Total pages in book: 188
Estimated words: 179812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 899(@200wpm)___ 719(@250wpm)___ 599(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 179812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 899(@200wpm)___ 719(@250wpm)___ 599(@300wpm)
“Are you sure you don’t want to grab dinner with me tomorrow night?” he asks again, and my heart clenches so hard in my chest that I have to pause from filling the coffee pot with water.
Our date seems so far away now. But after the disaster of our last date, I apologized to him the very next day. I maintained my lie about my sister calling me and told him we should try to get together again. At the time, I was doing it out of spite, out of rebellion and anger. And Joe had agreed. He was relieved that I wanted to give it another try.
But since then, things have changed dramatically—first, for the better and then three weeks ago, for the worse—and I’ve been trying to make excuses to get out of it. Sometimes I think I should just tell him the truth. That I’m not interested. I never was. I may have agreed to go out with him, but that was only because I was stuck and was trying to move on. Ironically. And now, after everything, I’m trying to take my own advice about dealing with the pain and just want to focus on myself.
“Uh, actually, about that,” I begin, thinking why not. “I don’t think it’s a very good idea right now. To go out, I mean. I’m just,” I search for a word or a phrase that would make sense, “trying to deal with some things and I need to focus on myself.”
Joe stares at me carefully. “Is it him?”
My heart thuds. “What?”
He rests his hip against the counter and folds his arms across his chest. “Look, I think you know I like you. I’ve liked you since day one and I was thrilled you wanted to go out with me after all. But then somehow, things changed. He comes around, first at the restaurant, which I can chalk up to coincidence, and then every day at the coffee shop. And you’re all prickly one day and blushing the next. You’re smiling for no reason and then you’re glaring at people for no reason. And now suddenly, he’s nowhere to be found, when he’d come around pretty much the same time every morning, like clockwork. And you walk around like a zombie, looking out of it, thinking hard about stuff.” He dips his face to catch my eyes. “I’m not an idiot. There’s something going on between you and the famous Wrecking—”
“Nothing,” I say, cutting him off because I don’t want to listen to him being referred to that way; it hits too close to home, “is going on. Look, I’m sorry I haven’t been the best about sharing my feelings with you. But you’re my boss and I really need this job, so if we can just forget about the whole dating and dinner thing, it would be great.”
Joe reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay. I get it. You don’t have to explain.” Then, squeezing my shoulder again, “But just know, I’ll be here if and when you need me, okay?”
With that, he flicks his gaze down to my chest and I really have to force myself to not wrinkle my nose and step out of his reach. Thankfully, he lets me go and leaves me to finish the clean-up, and as soon as he’s out of sight, I inevitably turn to the glass door to look beyond. Toward the empty street. Or rather, the street filled with strangers but empty of the one person I always think is there.
I know it’s crazy to think that. That he could be anywhere near me after what happened, but it’s this stupid tingling on the back of my neck. I get it randomly these days, like someone is watching. Like he is watching, but every time I turn to look, there’s no one there.
I go back to focusing on the job, and ten minutes later I’m clocking out and catching the bus back home. Which still feels weird because usually, after the coffee shop, I’d be walking to the strip club to start my shift. Some days, I’d be putting my lipstick on while walking on the sidewalk because I’d be running a little late. Other days, I’d be massaging my neck or my back from standing up at the shop all day and because I’d have another eight hours of doing the same at the club. It also feels weird that I have the entire evening free. And I can actually go home and cook dinner for me and Snow and not just rely on PB&J or ramen. I can actually hang out with my sister too, instead of just checking in over the phone.
Twenty minutes later, I’m opening the door to my first-floor apartment when I come to a screeching halt. My mother is sitting on the brown leather couch I got at the flea market and Snow is sitting right beside her. While my sister springs up from the seat at my arrival, looking visibly relieved, my mother takes her time. First, she takes me in, my messy hair and flushed face, my wrinkled uniform and my scuffed sneakers. Then she pulls the cigarette out of her red-painted lips and blows a puff of smoke that immediately gets my back up; only then does she deign to rise.