I knew what she was thinking, the nasty piece of work who pretended she owned Reading because her parents left her their stupid bakery. It was written all over her smug ass face, and made my stomach clench in anxious response. Not because I considered her more successful than I was. Petunia's was incredibly busy. Sure, I might not have had three locations thriving in other states-big whoop, who needed the work? No, it had nothing to do with the competitive itch I refused to scratch when it came to Vivian and me.
Instead, it was a much older hurt that woke in that moment, one I had no idea I still clung to but likely would have admitted if I was willing to examine why I really didn't like her.
We were dressed as witches. Both of us. Again. The re-creation of our seventh grade conflict