“Jeeze, August,” she mutters.
Okay, maybe it’s worse than what she’s seen in the past.What can I say? I’m chaotic when overwhelmed. She already knows this.
“How are you getting anything done?”
“I’m not.”
“That was a dumb question.” She continues to look around at piles of paper.
“So, can you help me or not?” I bite my tongue after the words come out with a bit of an edge.
She turns on her heels, eyebrows raised and folds her arms across her chest. I step back.
“Sorry.” I give her a pleading glance. “I’m just really anxious and stressed. I’ve created a spreadsheet on my laptop, but I kind of suck at all the formulas to make it easier for myself.”
Her rough features soften when her eyebrows lower. “Show me.”
I grab my laptop from the desk and sit on the couch. She hesitates, staring at the cushion next to me.
“I promise I won’t bite.” I pat the seat.
The cushion dips, and she cautiously leans toward my shoulder to peek at the screen. “Where are you getting these numbers from?”
“Dad’s ledger. Let me get it.” I pass her the laptop and walk over to Dad’s desk, opening the drawer to find his ledger tucked away. “Here.”
She takes it, and I sit back down while she flips through it.
“I forgot how organized your dad is. I can’t believe he still uses this thing.”
The sound of the pages flipping is oddly soothing. It reminds me of when Dad and I sat here working in the quiet, and all I’d hear was pages being turned in this book.
“You know how much he loves his numbers and writing them down.”
We go through pages filled with rows of Dad’s cursive handwriting. There are seven rows: date, account number, explanation, post, debit, credit, and approval.
Dad has banker boxes stacked in the basement, on a shelf filled with ledgers from each year since he opened the store. Thirty years’ worth. People ask me why he chooses to keep those records on hand rather than in a spreadsheet. That’s just how he likes to work.
I don’t question it anymore.
“Okay.” Riley breathes out. “I can see that you’ve tried matching what he has onto the spreadsheet you’ve made. You should add a column on how the bill has been paid. I know it says debit or credit, but is that by check? Wire transfer?”
“Wire transfer.”
Riley’s nails tap against the keyboard as she creates extra rows. “Thank god for that. I was scared you were going to say by check.”
“That was the first thing I changed when I took over.”
We both let out a small laugh, and Riley’s shoulders relax.
She stops typing and focuses on me. “I’m glad you reached out to me.”
“You’re the only person I trust. Plus, you already know how my brain works, and I don’t have time to teach someone else how I think.”
“There’s nothing wrong with how you think. Everyone is different. I told you that the first day I tutored you after school. You see things differently, and there’s nothing wrong with that.”
It’s like I’ve stepped into a time machine. Those wordshit me like a ton of bricks. Soft bricks. I’m fourteen again, and my palms are sweaty. It’s like the kiss in Mexico never happened, and I’m a boy with a big crush all over again.
Her eyes are so golden it’s like sunlight reflecting off a crystal. They burn brighter, and I fall into them.
