I squint at him. “Depends on how many cheese Danish I get out of it.”
Alex tilts his head as if lost in thought. “How about two dozen?”
“Make it three and you’ve got yourself a deal,” I say.
“Done.”
Jo rolls her eyes. “Three dozen cheese Danish? That’s all I’m worth to you?”
I shrug. “They’re really good cheese Danish.”
Jo drops her gaze to her drink. “And you’re fine with this. Really?”
I don’t know if I’mfinewith it, exactly. It’s not like I have any other choice. I don’t love the idea of not having Jo at work anymore, but I don’t actually expect her to plan her life around me. “I’m not finenow, but I will be.”
I hope I seem calm on the outside, because inside, I’m freaking out. I have always known my emotions are bigger than most people’s. Years of gymnastics training helped me to develop the discipline necessary to keep them in check, a useful skill when your job requires catering to the whims of the wealthy. Normally I do better than this. But Jo and I have been through everything together over the last six years. Now she has Alex and his fourteen-year-old daughter, Greyson—a real family to go through everything with. I know Jo and I will still be best friends, but things are changing, although I was perfectly fine with how they’ve been. I thought I’d at least have her at work, even if her life outside of it became a bit more complicated. It never crossed my mind that she’d quit, that one change would ripple outward, washing over everything.
Too much, I think. I need to step away for a minute. I force Britt to sit up and move out of my way so I can escape the booth.
“Where are you going?” Jo says.
“I’m getting champagne, of course,” I say. “This is a celebration, is it not?”
Jo looks at me for a moment, but she must believe me, because the hesitation on her face eases. “Thanks, Nina.”
“Don’t thank me,” I say. “I have plenty to celebrate myself. Like the three dozen cheese Danish in my future.”
When I leave the table, I don’t go to the bar right away. Instead, I prowl the perimeter of Mitch’s, running a hand over the dozens of dollar bills that jump out at me from the mess of photographs on the walls. What a shame to leave all this money here, stuck but still valuable. I look around the pub and wonder how much money has been left here. I certainly hope Mitch doesn’t plan to use it as his retirement fund. It seems a rather risky investment strategy.
A corner of the Polaroid of me, Ollie, and Jo jabs into my skin. I face the wall and discreetly adjust the photo inside my bra. As I do, I spot a dollar bill that’s been defaced to make George Washington look like a zombie. When I reach out to touch it, the dollar is so worn, it feels like fabric beneath my fingertips. I think of how good it felt to rip that photo from the wall, and without checking to see if anyone is watching, I tug at the thumbtack pinning Zombie George in place, then fold the dollar in half and stuff it into my bra beside the photograph.
Maybe I should feel bad, but I don’t. It feels good to take something for myself, something that would be useless otherwise. It’s what I love about thrifting. One woman’s trash is another woman’s treasure. I put the thumbtack back in its place and scan the wall again. Perhaps I’ll grab a few more. Instead of returning to the table, I’ll have the champagne sent over and I’ll disappear. I’ll go down the street to the gas station and buy a pack of cigarettes even though I haven’t smoked in years.
“One charter season without me, and you turn to a life of crime?” a familiar voice says from behind me.
Ollie.I didn’t know he’d be here, but part of me had hoped. I won’t give him the satisfaction of turning to face him, though. I don’t want to seem too eager. “What are you doing here? You aren’t part of the crew,” I say.
“Alex invited me. He’s not crew anymore either. Mitch’s is open to the public, yeah?”
I should’ve known this was Alex’s doing. He and Ollie have becomebudsover the last year. They even have matching T-shirts with Gordon Ramsay’s face on them that sayWhere’s the lamb sauce?I don’t get the joke, and I don’t want to. All I know is Ollie talks to Alex about me, and I don’t like it.
“How’s the form, Neen?” Ollie says.
His breath is warm against my skin, and he smells like the mint tea he drinks obsessively. My instinct is to lean into him, but I’m not sure if being around him will make tonight better or worse, so I try not to move.
“I used to be a professional gymnast, Oliver,” I say. “My form is excellent.” I know that’s not what he means. I’ve picked up more Irish slang over the years than I let on. This is just part of the game we play.
“You know I don’t like being called Oliver,” he says, like he often does when I use his full name.
“And you know I don’t care,” I reply, like I have hundreds of times. Thousands, maybe. Same old barbs. Same old reactions. I like to think of them as the grooves of our relationship. We settle into them when we’re around each other just to remind ourselves they exist. If we stick to the lines, we can play this game for as long as we like. If we follow the rules, no one gets hurt.
Ollie wraps his arms around me and rests his chin on my shoulder. I hate how I don’t mind it. How I can’t help but rest my weight against his chest. Before Jo, it was just me and Ollie. A whole lifetime ago, it seems. He and I have more history than I care to admit. And though Jo is my best friend, my relationship with Ollie means just as much, albeit in a vastly different and infinitely more complicated way.
Ollie’s barely-there stubble scratches my cheek when he speaks. “You good, Neen?”
I keep my eyes on the wall ahead of me. “Why wouldn’t I be?” I say.Better, I think.Being around him will make tonight better.
“Heard you might’ve got some bad news,” he says.
