New Hope, Old Grudges Read Online Anne Malcom

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary Tags Authors: Anne Malcom Advertisement

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I resisted the urge to tug at my dress or play with my hair as I walked up to the bar and felt many curious eyes on me.

I should’ve dressed more discreetly. I should’ve stayed in the stained sweatpants and ratty tee that had been my uniform for the past week. But I’d told myself that I needed to stop wallowing, stop acting like the victim and most importantly, not to sink into the identity of the girl who used to reside in the room I was sleeping in.

The girl who was weak, uncomfortable in her own skin and who let others determine her worth.

Sure, the federal government determined my worth as zero, but that was neither here nor there.

In my hasty exit from my condo in L.A., I’d managed to gather up some clothing. I’d left them crumpled in my suitcase, relics of an old life that taunted me with the places I’d worn them, the person I was in them.

I’d had to sell most of my purses and higher-ticket clothes just to make it back to New Hope, but not all of it.

Not the simple, auburn turtleneck dress that hugged every inch of my body all the way down to my calves. Not the supple tan leather boots that had a pencil-thin heel. Not the deep-maroon wool coat that complimented the dress perfectly.

I wasn’t overly into fashion, labels and brands. I was interested in the power that clothes gave me. It was almost a scientific experiment. If I combined the right number of items together, complimenting shades—I found monotones worked best—and good quality items, people looked at you differently. People looked at you like you were someone who had their shit together. Most importantly, they didn’t look at you like you were an easy target.

That also had to do with the hair, makeup and jewelry. All components must be present for the experiment to be successful. So I’d kept my auburn hair maintained, found the best products to make it shiny and bouncy. I’d watched videos on how to apply makeup in a way that didn’t make my alabaster skin look pale. I’d figured out ways to make my rather small nose look in proportion to my relatively large mouth and eyes.

I’d found a ‘cat eye’ made me look both sharp and professional enough to be taken seriously at the same time as being found attractive by most men.

Another unfortunate fact I’d learned early… People were nicer if you were deemed conventionally attractive.

More so in L.A.

The town of beautiful people where entire industries revolved around making women believe they wouldn't be worth anything unless they ‘fixed’ their noses and erased their wrinkles. In addition to starving themselves.

I did not have experience being attractive. In high school, I was what people would call an ugly duckling. I went through puberty late, which, of course, made my menstruation party all the more mortifying since everyone else in my class had gotten their periods years before.

So while my classmates were developing breasts and discovering the power of their sexuality, I was gangly, all limbs, flat-chested, wore glasses and on Accutane to calm my acne.

I didn’t ‘blossom’—as my mother called it—until right before college. Right when I left this town only to come back for fleeting holiday visits when I holed myself up at home, eating my mom’s gingerbread cookies, hanging out with my dad in the forge, tinkering with jewelry, the thing that would propel me to a short-lived period of fame and fortune in L.A.

I knew it was common practice for those who came home to their small towns for the holidays to congregate in the bar, to see each other, catch up on old times, brag about their lives, glimpse that old flame to reassure yourself you made the right choice or remind you of some bad decision-making as you strolled down memory lane. At least that’s what popular culture told me.

Again, I didn’t have any experience with these small-town phenomena, but the bar I entered the week before Thanksgiving seemed to communicate that kind of vibe.

My eyes scanned the large room. I’d never been inside it, not once. I’d seen it from the outside, with the quaint wooden sign, the frosted windows so you couldn’t see in. I’d expected it to be dark, maybe even seedy. But the inside was well lit and nicely decorated. Definitely leaning into the Colorado mountain theme with a long wooden bar, a lot of earth tones. But no mounted heads on the walls. Just art by local artists—which I could spot only because my mother also stocked art by local artists and had posed nude for more than one.

Though not every head turned at my arrival, I did notice a few stares. Confidence wasn’t even close to one of my qualities, yet I had learned a bit in L.A.—mostly ‘fake it ‘til you make it.’


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