-Declan
House Manager
I got the job!
Wait. So Declan hired me…I think a second later, with a mixture of relief and surprise.
If he’s the manager, doesn’t he have the final say? Couldn’t he have easily sent a cold email expressing his refusal, left off his moniker, and wiped his hands clean of me like he seemed like he wanted to? What was his angle in hiring me, knowing he’d be forced to be near me?
Does he…
No.I force myself to stop before finishing the thought.
I picture his cold, unwavering expression boring into me across the coffee shop’s table as he asked me to tell him a little bit about myself. The way his face twitched a nearly imperceptible amount when I described myself asloyal. Maybe I read into it. Or maybe I still knew his tells.
Does he want closure too? Is this an excuse to be near me?
And there it is. The thought I can’t help myself from wondering, no matter how naive it makes me feel. It was thisexact type of thinking that got me into this mess in the first place.
“Okay,” my mom interrupts my flurry of thoughts, walking into the back room. “Work is done for the day! Let’s go home to Lottie,” she says with a smile.
I slam my laptop closed in haste and try to reorient my face to a neutral expression.
“Sounds good!” I force out.
On Friday morning, I steel myself and walk through the red French doors, waiting for someone to notice my arrival and intercept me. Peppy Teenager is nowhere to be found. Neither is Declan. I pretend to look busy at the lid and straw station before the front door is kicked open. Four cardboard boxes are stacked on each other, carried inside by carpenter-style pants and work boots. The legs and cardboard boxes come to a stop in front of me. My breath catches in my throat as the boxes are set at my feet, a disheveled-looking Declan appearing from behind them.
“Oh, hi, Blair,” he breathes, seeming to recalibrate at the sight of me. He drags his eyes from my shoes up to my face with a pained expression.
At least he’s upgraded from “Ms. Lang” to “Blair” again.
“Oh! Glasses?” I say, shocking myself with the comment.
Declan looks down at me, chest heaving slightly beneath his shirt as he recovers from the exertion. “What?”
His hair is damp at the ends, gathered over his forehead, grazing the tops of his glasses. I haven’t seen him wear them since middle school.
“Oh. Sorry, it’s just that… you’re wearing glasses,” I state like an idiot, standing with my finger pointed at them.
His eyes flick away for a moment, probably searching for an escape route. He presses his lips together before looking at me again. “I’m… sorry?”
“No. Sorry—I’m sorry. Never mind. I don’t know why I—” Someone please hit me over the head with an espresso machine.
“Um,” I try to recover. “I’m here for training?”
“Oh, yes. Harper will be training you,” he says, leaving the boxes and striding behind the counter.
“Harper!” he yells toward the back of the coffee shop. “One moment, let me find her.”
I nod and gesture with my hands that he is free to go searching. My gaze travels upward, snagging on a birdhouse hanging from the ceiling that was not here the last time I was. This one looks like a hand-carved, miniature version of the fairytale cottages downtown: a sloping roof, curved door, and circular window. There’s the faint sound of twinkling, and as I squint, I notice the silver metal wheels attached to the side are spinning. I’ve never seen decor like it in a coffee shop. I’ve never seenanythinglike it. I mentally pocket the image to analyze later.
Declan comes shuffling back, looking perturbed.
“So,” he starts, looking anywhere but me. “Harper just got a call that her cat has been throwing up since she left for work this morning. She’s rushing home to take him to the hospital right now.”
“Oh no, okay, uhh,” I stammer. “Should I just come back tomorrow or?”
“No,” he interrupts. “No. That won’t be necessary. I’ll just train you.” Declan presses his lips together again.
