Chapter 3
CALLIE
Nothing.
I stare at the word on my phone screen while standing at the fryer. The oil pops and hisses. I should be paying attention. I'm not.
Nothing.
I wanted a different answer. I wanted him to say something reckless. Something honest. Something that would make this easier or harder but at least real.
Instead, I got nothing.
I pocket the phone and pull the donuts from the oil. They're darker than they should be, not ruined, but close. I set them on the rack and start another batch.
The morning passes slowly. Customers come and go. I smile and make change and box up orders. My hands know what to do even when my brain is somewhere else.
Luke shows up at nine with coffee from the gas station.
"You know I make better coffee than that," I tell him.
"Yeah, but yours costs money." He grins and leans against the counter. "How's business?"
"Fine."
"You seem distracted."
"I'm not."
He gives me that look, the one that says he doesn't believe me but won't push. Yet.
"I need to talk to you about Memorial Day," he says instead.
"What about it?"
"The VFW order. How many dozen can you do?"
I pull up the calendar on my phone. Memorial Day is two weeks out. "Depends on what they want."
"Assorted. Whatever sells best."
"Twenty dozen. Maybe twenty-five if I start the day before."
Luke whistles. "That's a lot of donuts."
"That's a lot of veterans."
"Fair point." He takes a sip of his terrible coffee. "Ethan said he'd help deliver them. That cool with you?"
My stomach does something complicated. "Why would Ethan help deliver them?"
"Because I asked him to. I've got the parade that morning, and can't be in two places at once."
"I can deliver them myself."
"In your Honda? You'll need to make three trips."
He's right and I hate it. "Fine. Ethan can help."
Luke studies me for a long moment. "You two getting along, okay?"
"Why wouldn't we be?"
"No reason. Just seems like there's some weird energy lately."
"There's no energy."
"If you say so."
The door chimes. Two customers walk in. I use the interruption to escape behind the counter. Luke stays where he is, watching me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve.
The morning continues. More customers. More coffee. More donuts that need making. I lose myself in the work because it's easier than thinking about Ethan's text or Luke's questions or the way my chest feels too tight.
At eleven, the door opens and Ethan walks in.
I'm refilling the napkin dispenser. I look up and our eyes meet across the room. Something passes between us. Something I can't name and don't want to examine.
"Hey, man." Luke straightens from where he's been slouching by the register. "What are you doing here?"
"You said stop by if I had time." Ethan's voice is even, controlled. "I had time."
"Right. The Memorial Day thing." Luke gestures at me. "Callie says she can do twenty-five dozen. That work?"
Ethan nods. "Should be fine."
"Great. Want coffee?"
"Sure."
I move to make it before Luke can offer. Muscle memory takes over. French roast, black, no sugar. I don't look at Ethan while I pour. Can't look at him.
When I turn around to hand him the cup, he's right there. Closer than I expected. Close enough that I can smell soap and something else. Cedar maybe. Or pine.
Our fingers brush when he takes the coffee.
It lasts half a second, less than half a second, but I feel it everywhere.
"Thanks," he says quietly.
"No problem."
Luke is watching us. I can feel his attention like a weight.
"So Memorial Day," I say too brightly. "What time do you need them?"
"Six," Luke answers. "Parade starts at seven."
"I'll have them ready by five-thirty. Gives us time to load up."
"Us?" Ethan asks.
"You're driving. I'm riding shotgun. Someone needs to make sure nothing gets smashed."
Ethan's jaw tightens slightly. "Right."
The door chimes again. Three women walk in laughing about something. I move to help them, grateful for the distraction. Luke and Ethan retreat to a corner table. I can see them in my peripheral vision while I box up an order.
They're talking in low voices. Luke is relaxed, gesturing with his coffee cup. Ethan is still. Listening. His eyes flick to me once and then away.
I ring up the order and start another pot of coffee. The shop is getting busier. Saturday morning rush. I should ask Luke to leave so I can focus. I don't.
