And anyway, I blocked Josh last night, so it’s not like it could be him. Except, for some reason, that doesn’t do a thing to calm the totally uncalled for fear that has my stomach clenching and my skin breaking out in a cold sweat.
“Sorry I forgot until now—”
“Not worried about it, sunshine,” I force a smile in his direction as I tuck my un-looked at phone in my back pocket,where I swear I can feel the damn thing burning a hole right through my jeans.
Jesse crinkles his eyebrows like he’s worried about me. Itshouldbe adorable as hell. And it is,I know it is, I just can’t get the feeling to register fully over the stupid-ass sense of dread that won’t stop spreading through me.
God fucking dammit.
Withheld:Don’t you fucking block me again
Withheld:Youknow you miss me babe
It doesn’t matter how warm and comfy and Jesse-smelling the coat he wrapped me up in on my way out the door is. Inside it, I’m all cold and itchy-crawly-sick, and there’s a goddamn fucking thread I can’t snap off sticking out of one corner of the sleeve. All the way to work, I’m tugging at that thread and it’s just too fucking short to get wrapped properly around my finger, and I swear it’s gonna send me into a legitimate panic attack.
As soon as I’m in through the door, I peel that coat off and shove it out of sight around the corner, only that doesn’t do a damn thing to turn off the shit that’s buzzing around my head.
The moment I read Josh’s texts, I deleted them. All I wanted was to get them the fuck off my phone. Apparently that counts for exactly nothing, ‘cause the image of those messages had to go and carve itself into my brain so it’s all I can see every goddamn time I blink.
In between, all I can think about is how bad I want to run right out of here and straight back to my sunshine’s place, so hecan wrap me up in his arms and blot out all the shit I can’t stop replaying. My paranoid imaginings of looking up from the till to see Josh standing in the doorway.
Except I can’t even text Jesse.
“You like it here so far?”
Mitchel, ‘causeof courseit’s my fucking boss that I’m working with today with Reagan gone, leans back against the counter, watching me as I straighten up the self-serve tea station. Yeah, so maybe I’ve done it seven or eight times already, but seeing the corners of the tea bag packets all crooked is seriously making me hyperventilate right now, okay?
“Yeah. It’s good. Super chill.” Fucking eloquent, I know, but my face feels all weird and tingly and the back of my head’s all tight and throbbing from the fake-ass smile I’ve kept pasted on all morning.
“Reagan’s great to work with,” I try again, and at least this time I don’t have to try so hard to keep my smile up.
“She’s said the same about you.” Mitchel takes a last, noisy slurp of his slushy iced mocha before tossing it in the trash.
He’s a tall, super thin guy, probably in his late forties, with greying dreads that he’s tied up in a bun at the back of his head. I’d met him when he’d interviewed me for the job, and he’d been exactly the same as he is today; friendly and laid back. If I wasn’t having my own private freak out sesh, I think I’d like him just fine. Right now though, I just wish he’d decide to cut out and leave me to work the shop on my own. That, and text Jesse.
“She says you were showing her some paintings you did?”
Mitchel pins me with a serious look, and my stomach gives a queasy twitch, ‘cause he’s gotta be hella pissed I was showingher shit while on the clock. The next moment though, he flashes me an approving grin that even I, mid-freakout, can’t misinterpret. “Sounds like you’re quite the artist.”
“I just mess around—”
“Not from what Reagan says. She even voluntarily put her book down to tell me about them,” he laughs.
Well, maybe Icanget away with texting my sunshine then, if Reagan reads between orders when she’s working with Mitchel.
“You still have those pictures of your work you showed her on your phone?”
Part of me wants to tell him I don’t, because my paintings really are just me messing around. Nothing special. Definitely not anything Reagan should have been making some big deal out of, only before I can decide whether I want to or not, I’m fishing my phone out of my back pocket.
Even though I’ve had it on vibrate and would have totally known if any texts came in, I check my messages before swiping open my photos.
Nothing from Josh, thank fuck. Not that that means anything good.
Except there’s nothing from Jesse either. Yeah, that’s probably ‘cause I shot a quick message off to him when I got here and saw who I’d be working with, telling him I couldn’t text. Still, that doesn’t stop the sinking little tug of disappointment. The worry that he’s having second thoughts ‘cause of the shit I told him last night.
When I open the album of my paintings and hand my phone to Mitchel, my heart gives the sort of skippy-leap it usually reserves just for my sunshine, and I have to pull my hand back quickly to hide the fact that it’s legitimately shaking.Apparently, I’m still the same stupid-ass kid who wanted his mom to love his paintings, ‘cause I full-on hold my breath as Mitchel flips through a few photos.
Showing my work to Reagan was one thing. This? Showing it to someone who’s gotten his expectations all built up that he’s going to see something that might be worth displaying and selling in his shop…
