“Cute.” I pretend that statement didn’t go right between my legs, and follow him behind the bar. His ice machine is twice the size of the one at Cutie Fruitie. He flips open the lid, revealing a cache of ice. He takes a plastic beer jug from a shelf, hands me another, and starts scooping ice into the tote bin.
I join him, reaching into the machine for ice at the same time, and we bump heads. “Sorry,” I mutter. “Didn’t see you there.” I try to pass it off like it didn’t even hurt, but fuckingow.
“Do you mind?” he drawls. “You have a very hard head. How can I hydrate the thirsty masses if I’m knocked out cold?”
“Ihave a hard head? God, you’re really imperious when you’re helping me out.”
“It does seem to happen remarkably often. You, needing my help. Me, helping ...”
“One might even think we’re more than enemies.”
I don’t even know why that slips out. Our eyes meet, but at that moment, my phone rings. It’s jammed into the tiny, stretchy pocket in the waist of my yoga skirt. And yes, the fact that I’m still carrying it around when it rarely works speaks to my absolute addiction to it.
It’s Kyle, and I’m so frazzled, I answer, because why is he calling me unless something is seriously wrong? I haven’t even spoken to anyone outside Orchard Cove in days.
“Hey. What’s up?” I shove the phone between my shoulder and ear and keep scooping ice.
Mason frowns at me, but we find a rhythm, taking turns.
“Hey . . . Sierra . . . glad . . . finally caught you.”
Finally? What, has he been calling me a lot? He’s cutting in and out, so maybe I’ve misheard him.
“I can barely hear you,” I shout. “Speak up.”
“Where are you? Is that ‘Cherry Pie’?”
“In a bar,” I shout. “I can’t talk right now.”
“Okay,” he shouts back. “I just wanted you to know that I talked to Dawson. You know, my cousin?”
Oh, I know Dawson. The little fucker. “Uh-huh. What did he do now? Release a deepfake of me blowing the purple dildo?”
I realize I’m still shouting when I find Mason staring at me.
“I just wanted you to know,” Kyle shouts, “that he apologized to me.”
I have no idea what he expects me to do with this information. Slow-clap?
“What do you want me to say, Kyle? Congrats on your apology. I have to go.”
“Wait! Sierra—”
I hang up and keep scooping, avoiding Mason’s eyes until the tote bins are full. I pick one up. “Sorry. Shit. I should’ve brought the lids so I could stack them. I’ll take this one over, then come back for that.”
Mason picks up the second tote. “That’s a waste of time.” He calls over to Oscar, “I’ll be back in a few.” Then he leads me through the bar.
We carry our bins through the crowd outside as my head reels with Kyle’s words.
I just wanted you to know that he apologized to me.
Fuck. Way too little, too late, Kyle.
And way off the fucking mark.
Why the hell did he think I’d want to hear that his cousin apologized tohim? As if he’s the only one who deserves an apology?
It’s not the kid’s fault. He’s a kid.