More customers come. The line grows. I work the register while keeping track of inventory and trying not to notice Ethan sitting ten feet away drinking coffee I made for him.
A woman orders two dozen mixed donuts for her kid's soccer team. I'm boxing them up when I feel someone beside me.
Ethan.
"Need help?" he asks.
"I've got it."
"You've got a line out the door."
He's right. I glance at the growing crowd and make a decision I'll probably regret.
"Fine. You can box."
He moves behind the counter before Luke can object. I show him where the boxes are, how to arrange the donuts so they don't get crushed. His shoulder brushes mine when he reaches for a glazed.
"Sorry," he mutters.
"It's fine."
It's not fine. Nothing about this is fine.
We work in tandem. I take orders and money. He boxes and hands them across the counter. We develop a rhythm without speaking. He knows what I need before I ask for it.
Luke watches from his table with an expression I can't read.
The rush continues for an hour. Ethan doesn't complain or slow down. He just works, steady and efficient. When we finally hit a lull, I realize the display case is nearly empty.
"I need to make more," I tell him.
"I'll keep the register."
"You don't know how."
"It's not complicated. I'll figure it out."
I should argue. Instead, I retreat to the kitchen and start a new batch. Through the service window, I can see Ethan at the register. A customer is explaining something, he nods, rings it up, and gives the correct change.
Of course he can work a register. Of course he can do this without training.
I focus on the dough, the measuring and mixing and kneading. I keep my hands busy, and my mind blank. It almost works.
When I emerge with fresh donuts, Luke is at the counter talking to Ethan.
"I'm telling you, the transmission is shot," Luke is saying.
"Have you taken it to Miller's?"
"They quoted me two grand."
Ethan shakes his head. "Too much. I'll look at it."
"You don't have to do that."
"I want to."
I slide past them to refill the case. Their conversation continues, something about Luke's truck and parts and labor costs. I arrange donuts and try not to think about Ethan's hands on my truck. Ethan's hands in general.
A customer approaches, and I help her while Luke and Ethan keep talking. The normalcy of it makes everything worse. This is what it would be like if things were different, if Ethan could just be here without me wishing it meant more than it does
But it does mean something.
It means everything.
"Callie." Luke's voice pulls me back. "We're gonna grab lunch, you want anything?"
"I'm good."
"You sure? You've been here since five."
"I'm sure."
They leave together. The door swings shut behind them, and then I'm alone with a shop full of strangers and the ghost of Ethan's presence behind my counter.
I clean, wipe down surfaces that don't need wiping. I rearrange donuts that are already perfectly arranged, anything to keep moving.
My phone buzzes.
Ethan: You should eat something.
I stare at the message. He's been gone less than five minutes and he's already texting me. I should ignore it, I should focus on work.
Me: I'm fine.
Ethan: You always say that.
Me: Because it's always true.
The dots appear and disappear. Appear again. No message comes.
Luke and Ethan return twenty minutes later with sandwiches from the deli. Luke hands me one.
"I said I was fine," I tell him.
"And I ignored you. Eat."
I take the sandwich because arguing will just make him suspicious. We eat standing around the counter. The shop is quiet, there are just a couple sitting by the window and an old man reading the paper.
"Thanks for the help earlier," I tell Ethan.
He shrugs. "No problem."
"Seriously, I didn't expect the rush."
"Saturdays are always busy," Luke says around a bite of his sandwich. "You should hire someone."
"I can't afford anyone."
"You can't afford to work yourself to death either."
We've had this argument before. I don't want to have it again in front of Ethan.
"I'll think about it," I say, which is what I always say.
Luke knows it's a lie, but thankfully he doesn't push it.
We finish eating, Luke crumples up the sandwich wrapper and shoots it into the trash can across the room. He misses, Ethan retrieves it without comment and throws it away properly.
"I need to head out," Luke says. "Got a thing at two."
"What thing?"
"A thing." He grins. "Don't worry about it."
He leaves but Ethan stays.
