Beg, Borrow, or Steal (When in Rome, #3)(70)
Now I just stuff my fear and my hurt and my sadness in my Treasure Chest of Doom and hope that’ll be enough to pretend it doesn’t exist.
“So exciting!” I feel like I’m going to throw up. “I’ll look after the Pie Shop for you while you’re gone and keep things running smoothly.” At least that aspect of my life is always the same. The Pie Shop has been in our family for generations, and it’s a comfort to know that I can always count on it. The same floorboard will always squeak. My name is scribbled under the countertop. In the walk-in pantry there’s a section of the wall dedicated to tracking our heights. And my favorite of all, there’s a curse word written in Sharpie in the bottom, darkest corner of the pantry where no one can see it but I know it’s there because I remember watching Maddie write it when she was twelve. I tried to clean it off after she left so Grandma wouldn’t see it and get her in trouble. But Grandma caught me furiously scrubbing it and assumed I was the one who wrote it. I took the fall for Maddie and got grounded from TV for a week.
Noah’s smile has a touch of pity to it when he looks at me. “Actually, Em, I won’t need you to do that. Jeanine needed a change. She’s going to quit at The Diner and work for me at the Pie Shop full time instead. Since it’s a manager position she’ll get paid more than she did at The Diner and you won’t have to work yourself to the bone between school and the shop. It’s a win-win.” He pauses to assess my expression. I don’t know what he sees but whatever it is, it brings him to add, “I thought this would be easier on you.”
“Oh.” I blink and pick up my beer, needing something to do with my hands. “You’re right. That’s perfect! Yes. A win-win for sure.”
Keep smiling, Emily.
He doesn’t need me.
Keep smiling.
No one needs me anymore.
Don’t cry.
Madison is gone for good and I’m going to lose everyone else too.
Keep smiling, dammit. Keep yourself together so they don’t see how raw you feel. So you don’t mess up and say something you’ll regret.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I go to the bathroom, stand on the toilet in the middle stall, and hold my phone toward the ceiling, grabbing the one bar of service we’ve learned exists in this exact spot. And then I send a text I’ll probably regret tomorrow.
June 21
Emily (8:32 PM): It’s rude to turn down an invitation to Hank’s.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Jack
I’m outside Hank’s debating whether I want to go in or not. I look at the text from Emily for the hundredth time, once again trying to read between the lines. I know her well enough now to sense there’s something deeper happening here.
It’s rude to turn down an invitation to Hank’s. Which in Emily language means I hate that you’re not here.
I was at home attempting to outline a chapter when I got this text, and I dropped everything.
Things between us have definitely changed. I like Emily. I’m attracted to Emily. And I . . . no, God, why am I lying even to myself? I more than like Emily. I’m quickly becoming obsessed with her. Part of me is wondering if I’ve been fighting with her all these years, resisting her, because some part of me knew . . . I knew she could do some real damage to my heart if I let her.
But the more I get to know Emily, the more I’m inclined to think she’d do everything she could to protect my heart before destroying it.
It’s rude to turn down an invitation to Hank’s.
I stare down at my phone and then at the doors. Bars are not attached to good memories for me—and I haven’t stepped foot inside one in a very long time. I’ve sworn to myself that alcohol will never be a part of my identity. But Emily is in there . . . and something happened tonight that made her want to text me.
I pocket my phone and go through the doors. The first thing I notice is how busy it is. It’s around eight-forty-five and I swear the whole damn county is pressed in here. It’s hot, it’s loud, and it’s sweaty. But I smile because there’s something about it that’s infectious. Everywhere you look, someone is throwing their head back laughing, cheering for a friend to chug their beer, couples who clearly got a babysitter for the night making out on the dance floor, in their booth, over at the bar. Apparently there are a lot more young people in this area than I originally thought. They’ve come out of the woodwork to gather under the neon light of Hank’s.
The wildest part of this place, though, is the bar itself. There are at least twenty people gathered around waiting for drinks. A large group of men too—college-aged and midtwenties—packed together and all but drooling over the gorgeous blonde serving drinks. I do a double-take.
Holy shit, that’s Emily.
Surely that can’t be right? Emily doesn’t bartend. Does she? But while pressing my way through the crowd and closer to the bar, I hear her laugh, see her smile, and know that it’s absolutely her. And also that every single person at this bar is eating out of her hand—which surprises me none. She’s bossy, sharp-witted, and beautiful, a dangerous combination in a bartender.
“Jake! Quit pushing your way to the front. Rudeness isn’t going to get you a drink any faster! Chester, whatcha drinking tonight?” she asks, yelling over the head of a sullen-looking college kid.