“Kyle! Why would I make something like that up?”
He’s quiet for a moment, like he’s considering my question. Then he says, “Is this… a good thing?”
I frown. “What do you think?”
“I think you look exhausted, which means you lost sleep, which means you’re torn, which means your feelings aren’t clear, which means thiscouldbe a good thing… maybe? If you’re into Max, just tell him.”
“I never said I was into Max.”
His brows ascend his forehead. “Then forget about it.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Because part of you liked that kissy-kissing.” He grins. “Maybeallof you liked it.”
“You’re an ass,” I say, shaking my head. Kyle abides by the assumed don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy of our peers, but he’s up front about his sexuality with Leah and the guys and me; he has been since last summer, when I walked into True Brew to begin a shared closing shift and witnessed him accepting the phone number of a very cute, very male chai tea drinker. “You being an ass goes against all logic,” I tell him after another swallow of coffee. “You’re supposed to be sensitive and intuitive, full of answers.”
“Oh, please. Stereotype much? I carry a Y chromosome, which gives me the right to act like a Neanderthal anytime I please.”
“Kyle, come on,” I whine, slumping against the counter. “Help me!”
“Hell, Jill, if you and Max decide you wanna be together, cool.”
“But wecan’tbe together.”
“Why not?”
“There are plenty of reasons. Let’s start with Becky McMahon.”
He shudders. “Ew.”
I laugh—I can’t help it. Kyle’s disliked Becky and her dramatics since we were in middle school, but when she started goading Max into drinking to the point of irresponsibility, he decided he hated her.
“Seriously,” he says. “Becky’s awful. The way she’s always guilting Max, bitching at him until she gets her way… It’s underhanded, and it’s shitty. I can say with certainty that you’d never treat him that way.”
“Doesn’t matter. He’s with her and he shows no signs of ending it. God, Kyle. I think he played me, and he’s definitely playing her. How did I let this happen?”
“You didn’tletit happen,” he says, dropping a hand onto my back. “It just did, because you’re human and so is he. But you’re both good, otherwise I wouldn’t give either of you the time of day. It’ll work out, Jelly Bean.” He smacks a kiss on my cheek before stepping away to flip theOPENsign and unlock the door.
True Brew comes alive with activity. Kyle mans the counter, serving the customers who’ve wandered in for hot drinks. I work the drive-through, mostly because the pace is faster and less conversation is required. The morning flies by as we sling coffee and croissants, tea and toasted bagels, making small talk in the lulls between customers.
Midmorning, a familiar crimson Civic appears in the drive-through—Natalie Samson, my dad’s secretary. I wonder if she’s headed to work on this fine Saturday, and whether Dad asked her to stop here first, just to check up on me. I wipe my hands on my espresso-spattered apron, slide the window open, and greet her with false cheer. “Hey, Natalie. What can I get for you this morning?”
She’s dressed like a sorority girl gone corporate: tight sweater, dark makeup, vampy manicure, honey-colored hair coiled into a loose twist. She’s in her early twenties, working her way toward an AA at the local community college. My dad hired her last year, when his first secretary—sweet Mrs. Silver, who always kept a bowl of butterscotch candies on her desk—retired. “I’ll try the special,” she says, “and can I get a double cappuccino, dry, with two Equals?”
Dad’s drink—he asks for it whenever he visits True Brew—which means Natalie’s likely here on a recon mission. I bite my lip, pull espresso from the grinder, and vow to be professional. After all, it’s not her fault Dad’s using her as a spy. “Early morning for you,” I say, working to keep my tone conversational.
“I’m headed to the office. Your dad’s a busy man, Jillian.”
I drown the milk wand in a pitcher of nonfat. The hiss of steam isn’t enough to impede chitchat, and I feel compelled to respond. “It’s nice of you help him out on a Saturday.”
She smiles. “He pays time and a half on the weekends.”
She goes on, prattling about the case Dad’s working on, and how he’s starting to teach her the ins and outs of real estate law, but I’m tuning out. Talk of my dad’s busyness coming from Natalie, dolled up in her best one-size-too-small business-casual, bothers me for reasons I can’t quite pin down. It’s not just that Dad’s been working long hours. He’s been distracted and moody at home, too. My default is to blame Meredith—she pushed for a baby no matter what the sacrifice—but rationally, I know her pregnancy isn’t the sole source of his distance. There’s his increased caseload, worries about money, and Bill’s health, too, which I suspect has forced him to face all sorts of issues regarding his own impermanence.
But it’s not like he’s the only one who’s stressed—I’m drowning in schoolwork, killing myself trying to help out around the house, and now I get to agonize over how to pay for the only school I’ve ever wanted to attend.
I miss normalcy.
