I glared at him and scoffed. Just when I thought he was a nice person. “I’ve got to get back.”
“Sure. Go talk to Ash,” he said.
I adjusted my glasses. He knew my manager? “I doubt it would change the outcome of my employment. It’s my first day, and I avoided talking to a customer, inadvertently became a part of the drone show, and damaged the storefront.” Not that he needed my daily recap. I hugged the jacket against the weird pulsation in my chest. “It’s fine. I made more money freelancing, anyway.”
“Why were you here then?”
“None of your business,” I said. No need to trouble him with my complications.
He held his hands up. “Okay. Have a nice day,” he said, his voice thick with sarcasm.
My phone buzzed.Shit.
My brain whirred. Was I? Yes.Yes. I kept typing and deleting an explanation. I’d failed the experiment. My hands shook.
“Don’t text and walk with headphones on. It’s a hazard,” the drone guy said.
“Thanks,” I snapped, but my stupid voice cracked, tight with anxiety. I wiped my nose and hid behind the stuffed animal shelves.
I sunk to the floor and wrapped my arms around my head to muffle my sigh. The shelving rod rammed into my back and the heels of my sneakers dug into my butt. This was so pathetic. I was his big sister. Why couldn’t I handle a stupid tech job? Or a stupid customer? Or that stupid drone show? All those fucking assholes I used to work with would tell me I was too emotional, but what if they were right? What if they turned me into something I’m not? I just wanted to function like I did before: independent, level-headed, and sane.
The drone-man’s shadow fell over my aisle. He peeked around the edge of the shelving, his voice softer than the plushies. “Hey. You’re having a rough day.”
I nodded. Somehow, I’d gone from tech queen to human pretzel.
He offered me a beach-ball-sized turkey plush. “Free hugs, as long as you need ‘em.”
“Thanks.” I awkwardly balanced the plush atop my knees. Its ruddy orange body and black button-eyes verged on the edge of realistic and cutesy. “Do you sell a lot of these?”
“Grandparents usually get them for their grandkids’ first Thanksgiving.” He lowered his pale gaze and picked at the shelving. “Influencers love them too. Themed shoots. I’m just glad they sell–and uh, make people happy. Tis the season for gratitude.” He raised his brows and smirked, wrinkling the rubbery skin on his face.
I didn’t need a sales pitch on attitude or plushies. But he was, at least on the surface, being nice, so I straightened the cloth tailfeathers and nodded. “Thank you. For being understanding about the drone accident.”
“No problem.” He rubbed the faint scruff under his chin. “Listen, I’ve got to make sure I didn’t traumatize those kids, but you’re welcome to come in here and hug Turkey Tom any time, okay?”
“Sure.” I wasn’t a child, and I certainly wasn’t going to be back. I doubted I would ever show my face in this mall again.
He placed his palm over his chest. “My name’s Sal, by the way.”
“Zero.” I eyed his colorful printed shirt. “You don’t have a name tag.”
“Nope. Technically, we have monogrammed aprons somewhere, but we haven’t worn them in forever. Take care, Zero.” He saluted me, twirled the ‘long’ way to turn, then walked off with a bubble gun.
Weird guy. Maybe he had to be friendly. After all, he did work at a toy shop.
All I had to do was fix things. I eyed the turkey.Gratitude.More like feasting. Disease.
But it was pretty damned cute. And well-constructed. I patted the puffy body.
In the mall, Sal resumed his demonstration. “Just in case there are any other sparks out here, I’m gonna use my water gun. Ready?”
