Chapter 35
Tristan
“You’re heartless, you know.”
My sunshine’s standing outside the bathroom door, arms folded across his chest, staring at me with the sexiest, most unsuccessful stab at a scowl I’ve ever seen in my life.
It turns his already lush lips all pouty and extra plush, and gives his eyes this super intense, piercing look that honestly makes me feel more like he’s giving me a good eye fucking rather than even trying to look put out.
“One,” I hold up my index finger, ticking it off with the other, “is that one of the not-even-the-half-of-it things you still have to say to me? And two,” a second finger joins the first as his mouth opens and his eyes go wide in absolutely fucking adorable protest. “Maybe you think I’m heartless, but I’m pretty sure Reagan doesn’t. ”
“Who’s—” Jesse’s choked splutter over the name, “Reagan?” is priceless.
“What, feeling jealous, sunshine?”
I let him visibly internally melt down for only about half a sec before I take pity on him and let out the laugh I’ve been holding in. Honestly, I hadn’t even thought about the possible implications of what I was saying until the words were out of my mouth.
“Reagan,” I pause for effect, and to let out another laugh, I have to admit, “is the girl from my work. The one who called to ask if I’d take over early for her today?”
Yeah, so it had started as an accident and turned into a joke, except now, the relief on Jesse’s face is something else entirely.
It sets my stomach flip-flopping and my pulse pounding with that spreading swell of feeling he’d filled my chest with last night, all light and so damn happy I don’t know if I’m ever gonna be able to wipe this crazy-ass grin off my face.
The weird thing about it though? I’m not freaking out. Not about those feelings. Not about the shit I told Jesse last night, or even about the fact that this thing between us feels hella big and hella real and like nothing I’d ever thought I’d get the chance to have.
“I forgot to tell you—did you see you’d gotten a couple messages earlier?”
Shit.
That does wipe the grin right off my face.
“I just heard your phone go off while you were sleeping,” he hurries to explain, like he thinks he’s upset me, which tells me that he’s totally picking up on the alarm that’s suddenly spiking through me.
It was probably just Reagan. No biggie—
And anyway, I blocked Josh last night, so it’s not like it could be him. Except, for some reason, that doesn’t do a thing to calm the totally uncalled for fear that has my stomach clenching and my skin breaking out in a cold sweat.
“Sorry I forgot until now—”
“Not worried about it, sunshine,” I force a smile in his direction as I tuck my un-looked at phone in my back pocket, where I swear I can feel the damn thing burning a hole right through my jeans.
Jesse crinkles his eyebrows like he’s worried about me. It should be adorable as hell. And it is, I know it is, I just can’t get the feeling to register fully over the stupid-ass sense of dread that won’t stop spreading through me.
God fucking dammit.
Withheld: Don’t you fucking block me again
Withheld: You know you miss me babe
It doesn’t matter how warm and comfy and Jesse-smelling the coat he wrapped me up in on my way out the door is.
Inside it, I’m all cold and itchy-crawly-sick, and there’s a goddamn fucking thread I can’t snap off sticking out of one corner of the sleeve.
All the way to work, I’m tugging at that thread and it’s just too fucking short to get wrapped properly around my finger, and I swear it’s gonna send me into a legitimate panic attack.
As soon as I’m in through the door, I peel that coat off and shove it out of sight around the corner, only that doesn’t do a damn thing to turn off the shit that’s buzzing around my head.
The moment I read Josh’s texts, I deleted them. All I wanted was to get them the fuck off my phone. Apparently that counts for exactly nothing, ‘cause the image of those messages had to go and carve itself into my brain so it’s all I can see every goddamn time I blink.
In between, all I can think about is how bad I want to run right out of here and straight back to my sunshine’s place, so he can wrap me up in his arms and blot out all the shit I can’t stop replaying. My paranoid imaginings of looking up from the till to see Josh standing in the doorway.
Except I can’t even text Jesse.
“You like it here so far?”
Mitchel, ‘cause of course it’s my fucking boss that I’m working with today with Reagan gone, leans back against the counter, watching me as I straighten up the self-serve tea station.
Yeah, so maybe I’ve done it seven or eight times already, but seeing the corners of the tea bag packets all crooked is seriously making me hyperventilate right now, okay?
“Yeah. It’s good. Super chill.” Fucking eloquent, I know, but my face feels all weird and tingly and the back of my head’s all tight and throbbing from the fake-ass smile I’ve kept pasted on all morning.