I should ask him why, and I should tell him he doesn't need to keep me company. He should do anything except stand here hyperaware of how close he is and how empty the shop suddenly feels.
"I should go too," Ethan says.
"Okay."
He doesn't move.
Neither do I.
We stand there in the space between the counter and the door. The couple by the window leaves. The old man is absorbed in his paper. We're essentially alone.
"Callie." My name sounds different in his mouth. Careful and weighted.
"Yeah?"
"About what I said in the text."
My heart kicks up. "What about it?"
He's quiet for a long moment, his jaw works like he's trying to find words.
"Nothing," he finally says. "Never mind."
"Ethan."
"I need to go."
This time he does move. He heads for the door without looking back. I watch him leave and feel something crack open in my chest.
The afternoon drags. I make more donuts, serve more customers, smile, chat and pretend everything is normal while all I can do is think about Ethan and what he was going to say about the text.
By four, I'm exhausted. Not from the work, but from the effort of holding myself together.
I'm wiping down tables when my phone buzzes.
Luke: How'd things go after I left?
Me: Fine. Why?
Luke: No reason, Ethan seemed weird.
Me: Weird how?
Luke: I don't know. Quiet, even for him.
I don't respond. I don't know what to say that won't sound suspicious.
Luke: You two have a fight or something?
Me: No. Why would we fight?
Luke: That's what I'm trying to figure out.
I pocket my phone and finish cleaning. At six, I lock up and walk home, it’s a lovely warm evening. My feet hurt, my back hurts, actually everything hurts.
My apartment is quiet and empty. I take a shower, put on old sweats and collapse on the couch. My phone is on the coffee table and I stare at it for a long time before picking it up.
The message thread with Ethan is still open. His last text stares back at me.
Nothing.
I type: This isn't working.
Delete it.
Type: We need to talk.
Delete it.
Type: I can't do this.
Delete it.
I set down the phone and close my eyes. When I open them, there's a new message.
Ethan: I'm sorry about today.
My chest tightens.
Me: For what?
Ethan: For making things harder.
Me: You're not making anything harder.
The lie sits between us, we both know it's a lie.
Ethan: I should stay away from the shop.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. This is it, this is where I agree, where I let him create distance, and where I do the right thing.
Me: If that's what you want.
Ethan: It's not about what I want.
Me: Then what's it about?
The dots appear and disappear for a full minute. Finally I get a response.
Ethan: Luke.
One word, but it explains everything.
I set down the phone and stare at the ceiling. Luke trusts Ethan. Luke trusts me. Luke would never understand this thing between us that isn't supposed to exist.
My phone buzzes again.
Ethan: I meant what I said. Nothing can happen.
Me: I know.
Ethan: So we agree.
Me: We agree.
Ethan: Good.
I wait for him to say something else. He doesn't. The conversation dies there.
I should feel relieved, we've established boundaries, made a plan, and totally agreed to nothing.
Instead, I feel worse.
I get up and make tea I don't drink. I sit on the couch and stare at the wall, trying to convince myself this is manageable.
It's not manageable.
Nothing about this is manageable.
My phone is still in my hand, I look at the thread with Ethan. All our messages laid out like evidence. I start typing before I can stop myself.
Me: What if Luke didn't know?
I hit send before I can think better of it.
The regret is immediate, I watch the dots appear, disappear and appear again.
Ethan: He'd find out eventually.
Me: Not if we were careful.
Ethan: Callie.
Me: I'm just saying.
Ethan: Don't.
Me: Don't what?
Ethan: Don't make this harder than it already is.
I stare at those words. At the admission buried in them. It's already hard for him. He's struggling too.
The knowledge doesn't make me feel better. It makes everything worse.
Me: Okay.
Ethan: Okay.
Neither of us says goodnight. The conversation just stops.
I sit there with my phone, my cold tea and the weight of everything I'm not saying.
This is a problem.
A big problem.
And agreeing to nothing isn't going to solve it.