Chapter 17
WILSON’S OFFICE LOOKS LIKE a war zone. There is a basket on his desk and three thrown in the corner. Crinkled-up tissue paper is littered all over the floor, and there are so many things covering his desk that the wood is barely visible.
Wilson matches the dishevelment, too. The top two buttons on his shirt are undone, and his hair sticks up at fifteen different angles. His eyes are red, and the skin beneath them puffs out, like he’s rubbed that spot one too many times. Seeing him look so off in the space where he’s normally the most put together feels strange. I catch myself doing a double, triple take.
“Four baskets?” I ask, picking up a white one that looks like it once belonged to the Easter Bunny.
“I couldn’t decide which was best, so I bought them all,” he says, sinking into the desk chair like a defeated man. “ Why are there so many different types of basket? What do people do with these?”
It’s so ridiculously innocent, I can’t help but laugh. “Use them for decor,” I say. “Fill them with blankets, pillows, pet toys, anything.”
“Well, they need to be banned,” he says very quickly, like this is a conclusion he arrived at hours ago.
“If you say so.” I grab one of the discarded baskets from the floor and sit in the chair opposite his. “First, let’s declutter your desk. Which of these aren’t going in the basket?”
Wilson picks up some things—candy packets, a tube of lip gloss, some sort of stuffed-animal key chain—and I shove them all into the basket. I grab a candle that seems to have dropped on the floor and broken, probably what I heard when we were on the phone.
“What about this?”
He glares at it, as if this candle personally offended him. “No.”
Without asking further questions, I add it to the pile of items that didn’t make the cut. A familiar gold hue catches my eye. I lift up the Twix bar, which was half buried beneath a pink bow. “What about this?”
Wilson dismisses it. “Oh, I got that for you.”
I freeze, my eyes flicking up to his. “You what?”
“I got that for you,” he says again, casually. “You eat like, one a day, Jackie. I’m very aware how quickly our Twix stock runs out—and the reasons behind it.”
“I...” I trail off, unable to form a single thought. My brain is stuck on Wilson’s not only knowing what my favorite chocolate bar is, but getting me one and having it on hand.
He plows ahead before I can catch up. He turns the computer screen toward me. I snap out of my daze and see a YouTube video pulled up, with a smiling elderly woman and a beautifully wrapped gift basket as the thumbnail. It’s titled Assembling the Perfect Gift Basket: A How-To Guide.
“That’s the woman you were cursing? Look at her sweet smile, Wilson. She only wants to help you,” I tease.
He quickly shuts down the computer. “She’s done enough damage. Now—what do we do?”
The brown basket Wilson chose sits atop his desk. A bunch of miscellaneous items are thrown in haphazardly, a few of them standing upright, lending me to believe that maybe, at one point, they all were. But there’s a big step Wilson missed and, if we were to watch the video, I can almost guarantee it would be step number one.
“You need to stuff the basket so everything inside of it is elevated. That way, you can actually see what’s in the basket without having to dig inside,” I explain.
Wilson sits up straight and begins to empty the basket. “What do I stuff it with?” he says slowly, like he’s beginning to catch on to his error.
“I don’t know. Maybe the five hundred sheets of tissue paper on the floor?”
For the next few minutes we gather all the crumpled-up paper. The thought of Wilson entering into a battle with paper and somehow losing makes me laugh the entire time.
“Stop that,” he warns, shooting me a look. We’re both crouched on the floor, paper in hand.
I reach for a piece that’s white with rainbow sparkles. “I didn’t say anything.”
“I can practically hear you making fun of me in your head.”
“If you don’t want to feel left out,” I say, standing upright, “I can make fun of you out loud.”
“That’s actually worse, but thanks,” he says sarcastically.
When we have gathered up all the discarded paper, I ask Wilson to sit, so he is out of my way, and I get to work. It really isn’t that difficult—I stuff the paper in the basket until it nearly hits the rim; it’ll boost up all the items and provide a sturdy base for them to rest on, so nothing is falling over.
“Ta- da ,” I say, presenting the basket to Wilson.
He has this shocked look on his face, like I just solved some impossible riddle that has stumped humanity for centuries. “Thanks,” he says, gently holding it with both hands. I see something like relief flash across his face. “What now?”
“Now just... add whatever you want on top.”
Wilson nods slowly, his eyes raking over the items left on the desk. When he reaches for a tiny Starbucks gift card, I swat his hand away.
“Big items first,” I advise. “Big items at the back, and smaller items go in the front so they don’t get blocked.” I resist the urge to tack on a duh at the end of that sentence.
“Oh,” he says with something like embarrassment.
