Jones breathed out slowly. “All right. I’ll talk to him.”
“Talk to him?”
“Get his side of things.”
“Are you serious? Do you not believe me when I say I saw him stealing?”
“I believe you thought you saw that. But I also believe in giving people a chance.”
“So do I!” I was so frustrated I could have cried. “But I also believe what I saw!”
“Leave the Rog situation with me,” Jones said. There was no crinkling around the eyes now. “Why don’t you focus on Galoshes instead? She’s been dismantling all your autumnal decorations while you were out.”
“She’s— What?”
“Yeah. She knows you’re too scared of her to bollock her for it, I imagine.”
Jones was angry. I’ve only seen him properly angry once before—that moment when we were drenched by the lighthouse, when I told him he was an entitled man used to getting what he wanted. But this time, there was no danger of this ending in a kiss. His arms were folded tightly across his chest and his glower was fierce. I was having to fight to keep from crying. Had gotten used to the warm, caring Jones—hadn’t realized how much he’d changed until he was back to this scowly, shut-off stranger again.
“Your issues with Galoshes are getting in the way of progress in the shop. She’s not going to agree to anything until she believes we’re good people who aren’t trying to turn the shop into some gimmicky tourist trap. I’m doing what I can, but the fact is you’re fifty percent of this, she doesn’t trust you and we have two and a half weeks to get that shop to a place that justifies two salaries. Sort it, please,” he said, climbing back on his bike.
“Jones—”
“I’m done,” he said. “Unless there’s anything else you’ve not deigned to tell me because you think I can’t cope with it?”
“What? No, no, it wasn’t…”
He was already cycling away.
From:Charlie Jones
To:Charlie Jones
Subject:Day forty-three sober
Fuck, I’m angry.
I hate being angry.
It makes me want a drink.
From:Charlie Jones
To:Charlie Jones
Subject:Day forty-three sober (cont.)
I’m back at the stables now. Charlie’s out somewhere—avoiding me, probably. I wish I’d been calmer when she told me about Rog. I keep seeing her face when I snapped at her. She looked hurt, and disappointed, and…anxious. Which Ihate.
But I also hate being treated like I can’t cope. The wolfish voice in my head thinks I can’t cope, either, at least not without a beer or two, and it’s hard enough ignoring that all day without Charlie acting like one small problem will make me fall apart.
Look at you, though, the voice says.A little argument withyour coworker and you can feel the darkness creeping in again. You’re this close to having a drink.
But the darknesswon’tclose over me today. And I’venothad a drink. I’ve lit the log burner—a fire is just the right kind of high-maintenance—and I’m mainlining Doc’s custard creams. Sugar, keeping busy, and learning my lesson. If I really saw Charlie as a coworker, I wouldn’t care nearly as much about her opinion of me. I need to put my walls back up—I need to concentrate on what I came here to do, and focus on my future.
The shop profits aren’t high enough to justify two comanager salaries from October yet. And I’ve been ignoring the possibility that we won’t get there, because frankly I’ve not wanted to think about it. Charlie and I are a team now, we’re…well, we’re whatever we are, friends, I guess, if you can call someone a friend when you want to stare at them all the time.
But I need to face reality. If we don’t step things up a gear, there will only be funds for one of us to stay on. And I need to ask Marly exactly what that decision looks like, because that person has to be me.
