“Oh.” She shoots her eyebrows up at me. “Oh wow, sorry. I thought it was obvious. The drinking?” She searches my eyes for the meaning to land.
“Ah… yes, yes.” I overcompensate for my shock by being overly solemn, voice going low and eyebrows furrowing. She snorts a laugh.
“No, no. Don’t worry. It’s not like a serious alcohol problem. Well, maybe that’s what everyone with alcohol problems says, but I have this agreement with Declan that I can’t drink if I want to work here. Plus, the whole fake ID thing is pretty frowned upon, I guess.”
She continues pouring the cappuccino into a mug and then calls out “Ryan!” at the counter, like she didn’t just drop a ginormous piece of personal lore.
Her blithe demeanor gives me the confidence to ask: “And how did you and Declan come to that agreement?”
“Well, I was only drinking because it was an excuse to get out of the house. I grew up in foster homes, for context. But then, you know the Richardsons?” I nod. She nods back and continues, “Yeah, so they adopted me when I was seventeen, and I still had the little drinking habit. And no one would hire me because of it. But Declan was opening this shop and told me he would give me a chance if I gave up the drinking. So, I agreed, and we shook hands.”
“And you’re how old now?”
“Almost nineteen,” she says, flashing me a grin.
“Wow.” I blow out a breath. “I did not know any of that.”
“I thought Declan would have told you.”
I blink too quickly and whip my head toward her.
“And why would you think that?”
“Because… he’s always yapping about you?”
“He’s always what?” I cry.
“Yapping,” she replies. “You know, like, ‘Blair this and Blair that’ nonstop.” She moves her hand like she’s controlling a puppet and tucks her chin to imitate his voice.
Her words feel like dry ice spreading through my chest, resistant hope warring with reason inside me. “I’m sure that’s not—”
“Oh my gosh.” She rolls her eyes. “You two are so annoying.” She throws a rag on the counter dramatically and turns to face me, hand on her hip. “You know, on the day you came in for an interview, I recognized you from a photo that fell out of his wallet one time. It was you two on the football field back in the day, and he was wearing the whole shebang: big ole helmet and shoulder pads and he had his arm around you and it’s all cute and whatever. Never had a clue that you were the girl he’d been yapping about to me all this time. But when I saw his face after he interviewed you?” She whistles. “Dead giveaway.”
Blood drains from my face.
“Oh no.” She snaps her fingers. “Hello? Blair? Blink for me. Come on, girl.”
“Hey, Blink is my nickname,” I say, hurtling back to the present.
“Yeah, well, I can definitely see why!”
“Sorry, I just—your words are very kind, but it’s not likethat anymore between Declan and me. We’re cordial now, but…” I cut myself off, not wanting to expose the way yesterday ended between us.
“Cordial?” she tuts. “Is that what we’re calling infatuation these days?”
“Harper!” I chide, ducking at the rising sound of her voice.
“Listen,” she says, dipping her voice to a near whisper and sidling up beside me. “I don’t know what makes you think he feels that way about you, but I know people who knew him from before the accident. And they said it changed him. Overnight, all his hopes and dreams went poof.” She snaps her fingers again. “And ever since, that boy has been so scared of letting himself want anything. Or anyone, I should add.”
She walks away and I’m left with vertigo trying to process her words.
I didn’t need to be fed more hope that Declan still felt the invisible string between us—that he was just too afraid to show it. I was feeding myself that particular brand of false hope by the boatload. I was choking on it.
It’s evening now, and Declan should walk through the doors at any second for overtime hours. Settling onto a stool at the half-finished bar, I open my laptop to the convenience stores’ master scheduling portal and double check that everyone has the correct shifts while I wait.
But even as I drag names across the screen, Harper’s earlier words press at my mind like a persistent migraine. I still can’t reckon with how her words line up with his actions. He wanted to try being friends. And I thought we were doing that prettywell, until we weren’t. He invited me to his house, took me out for a meal, and then he closed off like we were coworkers having a strictly professional meeting.
The tiny golden bell above the door chimes as he steps inside, and he wastes no time ripping the crewneck he’s wearing over his head. It ruffles his hair, and he brushes a hand over it sloppily with a distracted look on his face.