“Reagan’s great to work with,” I try again, and at least this time I don’t have to try so hard to keep my smile up.
“She’s said the same about you.” Mitchel takes a last, noisy slurp of his slushy iced mocha before tossing it in the trash.
He’s a tall, super thin guy, probably in his late forties, with greying dreads that he’s tied up in a bun at the back of his head.
I’d met him when he’d interviewed me for the job, and he’d been exactly the same as he is today; friendly and laid back.
If I wasn’t having my own private freak out sesh, I think I’d like him just fine.
Right now though, I just wish he’d decide to cut out and leave me to work the shop on my own. That, and text Jesse.
“She says you were showing her some paintings you did?”
Mitchel pins me with a serious look, and my stomach gives a queasy twitch, ‘cause he’s gotta be hella pissed I was showing her shit while on the clock. The next moment though, he flashes me an approving grin that even I, mid-freakout, can’t misinterpret. “Sounds like you’re quite the artist.”
“I just mess around—”
“Not from what Reagan says. She even voluntarily put her book down to tell me about them,” he laughs.
Well, maybe I can get away with texting my sunshine then, if Reagan reads between orders when she’s working with Mitchel.
“You still have those pictures of your work you showed her on your phone?”
Part of me wants to tell him I don’t, because my paintings really are just me messing around. Nothing special. Definitely not anything Reagan should have been making some big deal out of, only before I can decide whether I want to or not, I’m fishing my phone out of my back pocket.
Even though I’ve had it on vibrate and would have totally known if any texts came in, I check my messages before swiping open my photos.
Nothing from Josh, thank fuck. Not that that means anything good.
Except there’s nothing from Jesse either.
Yeah, that’s probably ‘cause I shot a quick message off to him when I got here and saw who I’d be working with, telling him I couldn’t text.
Still, that doesn’t stop the sinking little tug of disappointment.
The worry that he’s having second thoughts ‘cause of the shit I told him last night.
When I open the album of my paintings and hand my phone to Mitchel, my heart gives the sort of skippy-leap it usually reserves just for my sunshine, and I have to pull my hand back quickly to hide the fact that it’s legitimately shaking.
Apparently, I’m still the same stupid-ass kid who wanted his mom to love his paintings, ‘cause I full-on hold my breath as Mitchel flips through a few photos.
Showing my work to Reagan was one thing. This? Showing it to someone who’s gotten his expectations all built up that he’s going to see something that might be worth displaying and selling in his shop…
Mitchel lets out a low whistle. “Reagan wasn’t kidding.” He looks up from my phone, squinting his eyes at me and shaking his head. “And she’s got it right that you don’t sell them or display them anywhere?”
“Nah, they’re just—”
“Messing around.” He shakes his head again, snorting out a disbelieving sort of half laugh.
“Well, if you ever change your mind and decide you want to sell the results of that messing around, you let me know. Every one of those paintings of yours I just saw blows anything I’ve ever sold here out of the water.
People would snap them up in a heartbeat. ”
“You’re fucking serious?”
Fuck, I probably shouldn’t have just said fucking to my boss— It’s just that my head’s gone all floaty-spinney and my blood’s pumping so hard and fast through my ears that I can’t think straight.
Any real artist, with work in real galleries and shit, would laugh their ass off at me for getting all worked up over having someone want to sell my paintings in their coffee shop, but holy fucking shit—
“One hundred percent fucking serious.” Mitchel grins at me. “You doing anything Monday? Tuesday? If not, bring five or six of your paintings by in the afternoon, and we’ll talk prices. I’ll be here.”
“I’ve got a date Monday—” and holy fucking shit again, ‘cause how is this my life? Fuck texts from Josh. I am done letting his motherfucking ass scare me. “So, Tuesday?”
“Tuesday’s great. I’ll be here all day.” Mitchel’s grin widens. “And you’ve got a date, do you? Nice guy? Uh, or girl?”
I’m not really sure what sort of sappy-ass look I get on my face, except that it’s gotta be pretty sappy, ‘cause Mitchel’s grin softens, and he doesn’t wait for me to answer before he nods his approval.
In my back pocket, my phone lets out a single harsh buzz, and my heart’s in my goddamn throat. Yeah, I can say I’m not gonna let Josh scare me anymore, but in reality?
The moment Mitchel turns away to restock the pastry case, I swipe open my messages, and I can’t even try and pretend away that totally shitty, familiar sinking feeling in my stomach when I read what’s there.