420BlazinBoiiDid a business account just call an employee handsome?! Y’all definitely hiding some good good in that snack shack…smh
Chapter 12
Derick called mehandsome.
On social media.
Technically, @WileysDriveInWV called me handsome, but I’m privy to the mastermind behind the handle.
It takes twenty minutes for this to process, and even then, I have a hard time believing it.
Avery sent me a screenshot in the group chat followed by a series of indecipherable emojis.
Do male friends call other male friends handsome? Avery’s called me a cutie before, and whenever I put in extra effort and slick back my unruly hair, Mateo says I give off “leading-man realness,” but their confidence boosts are categorically platonic. Calling someone handsome in such a public forum seems loaded in a way I’m not ready to unpack. It goes beyond the harmless semi-flirting that had always been part of our dealbecauseit’s so public.
Unfortunately, Derick did so alongside a photo he should’ve asked my permission for before posting, but that slight oversight is being drowned in a whirlpool of other woozier emotions. Confusion, happiness, and maybe a pinch of guilt? I’m sure this is not the kind of attention Earl was looking for when he agreed to bring Derick into the online fold.
Though I’m sure he’s not keeping tabs on the feeds. His cell phone is a fossil from the Stone Age.
I should force myself to shrug it all off—I try!—but I keep getting pulled back to stare. The light hits me at a flattering angle. My hair looks messy, but in a fashionable, grungy way matched with my slight facial stubble I’ve been too busy to shave. I actually like it? It’s a weird sensation, yet it’s exciting to see what I look like on the other side of Derick’s lens.
Maybe this is the wayhesees me. That’s the most exhilarating part. And the most confusing.
The obsessing stops short when I hit the snack shack.
Avery greets me aghast, pale and panting.
“It’s bad,” she says, clutching my hand and tugging me behind the counter. There go my good vibes. “It’s Mateo. He’s locked himself in the break room, and he won’t come out.”
I should’ve known. “What? Why? What happened this time?” I buttress myself for what she’s about to tell me. I thought concessions was Earl’s safe spot. Avery is good about keeping everyone in line.
“I showed him how to start the popcorn machine, fresh batch, coconut oil, how many kernels, special Wiley’s seasoning salt, what have you. I told him to wait until the machine beeped and then to dump the steel bucket twice to make sure it’s empty. We don’t need anything burnt and causing the alarms to go off.”
“Good, good.” I’m sensing it only gets worse from here.
“I ran to check our candy stock for, like, fifteen minutes, and when I came back he was pouring thesugarcanister over the kernels on asecond batch. Thesugar for the coffee. It’s white! The salt is yellow! He was really going to town with it.” She shoves her hand into her hair in exasperation. “So, maybe I yelled a bit.”
I give her a discerning look.
“Okay, I FAS”—flipped a shit, I know this one well—“but can you blame me? Stacia’s coming here with her friends tonight. I wanted everything to be perfect, and he ruined two whole batches of popcorn. I had to throw the whole reservoir out and restart. He shouted something about not being able to take the heat and that he needed to get out of the kitchen—this is hardly a kitchen—and now he’s locked in there talking on the phone with Brandon.”
I shake my head, disbelief tightening all my knotted parts. I run through a list of emergency employees we could probably call, but it’s already last minute. We’re showing a superhero movie tonight, one in our last weekend before we’re open five days a week instead of three, thanks to school letting out, so there’s no doubt we’ll be mobbed. Nobody with experience is going to be available. Nobody with no experience would be able to handle it.
Except maybe—
As if he saw the Bat-Signal, Derick enters. He hits his mark with aplomb. I can tell he let his hair dry naturally today as it’s begun to curl in on the ends, making him look like a surfer-cool West Coast transplant, his quiff its own breaking wave.
“Derick?”
“Huh?” he asks, standing up from photographing the cute candy display Avery had been curating in the glass case while Mateo wrecked perfectly good, undeserving popcorn.
“Any chance you want to have a real Wiley’s employee experience?”
“You know I love a challenge.” He flashes me his winning smile.
He follows me over to the office. Youssef isn’t at his post at the projector yet, and Earl is out on the lot. I pull a duct-taped cardboard box out from below the desk and rummage around for the right-sized shirt. We order in bulk since Earl likes the uniformity of the bright yellow, even if it’s unflattering on virtually all skin tones. The more I dig, the more I realize we’re out of mediums and larges, the popular sizes and the ones that would fit Derick the best.
I wriggle free a small from the stash. “Do you think this will do?”
