Just Friends(16)

Our eyes scan each other’s faces, trying to understand how we got here so fast. The sound of our footsteps punctuates the tense silence.

“It’s not pathetic,” I say in an attempt to diffuse the tension. “It makes me feel evil for craving my father’s attention after knowing how much he hurt my mom. But it’s just like you said. You can’t just stop craving your father’s approval. But at least you’ll get the reward of his love when you accomplish those things. I have to succeed because my dad isn’t here to take care of my mom. And I still won’t earn the reward I really want,” I finish, voice low. So much for diffusing the situation. A tear threatens to make itself known but I harden my face in resistance.

The side of his mouth falters and I can’t tell if he’s sad or angry. He looks at me for another moment, a thousand expressions passing over his face like a sped-up time lapse. Finally, he mumbles, “I’m sorry, Blair. If it means anything to you, I’m here.”

It feels like my chest truncates with the unexpected warmth of his words.

“I’m sorry too, Declan. I shouldn’t have said that—I’m saying things I don’t know anything about.” I press my lips together.

His eyes soften and his shoulders relax. Mine do too. We stare at each other while we wordlessly unfurl our white flags.

“I’ll like you even if you don’t make it to the big leagues. If that’s any consolation,” I say.

His expression is wary for a moment, but then my dry tone lands and a grin blooms across his face. He releases a disbelieving chuckle and pulls me into his chest. His voice rasps softly by my ear and I have to force myself to keep still. “I know. That’s why you’re my favorite.”





Chapter 6


Are you sure I can’t help you out around here for a little bit?” I ask my mom’s retreating frame.

“No, con. I’m fine. I don’t need any help,” she replies, voice stern. She disappears, entering the front of the convenience store again.

I exhale through my nose, trying to temper my reaction to the answer I’ve heard my entire life. “I don’t need help” was probably in my mother’s top ten phrases. And it was worse seeing her sweaty brow with hair plastered to her forehead as she ran from the front of the convenience store to the back with a notepad in her hand, scribbling numbers for restocks and math for the shocking amount of cash-paying customers.

She flies through the swinging back door again, eyes darting around at the boxes of extra stock sitting on the floor.

“I applied to a coffee shop, but I just figured that you would finally accept help here since Lottie is… ya know.” My eyes fall from hers, unable to finish the sentence.

She exhales and removes the glasses from her face. “Lottie and I don’t want you to be burdened by her sickness, honey. You heard her. She wants you to enjoy your life. Don’t worry about the convenience stores. We’ll figure it out.”

I nod despite my disagreement. Does she think she’s been successful at hiding her stress? She’s in over her head going from running a cash register to overseeing seven stores at once. But I drop it. There’s no use. The world could be collapsing and she’d swear she was fine until the rubble trapped her under it.

She rummages around her desk and then scurries back to the front, so I return to the laptop bouncing on my knees. I’m sitting on an upside-down red crate. My spot since before I could remember.

The back of this store is as familiar to me as my childhood bedroom, late nights spent waiting for my mom to finish her shift, just enjoying the company of being near her, even if we didn’t say a word. We might not have discussed our emotions, but we loved each other. That much was known.

I switch agitatedly between job listings for consultants—absolutely nothing open for the job I had already secured at Ernst & Young. When I gave them the news that I’d be moving home for the summer, they agreed to defer my offer to September, but it feels like a precarious bet, hoping they don’t give away my position to a willing, fresh-faced graduate in the meantime.

Biting my nails, I open my email, not sure what I’m hoping to find. But, sure enough, illuminated at the top of my inbox is a subject that reads Seabrook Coffee House—Job Application. I lurch off the crate like a firecracker has gone off beneath me, fumbling to keep hold of my laptop as I reorient myself. I click it open, and my eyes race to scan it, but there are only two lines of text. Zero greeting. It simply says:

Your application to work at Seabrook Coffee House has been approved. Please arrive promptly at 7:50 a.m. this Friday to begin training.

-Declan

House Manager



I got the job!

Wait. So Declan hired me… I think a second later, with a mixture of relief and surprise.

If he’s the manager, doesn’t he have the final say? Couldn’t he have easily sent a cold email expressing his refusal, left off his moniker, and wiped his hands clean of me like he seemed like he wanted to? What was his angle in hiring me, knowing he’d be forced to be near me?

Does he…

No. I force myself to stop before finishing the thought.

I picture his cold, unwavering expression boring into me across the coffee shop’s table as he asked me to tell him a little bit about myself. The way his face twitched a nearly imperceptible amount when I described myself as loyal. Maybe I read into it. Or maybe I still knew his tells.