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Maybe I should have asked her for advice on how to stick with my commitments.
“How’s college?”
I tip my head back and forth in silence, not having the heart to lie right now.
“Yeah. I get it. You’re almost finished, though. That must be a relief.”
The relief is knowing I never have to go back. “I needed a break, so I’m taking the semester off.”
“I bet your dad’s so happy to have you home for a while.”
My gears instantly shift. Change is so not like him. Using the dishwasher, skirting around conversations, eating two pastries multiple times a week, sneaking out of work. The obvious answer for anyone is that he’s secretly seeing someone. But Dad has always been so resistant to that.
Unless my leaving really did push him over the edge?
“Well, can I help you find anything?” Emma asks. “Need any recommendations? I can suggest some great YA books I’ve read recently.”
“Thanks, but I’m just browsing.”
“Well, let me know.”
I wander about the library, though my eyes register nothing.
My mind swirls with the possibilities of who Dad’s potential girlfriend can be and how I can broach the subject and receive an actual honest answer from him, but this is going to take some delicacy—not my usual rushing-in-without-a-thought behavior.
Like what I’m doing with Archer.
As I look from book spine to book spine without reading a word, I gently hold the box of maple bars in my hand.
It’s almost time to put my detective skills to work.
Archer
Around one, I wander into the Maple Bar and Grill, the faint smell of maple and meat pulling a growl from my stomach.
The whole place is covered in warm wood and calm lighting. The booths with worn brown vinyl line one wall and a waxed wood bar holds space at the center of the restaurant.
Most people frequent the grill for weekends or main meals, so I wait for the lunchtime rush to be over every Monday. This way, my piddly social battery doesn’t drain too quickly and my stomach is filled properly. I’m an okay cook, but every once in a while, I need a break.
I step across the wooden flooring and head to the bar, but my footing falters. Juliet occupies one of the stools with an easy smile on her lips. They shine a deep red with a tantalizing gloss.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, taking a few steps forward.
She looks completely unfazed at my arrival, as if she was expecting me.
“Getting lunch.” She pulls out the stool next to her and pats it with two, succinct taps.
I get the invitation but still hesitate. “Alone?”
“Not anymore,” she says, motioning to me.
My shoulders release the tension they were carrying.
“You’re sure this is a good idea?” I say, slowly taking the seat.
A box from Keller’s Bakehouse sits on the bar in front of her.
“Why? Afraid my dad will come in?”
