He just continued staring at me with that same flat expression, and I swore beneath it was a hint of disappointment. My skin itched, and I felt like sinking down into my chair and hiding behind my legs.
Garrett pulled the cigarette from his mouth, plumes pouring from his nose. “Is it honest to sit there objectifying men for their bank accounts and dick sizes knowing tomorrow you’ll be the first to ridicule men online for objectifying women for the size of their tits or homemaker status?”
My eyes felt like they were going to fall out of my head, and I suddenly regretted my extra glass of wine. I couldn’t come up with a single, decent response. “We were just joking,” I said, hoping to prevent his face from growing any angrier. It did the opposite.
“If a man said that, you’d call it an excuse and tell him to do better.”
I moved to argue, but stopped, letting my mouth hang down like a fish for a second before snapping it closed. He was being a dick about it, but I could see his point. If I’d stepped out of my home to have a moment of peace and overheard two men talking about women’s worth being based on their bodies and employment status, I’d have taken offense.
So instead of yelling at him, I was about to apologize and tell him he was right. That is, until his next comment sucked the words right back down my throat.
“It’s no wonder you aren’t dating anyone. Women like you give women everywhere a bad name. Nothing but a leech wrapped in a pretty package, looking for a sugar daddy to take care of you while you sit at home, drink wine, and go shopping.” Each word lashed out harder than the one before, his anger finally clawing through.
He stepped right up to my porch and put his cigarette out on my railing, sneering up at me as he did. I stared right back at him, refusing to look away first. I knew my entire face was flushed, and my ears burned like Hades himself was mouth breathing against them. I didn’t know what to do with my body, let alone my face.
I wasn’t unfamiliar with people judging me. I’d been given the scarlet letter at sixteen and called a slut more times than I could count, along with every possible synonym for it.
But this was worse. It reminded me of the time a college-aged coworker had approached me while I was pregnant, offering to pay me for sex. My rounded belly had apparently screamed “I’m Madison, and I’m easy. You don’t even have to wrap it up because I’m already pregnant. Enjoy the risk-free ride.”
I was still living at home and going to school but had daycare to pay and couldn’t afford to quit, so I’d had to continue seeing the asshole every shift.
This felt much like that. He’d basically called me a sleazy gold digger, and it didn’t matter that I knew it to be untrue. Just like the guy back then, I was stuck in his vicinity, unable to walk away and never see him again.
My eyes burned, and I shifted in my seat, submitting defeat and glancing away. I sensed, more than saw, Layla straighten to her full five-foot-ten height, locking her spine for battle. She knew me better than I knew myself and could probably sense my quickly rising anxiety.
“Well, you can fuck right off. If you want to run your mouth, go do it in your own home. You couldn’t have made it more obvious you don’t know her at all.”
He gave a dry mockery of a laugh. “And I don’t care to.”
Ouch.
He twisted, the movement catching my eye and convincing me to look up, only to be ensnared in his accusatory gaze. He looked me up and down, and then gave me his back, his long strides taking him back toward his side.
Layla launched out of her chair, snatching her glass and the near-empty box of wine. I could practically hear her grinding her teeth, and for a second, I thought I saw actual flames in her eyes.
Wrapping my fingers around my own glass, I took my time following her inside, trying to give myself every possible second to withstand the storm she was about to unleash upon me.