I take a seat, cracking open the Twix bar as he places a baby pink teddy bear in the basket. The chocolate is a tiny bit melted—probably from being at the bottom of that pile for hours—but it doesn’t stop me from happily munching away.
Munching away on the chocolate bar. That Wilson bought for me. As a surprise. Because he somehow remembered a tiny detail about me that I guarantee my family doesn’t know.
“For the record,” I say between bites, “I don’t eat that many of these.”
Wilson doesn’t look at me when he speaks, his eyes trained on his hands like he’s performing brain surgery. “I’ve seen you eat one a day for weeks.”
Well I didn’t realize you were watching me so closely. “Fine,” I say. “Then let’s turn the mirror and talk about you . For starters, your obsession with that shirt.”
He blinks. In a split second, his eyes are heavy on mine. “What?”
“You wear a white button-up shirt to work every single day. Why is that?” I dig into the wrapper, searching for the second bar, which is why I’m too distracted to see the way his face changes. When I finally glance up, the concentration is gone. Wilson leans back against the chair, his eyes far away.
“My dad always wore one to work,” he says.
Perhaps it’s because I’m terrible at picking up on social cues, or possibly because I don’t know Wilson well enough to pick up on his, but I ask anyway. “Where did he work?”
I realize far too late, it’s a ridiculous question.
“Here,” answers Wilson. “He was the manager before Monte Jr. started.”
I grab a bag of assorted sour gummies and place them in the back of the basket beside the teddy bear. “Why’d he quit?” I ask, genuinely curious. I’m not too well-versed in the history of Monte’s.
“He died,” Wilson says quietly.
The gummies fall from my hand, knocking the teddy bear right over and taking the entire basket down with it. “Shit. Sorry.” I bend over, picking everything off the floor and placing them back on the desk with the coordination of a one-handed baby.
“Here.” Wilson takes over, fixing the basket and continuing to load it with all the items he picked out.
I sit there dumbfounded, having had no idea that his father passed away.
Unsure what to say, I opt for silence.
But it stretches on too long, so I desperately search for a way to fill it.
“When he worked here,” I begin carefully, like I’m treading water, “he wore that shirt every day?”
The smallest of smiles lights up his typically stoic face. “Not this exact one. That’d be weird. But yeah, wearing a nicer shirt to Monte’s was this thing my dad always did. He used to say you should always present yourself at your best, no matter the situation.”
I’m hit with something that feels deeply like shame. I spent months mocking Wilson’s shirts, his khakis, the way he always came into work looking a little too polished. Now, learning the reasoning behind it, I’ve never felt like a bigger jerk.
Wilson continues. “When I started working here, I decided I wanted to honor him. It’s a small thing, but— I don’t know. It felt right.”
Within seconds, the puzzle of Wilson’s life begins to click into place. Him always taking this job a bit more seriously than the rest of us. The way he left school to be here for his uncle. How, without hesitation, he stepped into the exact role his father used to fill. All the sharp, jagged edges of Wilson begin to come into focus, like I’ve rubbed my eyes and can see clearly through the fog.
Wilson rolls his eyes. “Please don’t look at me like that.”
I nearly choke on my own saliva. “Like what?”
“With the dead-dad pity. There’s a reason I don’t tell anyone.” The basket is nearly full. He props the Starbucks gift card against the teddy bear’s leg.
“It’s not pity,” I say honestly.
His eyes pin mine. “Then what is it?”
“I...” Maybe it’s understanding? Sadness? Guilt? The regret that I should have acted differently? “I don’t know” is what I settle on.
“Why are you telling me all this?” I ask a second later. “We aren’t exactly known for having deep chats.”
“I’m telling you because you asked,” he says easily, “and a lot of people don’t. Most think the subject is forbidden. But it’s sort of the opposite. I want to talk about him. Actually, I wish people asked about him more.”
“Does Kenzie ask?” The question is out there before I’m entirely sure of my reasoning behind it.
At that, he pauses. “No. She doesn’t.” The tone draws a clear line in the sand. This, on the other hand, is off topic.
“So Monte Jr.’s illness brought you here?” I ask, having a feeling that I know the answer already.
“It did. But I would have made my way back here eventually. The plan was to graduate from business school, then take over Monte’s, figure out a way to grow it, expand. Put a Monte’s Magic Castle in every state. But when my uncle got sick, I had to cut some corners. I ended up back home a lot quicker than I expected.”
He put his life on hold, uprooted his relationship, to show up for his family. To sink his feet into the footsteps that were right here waiting for him.
“Wow,” I breathe.
The finished basket sits untouched between us.
“Does anyone here know about your dad?” I ask. I’m assuming they don’t, or we’d have acted a lot differently.
Wilson shrugs. “It’s not a secret. There’s a paper in the break room that outlines all the old managers at Monte’s. I don’t think anyone cares enough to read it.” Or to ask, is what he doesn’t say.
