Page 59 of Playing with the Heartbreaker

I set the globe upright again.

Is it even worth making things like this when everything feels so fragile? When things turn in the blink of an eye? Is it dumb to focus on something like a craft when it will never be enough to fix what’s really broken?

My mind flashes to Chloe again. In my head, I hear the words, Yes. Keep trying.

Inside the house, I check my phone again. I still haven’t heard from her. It’s past eleven now. Plenty of time for her to be up.

I chug some water, then pace around the kitchen.

If I stay here, I’m going to drive myself insane. I need to get out of the house.

More than anything I want to go to Chloe’s house and apologize in person. But if she’s really mad at me— or if her mom is home— I might make things worse.

I grab my keys, climb in my car, and without much of a direction in mind, I drive.

Twenty-Seven

CHLOE

“Hand me that hazelnut syrup, would you, Chloe?” Maggie points to a bottle on the counter behind me. “Thank you again for coming in at the last minute. I would not have been able to handle this rush without you. Josie called in again. I may actually have to fire her this time.” She frowns, pouring some syrup into the iced coffee she’s making.

“No problem. Believe it or not, this is going to be the highlight of my day.” An indie rock song plays over the speakers, some local band that Maggie sometimes lets play on Thursday nights. It’s not really my taste, but it could be worse.

“Your mom will come around soon, I’m sure. She was worried, that’s all.”

“I know,” I say, studying my fingernails. “And that’s totally understandable. I just wish she’d let me explain. I mean, I didn’t actually do anything.”

“But you were with…” Maggie drops her voice to a whisper. “A boooyyy.”

I toss a towel at her. Maggie catches it, laughing.

She’s the cool aunt I didn’t get by blood. She’s always been easier to talk to than my mom. Sometimes I feel guilty about it. But not at the moment.

“Yes. But two months feels excessive. And like I said⁠—”

“Nothing happened,” Maggie finishes. “Okay, okay. If you say so. Can you refill the cream carafe?”

“You got it, boss.”

Maggie sticks her tongue out. She hates when I call her that. Even in her overalls and tie-dye, it’s obvious she owns the place.

I swipe the stainless-steel pot off the counter and head to the back, rinsing it in the sink and refilling it with fresh cream.

“Hey, Chloe?”

“Yeah, Mags?”

“What did you say that cute boy looked like, again?”

“Scoreboard-bright smile. Eyes like bottomless mugs of French dark roast.” I screw the lid on the carafe and make my way back toward Maggie’s voice. “Messy dark hair. Why?” I turn the corner into the shop and my feet cement to the floor. My hands grip the carafe tighter.

“You forgot to mention my talent for arriving at the exact right moment.” Rhoads lifts his shoulders and smiles at me shyly from the other side of the counter.

I shoot Maggie a what-the-heck look, but she smirks and shrugs.

Traitor. Heat builds in my cheeks.

“How much of that did you hear, exactly?”