Inside, I turn back, and see that he still hasn’t moved.
Out of pure desperation, I ask, “What is it that you want, Carey?”
His head shoots in my direction and his stupid hair falls in his face.
“I did it. I spoke first. I said thank you.”
His head slowly pans back around until he’s staring down at the counter, his fingers curling in on themselves against the glass before straightening back out.
I storm towards him, catching myself with both hands on the door frame. “There’s no gun at your head. If you didn’t want to be here, you didn’t have to come.”
He blinks, his eyes remaining closed for what feels like hours.
“I can’t do this, Carey. I need you to talk.”
He looks back at me, the whites of his eyes tinged pink like he’s doing everything he can to not cry.
“I want you here, but it needs to be how it was.”
“I—” He catches himself like you do when you know that if you say another word the tears will start flowing.
My hands fall to my sides.
He runs his fingers through his hair, positioning it back off his forehead, and smiles a small, tight-lipped smile.
“Thank you,” he says softly.
I shake my head,no,and move closer.
He counters my movements by shuffling back.
“Are you expecting me to say sorry?”
He pushes his lips together and shakes his head, then stops and shrugs, reiterating it with a small nod.
“Fucking, fine. I’m sorry. Will you say something now?”
Carey’s eyes are still pink, but now it’s more like he’s just taken a hit from a joint.
“Fuck this.” I backtrack, gathering my laptop, backpack, and keys. “Hurry up and get your shit, cause I’m leaving now, and I won’t be back till next Tuesday.” I hear him smirk in that cocky way he does, and I slam the locker door closed. “You’re just like your brother.”
“I’m nothing like my brother,” he says, now standing beside me, shoulder to shoulder..
I smile to myself. “So you can talk?”
“So you can apologize?” He takes down the jacket and puts it on.
“Fuck you,” I mutter under my breath.
“For someone who says they're against sex in the workplace, you sure do bring it up a lot.”
I glance to my left and he’s looking right at me, our shoulders no more than an inch apart. We're so similar in height. So similar in ways I'm trying not to think about. “It’s not my job to fulfil yourfucking the boss fantasies,” I tell him, and make a B-line to the back door.
Carey laughs, but offers no follow up, and I’m glad for it. Because I swear I can hear the desk drawer rattling like my sketch is fighting to show itself to him.
Outside, he helps me pull down the roller door, but when it’s locked, he makes no attempt to move. He just stands there, leaning on his skateboard with one hand.
“Is this your way of asking me for a ride?”
