A woman steps inside, balancing a coffee in one hand and a kid on her hip. The toddler’s holding a sticky toy dinosaur and immediately starts making it stomp across the top of the returns bin.
“Crap,” I whisper. “Gotta go. Customer.”
“Wait—are you okay? Delilah?—”
“I love you! I’ll text you later,” I mutter, and hang up before I can change my mind.
I slide the phone face-down again and force myself into motion, moving toward the front with my best neutral smile and bookstore voice. The mom asks if we have the new release from that parenting psychologist with the pastel covers. I nod, because of course, we do, and because answering questions is so much easier than thinking.
Back at the counter, I sip lukewarm tea and try to settle back into the rhythm.
Textbook returns. Barcodes.
He’s probably already moved on.
Troy Hawkins doesn’t seem like the type to dwell. He flirts like it’s instinctive. For all I know, he made breakfast and fed it to someone else before I even got across town.
That thought shouldn’t sting but it does.
Troy is surrounded by people who love him easily. Freely. Without strategy or restraint. He gives pieces of himself without making them feel heavy.
Meanwhile, I’ve been hoarding myself like a finite resource.
Because when you've spent your whole life taking care of other people, you learn early that no one’s going to do it for you.
So I built a system. Boundaries. Rules. Don’t need anyone. Don’t trust anyone. Don’t get soft. Lacey is the only exception to that.
Maybe you can have another exception.
And last night? Whateverthatwas?
It doesn’t fit.
People like me don’t fall in love. We just learn how to survive it.
I breathe in slowly, exhale even slower, and click back into the spreadsheet.
My phone buzzes.
I glance at the screen.
Hawk the dork
what are your thoughts on pickles in sandwiches?
I stare.
Then exhale through my nose. Trying—andfailing—not to smile.
23
TROY
The key to a good sandwich is confidence. Doesn’t matter what’s in it—if you hesitate, the whole thing falls apart.
I’m halfway through layering smoked turkey and gouda on a toasted ciabatta when I second-guess my choice. Maybe I should make the egg mayo sandwiches. Fuck it, I love cooking for people and I want to make her something that I know she will like. Quickly preparing some eggs, I decide to make both.
Behind me, Ethan lets out a guttural growl that’s equal parts rage and melodrama.
