Why did Kat put up with all this crap? Love, I guessed.
Ugh.
When I got to work, I sheepishly returned the purple sparkly phone case.
“What happened?” Ash asked. “He didn’t accept it?”
“They–it wasn’t right. For her. Or him. It wasn’t right, in the end.” I tugged my cap down and hypothesized what it would take to trigger a floor-cracking moment like in my nightmare.
She hung the case back on the wall. “They didn’t want to exchange it?”
“Nope. Didn’t stay for the conversation,” I backed toward the tech desk. “I have to, um, fix stuff. Or not. Don’t know how busy we are.”
She gestured to the empty store. “Zero, what happened?”
“Nothing; nothing with me. Ask Sal. Take him out for a drink.” I hid at my desk.
Unfortunately, Sal wasn’t in. The store wasn't even open yet. Ash called his cell. No answer.
I hadn’t spoken to him since the video call last night, but I couldn’tnottalk to him either. For fifteen minutes, I kept pausing my playlist in the hopes the clangs in my headphones were the workshop’s gates rising. Finally, I messaged him.
Fuck. What a stupid thing to say. He’d just been dumped or something close to it.
Was that too insensitive?
I set my phone on the desk to minimize any more emotional damage, then massaged my temples. He was a nice guy. He built her dream house. He deserved better.
“Oh,” I gasped, sitting up.
Ash stepped away from an indecisive customer. “What?” she asked.
“It’s Janice’s birthday.” I grabbed my phone and scrolled to her page. “He said he was getting her specialty coffee. Maybe he planned not to open until later or took the day off to celebrate.”
“I doubt it. This is the peak holiday shopping season, especially for a toy store,” she said.
“Okay, maybe the alternate opener is late,” I reasoned.
“I guess it’s possible. He’s the only one in his family who’s invested in the business,” she said.
The indecisive customer cleared their throat and raised a finger, so Ash took off to help them.
Why wasn’t the toy store open?
I skimmed through Janice’s social media posts. Last night, she’d posted from the Cake Warehouse. She posed with a piece of chocolate cake with ‘Happy Birthday’ written in chocolate sauce next to it. Sal must’ve taken the photo for her, but he wasn’t in any of them unless I counted the flash of his wild shirt beyond the pic of their meals.
I guessed they hadn’t broken up at that point, but he was still barely in the picture.
My gut tightened. The poor guy. This was tragic. But ultimately, for the best.
An hour and a half into service, the gates clanged open. I dashed into the mall to talk to him. “Sal?”
He staggered, disoriented, and twisted around. He was wearing the same shirt from yesterday. Mussed hair. Bloodshot eyes. If he wasn’t so ghastly, I’d think they had a vigorous makeup session last night. “Hey,” he croaked. He sniffled and wiped his nose.
“Are you sick?”