“Maybe you should tell them,” I say, picking at a thread in my leggings.
At that, he chuckles. “I don’t need to guilt people into liking me, Jackie.”
It still catches me by surprise every time Wilson calls me by my real name.
“The people here... like you,” I lie. I can’t even say it with a straight face. Before the sentence is out, I’m laughing.
I look up to find Wilson smiling, too.
“You do realize my office shares a wall with the break room,” he says, informing me for the first time of that very important fact. He must see the look of embarrassment on my face, because he adds, “Yeah. I hear everything that’s said about me.”
“We all really loved the TV in the break room,” I offer.
“Kenzie’s idea,” he says, his expression turning solemn at the mention of her. “Look. I know everyone thinks I’m uptight. Or a tyrant, or whatever it is you all want to say. But—but I’m carrying a generations-long legacy on my shoulders. So if I’m a little too strict, it’s because I’m...” He takes a moment to let out a breath. “Well, I guess it’s because I’m afraid of letting everyone down.”
It’s quite jarring, the sudden urge I have to hold Wilson’s hand and tell him everything will be okay.
“You’re doing a good job,” I say, surprised to find I genuinely mean it.
Wilson gives me this incredulous face. “I missed a few days of work and left my family business in your hands.”
“Hey, these are great hands,” I say, holding up my palms. “And you had a good reason for it.”
“I could be doing a better job,” says Wilson.
“Sure, you can ease up and not lose your shit if we go two minutes over our break—”
“It’s more like fifteen minutes,” he cuts in.
I glare, as if to say, See? This is what I mean. “But this place is still open. And I can say confidently that if it was up to anyone else to run Monte’s, this place would be shut down the very first day. So cut yourself some slack. You’re doing a decent job at least.”
Under the table, Wilson’s foot knocks into mine. “Thanks, Froggy.”
For some reason, when Wilson says it this time, I don’t mind it as much.
“Shall we finish up this ‘godforsaken basket’? I believe that’s what you called it?”
“Please,” he says.
We get to work. I place a giant piece of translucent silver wrapping paper on the desk, and we fold up all the corners and wrap the basket. I tie a pretty decent bow around it, and Wilson sticks on a little tag that says To: Kenz. From: Wilson.
When all is said and done, we did a pretty good job.
We stand side by side, admiring our work propped up on the desk.
“It looks better than Mildred’s basket,” he says.
“Who?”
Wilson clarifies with a laugh. “The woman in the YouTube video.”
“Of course her name is Mildred.”
When we finish, I make no move to help Wilson clean up our mess—after all, I can only show him so much kindness at once—and we walk out of Monte’s together. When I spot Suzy’s car still waiting in the parking lot, I breathe a sigh of relief.
“When are you giving Kenzie the basket?” I ask as Wilson locks the door.
He frowns at his watch. “I was planning on stopping by her house tonight, but it’s too late now. Probably tomorrow.”
“If you need some emotional support, I don’t mind tagging along.” The words have left my mouth before I’ve fully decided to say them.
Wilson blinks down at me, like they’ve surprised him, too. “Yeah. Maybe. Thanks.”
“And hey—when you give her the basket, don’t be a weirdo about it.”
Wilson looks amused. “What does that mean?”
“Like, don’t hand her the basket, then drop to your knees, begging for forgiveness. This is supposed to be a nice gesture, something that lets her know you miss her and are thinking of her. Got it? Don’t scare her away before we’ve fully gotten started.”
The words burn going out. I try not to think about why.
“Got it. I won’t be a weirdo.” He says weirdo like it’s our own private joke.
We stand in the parking lot together, both looking everywhere but at each other’s eyes. It feels different now. Like the dynamic between us has shifted. I’m not entirely certain just yet what that means, but I don’t exactly hate this new feeling in my chest.
“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, kicking at the ground.
“See you,” I say, waving before heading off to Suzy’s car. I dare to risk a glance back. When I do, I find Wilson halfway to his car, staring back at me. I look away shyly, tugging open the passenger door and hopping inside.
In the silence, I let out a shaky breath.
“Well.” Suzy’s voice startles me so badly I shriek. I turn to her and find the camera still in her hand. It dawns on me that she got that entire moment on video.
“Well, what?” I ask, pretending to be casual. If you looked under my shirt, you’d see the faint outline of my heart beating through my chest.
Suzy pops the lens cap on the camera, setting it on her lap. “Well, I finally figured out what your documentary is missing.”
I look out the window. I can see Wilson sitting in his car, the soft glow from the dashboard illuminating him.
“And what’s that?” I ask, keeping my eyes on his face.
“A little romance.”