“Cool,” I say. I don’t ask her what it means, but Carey does. The question calms her nerves further and he pulls one of the chairs by the door over to sit on the other side of her, focusing her attention away from the needles, and everything about to happen.
They talk about high school, her best friends, and a bunch of other things that mean something to her and nothing to anyone else.
It grinds at me.
I hate that it helps.
And I hate that the room feels less empty with his voice in it.
Ican’t sit still. My hands fidget, my legs twitch, and my brain won’t shut up unless I’m busy, so I start fussing with the counter. I check the shop's email account again, even though I checked it an hour ago. I flip each of the art books on the side counter to a different page. I wash the coffee cups and spoons, put them on the drying rack, and cover them with a fresh tea towel so stuff doesn’t fall on them in the night. And still, Tek doesn’t say anything.
He’s done nothing but stare at me, with the occasional grunt thrown in for good measure, since I called him out on his bullshit this morning.
It’s actually quite entertaining how similar to Eden he is.
They’re like two halves of the same brick wall. Or maybe more accurately, it’s like someone took one personality, cracked it down the middle, and poured it into two different bodies. Eden got the hot-headed, break your face if you look at me wrong,side. And Tek is the brooding martyr. So I guess that makes me the idiot who can see straight through the both of them.
I might not have lived with Eden most of my life, but I still know the rules of the game. You can’t give an inch. You can’t accept their moods as gospel. You’ve got to shove back, call their bluff, and remind them that they’re not always the boss or you’ll get walked all over.
I lean beside the sink in the back room and watch Tek through the half-open doorway. He’s hunched over his client, shading something between their shoulder blades. His arms flex, pulling the fabric of his black shirt tight as his muscles push against it.
I wouldn’t mind if he actually wanted to walk all over me… I'd let him.
Then, like he can read my thoughts, Tek looks up, his eyes locking straight on me.
My stomach flips. My face burns hot, and I break the stare.
What the hell am I doing?
Trash.
I need to take out the trash.
Now.
I grab one bag, tie it tight, walk quickly and don’t look back.
In the lot behind the shop, I heave the bag into the dumpster and notice a pile of sketches. Even crumpled, the lines are clear, smooth, and intricate. One is a snake coiled around a dagger. Another is a skull wreathed in flowers. They’re not trash. They’re art. And he threw them out. Like they aren’t worth the space they take up. It feels like a crime to leave them in there, but I don’t touch them.
When I walk back inside, the shop feels heavier.
I try my hardest to not look at Tek, but I’m weak, and crack within seconds.
We’re alone, and his eyes—so dark compared to the silverish bleach of his hair—pierce through me.
“Where’s your client?” I blurt out so I’m not just standing there, staring at him like an idiot.
“Having a smoke.” He peels off the black surgical gloves and tosses them away. He walks to the reception desk and I shuffle to the side until he settles in front of the computer. Moving the mouse around to wake up the screen, he tells me, “You can head out.”
“It’s cool. I’ll stay till you’re done.”
“This guy’s not my last.” His voice is flat, not unkind, but not warm either. “When he’s gone, I’ve got a booking till nine… If it doesn’t run over.”
“And dinner?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“You can’t run on fumes.”
