Page 79 of Hunter

I shrug, a real smile tugging at my lips for the first time today. “She’s lonely. Reminds me of my grandma a little. I don’t mind.”

Mrs. Lovelady’s eyes soften. “That’s why you’re good people. You see the lonely ones. Don’t ever lose that.” She reaches over and gently squeezes my shoulder. “And if you ever need a day off or just someone to listen… my door’s always open. No questions asked.”

I swallow around the sudden lump in my throat. “I know. Thank you.”

She gives my shoulder one more pat, then heads back to the front with a wink. “Now finish that tea before it gets cold. We’ve got a busy day ahead.”

I sit there a moment longer, the warmth of the mug seeping into my hands, her kindness wrapping around the raw edges inside me like a soft blanket. It doesn’t fix anything, but it makes the weight feel just a tiny bit lighter. I wash the mug, straighten my hoodie, and head back out to the floor.

The morning shift is steady. A steady stream of art students, hobbyists, and the occasional tourist wanders in. I help a young woman find the perfect set of acrylics for her first painting class, smiling through the knot in my chest when she gushes about how excited she is to start creating. I restock the watercolor section, chat with Mr. Ramirez about his latest landscape, and even manage to laugh when a little kid accidentally knocks over a display of colored pencils and looks up at me with wide, guilty eyes.

“Accidents happen,” I tell him, crouching down to help pick them up. “Want to pick your favorite color as a reward for helping clean up?”

His face lights up. He chooses a bright turquoise, and I slip it into his mom’s bag when she’s not looking.

Overall, it’s a good shift. By the time the afternoon rush starts to slow, I’m tired in a bone deep way that has nothing to do with the physical work and everything to do with the text I’ve avoided sending all day.

Hunter hasn’t texted today. Maybe he was so drunk last night he doesn’t remember pounding on my door at 3 a.m..

When my shift finally ends, I say goodbye to Mrs. Lovelady with a hug that lingers a little longer than usual. She squeezes me tight and whispers, “You take care of that big heart of yours, sweetheart.”

I nod, throat tight, and step out into the late afternoon sun.

Once outside, I pull out my phone and open the text thread with Hunter. Without over-thinking it, I send a quick text.

Me: If you’re sober, we should talk.

The reply comes almost instantly.

Hunter: I’m sober. Waiting on your steps.

My stomach drops. I can’t have this conversation at my apartment. I’m not sure I’m strong enough.

I type back quickly, fingers shaking just a little.

Me: Meet me at the park near the fountain instead? Five minutes?

Hunter: On my way.

I slip the phone into my pocket and start walking, legs moving on autopilot while my mind races. The city noise wraps around me, but it all feels far away.

I’m in love with him. And I’m going to tell him we can’t be in a relationship. The tears want to start falling already, and I blink the sting away. Shit. Why is the right thing so hard?

I reach the park and spot him immediately; he’s sitting on my favorite bench by the fountain. The late afternoon light catches on his stubble and the tired lines around his eyes. He looks rough. But sober. When he sees me, he stands up slowly, shoving his hands deep in his pockets.

My heart clenches.

I walk over, stopping a few feet away, wrapping my arms around myself.

“Hey,” I say softly.

“Hey.” His voice is rough, careful. “You wanted to talk?”

I nod, glancing at the fountain for a second before meeting his eyes. Rip the bandaid off.

“Yeah. I…I need to say some things. And I think that it’s better if we do it here. In the open. Where I feel safe.”

I regret the choice of words immediately, but push forward.