Savior Complex: A Small Town Love Triangle Romance

But during last night’s drive, it was easy to pretend. It was easy to imagine he was glancing at me just as much as I was peeking looks at him. The way I studied his jawline, the way his large hands held the steering wheel, how it would feel if he gripped me with the same intensity.

The way he admitted he has feelings for me too.

He’s not mine.

By now, Jordy has probably dragged my name through the mud with him, starting with this mess of a house. I already know she’s going to blab to the family about what a fuck up I am, how I’m lazy, and most of all, that I’m ruining our grandmother’s house I won’t let her move into.

And I’m aware of all of that. I am a lazy fuck up, and I am ruining Nanna Dot’s house. Our grandmother always kept this place sparkling. She had help from a housekeeper, but in between cleanings, she still tidied every day. The house always smelled good, with the sunshine beaming through clear windows, plants blooming in every corner, and a welcome feel to the whole house. And her kitchen? It was always spotless, ready for her to come in and whip up something comforting and delicious.

She would be appalled if she came here now and saw the mess I’d created of her home. Even after cleaning the other day, it’s like the house reproduced the mess overnight. This is all my fault. The dishes from last night’s late-night snack. The overflowing garbage. The tiny ant trail on the counter that’s bound to be a bigger issue if I don’t take care of it now.

I did this, and it’s time I did something about it.

While the coffee continues brewing, I slip on some gloves and get to work prying dishes and bowls glued to the counter, smushing old food and dirty napkins in the packed garbage bag, then taking the trash to the can outside. I fill the sink with soapy water and let the dishes soak while I retrieve dishes from the other rooms.

The coffee pot beeps at me, and I pause to grab a cup. As soon as I sit down, though, I lose my momentum. It’s like my whole body lets down, and I’m suddenly so tired. And so alone. And so sick of this goddamn house that’s way too big and way too much work for just me. But I can’t leave. I have a whole bank account of money, and I won’t even touch it unless absolutely necessary. I could hire someone to help me, but I don’t want anyone to see how bad this place looks. I could buy a new house, one that was much smaller. But then what? If I sell the house, it’s like I’m abandoning Nanna Dot. And I was all she had left in the end.

Now I’m here, and I have no one. It’s almost like the curse of this house—that anyone who lives here will be forgotten and left to die alone.

I’m so fucking alone.

A few hours later I pull into the parking lot at work. A handful of cars are there, including my manager’s. I sigh, preparing myself for a day of micromanaging and veiled insults. Oh, Susan thinks she’s being nice, but it’s like she took a course for managers that uses a transparent method to reframe insults.

Allow me to demonstrate.

“Oh, I wouldn’t have thought to do it that way,” means “Wow, Nina, I didn’t think someone could do that so wrong.”

“That’s an interesting way to make coffee,” means “I’m not sure you could fuck coffee up so horribly.”

“I admire your courage with your appearance,” means “You look like shit. Did you look in the mirror before you came to work?”

“Looks like you’re on Nina time today,” means “I’d fire you if you weren’t the only one willing to work the shitty shifts I give you.”

To be fair, Susan has only been this awful to me since Maren left. It’s like all the abuse she handed Maren has now been transferred to me—and Maren never actually deserved it. I’ve always treated this place like my social club while Maren actually worked. I suppose it’s because she needed the paycheck, and I just need the people. But now, there are days when I wonder if I even need the paycheck, because this job stopped being fun the day Maren left the café.

I push through the doors, and Susan looks up quickly, standing by someone new at the register. She shoots me a curious look, then one of knowing.

“Ah, you didn’t check the schedule, did you?” She glances up and down at my outfit, then raises an eyebrow. “I read somewhere that unmatched clothes were making a comeback. I thought it was a joke, but look at you.”

I chose to wear my loudest pink shirt today, paired with a turquoise skirt and purple striped socks in my black Mary Jane pumps. Yes, it’s bright and colorful—and happy—I needed an extra dose of color to fight the darkness I was feeling inside. And honestly, I couldn’t care less what Susan thinks.

“I always work Monday,” I say, pulling out my phone and tapping the schedule app. Sure enough, my name isn’t on there. Not today, and not on any other day either. My jaw drops and I look up. But Susan isn’t paying attention to me. I realize now that she’s training the girl next to her. She never trains anyone. She never does anything in this café. And yet, here she is, teaching this chick how to use a frothing wand when I’d never seen my manager use one before.

“Why isn’t my name on the schedule?” I ask.

Susan looks up, her expression slightly annoyed as if she can’t understand why I’m still there.

“I guess we just ran out of spots this week. Wouldn’t you like some time off, anyway?”

“No, I want to work my job, like usual.”

Susan laughs, glancing at the girl next to her as if she’ll understand some inside joke. To her credit, the girl looks as uncomfortable as I feel.

“Nina, honey, you haven’t done your job in years. Why start now?”

Is this bitch for real? Is she fucking blind? I think of the number of waking hours I’ve wasted on this place. And for what? Not money, that’s for sure. Not with the pennies we’re paid to sling coffee for the caffeinated elite. I’m the only one who shows up consistently, and she has the nerve to tell me I’m not doing my goddamn job?

Fuck her.