I told her the next day, relishing in the look of disappointment on her face.

Memories.

Sarah looked much the same—blonde, skinny to the point of malnourished, clothed in overpriced activewear, clutching a coffee, shoving her equally ultra-expensive sunglasses to the top of her head.

She revealed blue eyes, long lashes, a lot of makeup, and a forehead that didn’t move with her expressions.

“Hadley, it is you.” She sounded as if she couldn’t believe it.

Fair. I couldn’t believe I was here either. Her? Not at all a surprise that she’d never left.

“When Kelly told me that you were back in town, I wouldn’t believe it until I saw it with my own two eyes.” She hauled me in for an excruciatingly uncomfortable hug—her little arms were powerful—drenching me in her perfume.

I didn’t hug her back.

She was lucky I didn’t stab her for initiating physical contact.

She let me go, standing too close, her smile too bright to be real. There was no way she didn’t note the blatant hostility radiating from me. “And here you are, in front of me. Seeing you with my own two eyes.” She pointedly ignored how different I looked, as if it were polite of her.

“Here I am.” I held out my hands, speaking through gritted teeth.

Silence yawned between us as I refused to make conversation.

“What do you do with yourself these days, Hadley?” Sarah’s voice was nasally and high, her blue eyes flickering up and down my body in judgment.

My boots were scuffed. Dirty. My jeans were ripped, but not in that trendy way that somehow allowed companies to charge three hundred dollars for them, in a way that told those sharp eyes they were cheap, and I wore the shit out of them because my first priority was not buying jeans. Luckily, my large gas station sunglasses hid my shiner. I did not want her faux concern or outrage about that.

I sighed at the question, at the look—full of judgment and sick victory that she’d finally “won” whatever competition had existed in her head since high school.

Why was it that people asked about employment immediately upon meeting someone?

Hi, nice to meet you. What is your income and position so I can decide whether or not I’m impressed by you or you’re worth my time?

I clicked my tongue. What I said in response was crucial. Information spread like wildfires in small towns, the people having memories of elephants on coke. “I’m in … extermination.” It wasn’t completely untrue. I’d lied plenty about my job title over the years and broken dozens of federal laws while I was at it. The United States government didn’t look kindly on people who impersonated Homeland Security. Or the FBI. Or CIA. Or hadn’t paid tax in her entire adult life.

“Extermination?” She wrinkled her nose. “You mean, like, rats and stuff?”

I smiled or showed my teeth and turned my mouth upward in a rendition of a smile. “Something like that.”

She swallowed visibly, as if she were literally sickened by the thought.

Again, I didn’t rush to fill the silence between us. Didn’t ask her the same question. I deduced she was a housewife, judging by the huge rock on her left finger, the athletic clothing in the late morning with a full face of makeup, saying she actually wasn’t coming from any kind of workout.

“Well, I’m sure it’s only temporary,” she placated, all but patting my hand gently.

“Nope.” I pulled my hand away, shoving it in my pocket. “It’s my job. For life.”

She chewed her lip as if she were figuring out what to say. “Well, good for you. Career woman.” She looked down at my empty left hand. “Not married?”

I gagged, internally scolding myself for not hiding both hands in my pockets. “I’d rather eat broken glass.” I looked pointedly at her hand again. “But congratulations to you.”

She smiled tightly and lifted her hand, presenting the ring to me as if I were going to be impressed by a rock mined through slave labor.

“I told Dave it was too gaudy, but he insisted,” she giggled. “Only the best for me.”

“Dave?” I parroted. “As in…”

“Dave from high school,” she finished smugly, as if she’d won some kind of prize. “Childhood sweethearts. He took over his father’s car dealerships—the most popular in the county. We’re opening a Jeep dealership soon. Three kids. I just had Sofia eight months ago.”