Chapter 20
20
Kieran
Lila hurried in from the back, pulling her hair into a ponytail. “What do we have left to do?” She tugged an apron off the hook and began tying it around her waist. “Sybil still here? Do you need a few more minutes to make use of the office?”
“Shut up,” I grumbled, studying the list. “She left, but she’s going to join us tomorrow.” I’d begrudgingly agreed to Sybil’s plan to help the next day, only there wasn’t a lot of actual grudging if I was being honest with myself.
Lila didn’t respond, and when I looked up, she was moving her hand in a circle, waiting for me to continue. “Oh?”
“She thought we should be seen together. As you so aptly pointed out, we looked unimpressive when her parents stopped by,” I said, pointing to the back, where we had been preparing earlier, but we still had a long night ahead.
Lila followed me to the back of the shop. “And you’re okay with this?”
“I guess.” I pulled the rack from the proofing oven and set it on the counter near the fryer. “It makes sense. And I don’t want Granddad out there for the whole day.”
“You say that, but you hate working the festival, and really anything related to peopling. It’s actually shocking to me that you think you’ll enjoy talking to patients one day. I can’t imagine you agreeing to put on a romantic show on top of that.”
“I don’t hate people,” I said, nudging my sister out of the way.
“No. Just interacting with them.”
“The only thing I hate is small talk.” There was nothing worse than talking about the weather repeatedly while someone searched for a five-dollar bill in their wallet or couldn’t get the chip on their card to read. Do they think their thoughts on humidity make the technology work faster?
“Hate to break it to you, but that’s peopling.” I took an elbow from Lila at that as she pushed me out of the way to gather bags of coffee cups to take with us in the morning. “But it will be nice to have another set of hands to help.” Lila handed me an armful of sleeves so I could take them to the van. “And she’s right—it might get more people to stop by the stand. I’ll post something on Instagram in the morning.”
I grumbled again but let it go, and we worked mostly in silence gathering the rest of the supplies, not needing to say much as we worked side by side. Running Joe’s was never my plan, but I’d grown up in this kitchen, and there was a comfort to the normal rhythm of it. Every tool, every recipe, every corner of the shop felt pulled from my DNA, and with Lila humming along next to me, her earbuds in and our movements around each other so cohesive they felt choreographed, I was free to let my mind wander. It wandered where it always did these days, and I pictured the look of shock and horror on Sybil’s face when the bowl of strawberry frosting had toppled to the floor, splattering everywhere. With her eyes wide and her lips forming an O, my first reaction had been to pull her to me and kiss that O away, telling her it was okay. I’d imagined how she’d feel in my arms and the sweet way she’d look at me when we cleaned it together. I’d ignored that instinct, though, and asked her to just go out front while I cleaned. I was learning I was safer being annoyed with Sybil than enamored of her, and I kept bringing myself back to that as we worked.
Lila planned to start making donuts while I got a few hours of sleep, and I climbed the stairs to Granddad’s place. The apartment above the shop was small, but the familiarity of my cramped space always felt right after a long day. Peeling off my clothes and tossing them into the hamper, I walked toward the shower. I wanted to wash off the smell of the shop, even though it never fully disappeared, but I also wanted Sybil’s scent off me. The hot water beat down, and I’d intended to go through the checklist in my head one more time to make sure we were prepared for the food festival, but Sybil’s grin and the way her curls brushed her shoulder kept sneaking back into my head. I remembered how those curls felt when my fingers moved through them, and I imagined her sitting in the chair, legs gloriously spread for me, and gave myself permission to forget my smart plan to deny my attraction to her while I was under the spray.
My hand slipped lower to stroke my dick, hard at the memory, her scent still living in my head along with how she’d mewled when I kissed her, the way she’d melted under my touch. That I’d been able to do that to her had my hand moving faster, the bodywash making the slide of my palm mimic what I imagined she’d feel like—hot and slick.
And I remembered her gasps and how her stomach tightened right before she came. The water beat down on my shoulders and I gave in, imagining what might have happened next, imagined earning that wide-eyed playful expression when I slid into her, when she was pinned under me. Imagining how good it would be between us if I let myself lose control.
I shuddered at my release, spilling over my hand. I rolled my head from side to side. “Fuck,” I muttered, rinsing my hand under the spray. I’d stopped myself from imagining that more times than I could count the last week, forcing my mind to forget her and let this attraction go, but now that I’d given in to the memories, they kept circling. If I was honest, they’d never stopped.
I cursed myself again and shut off the water, wrapping a towel around my waist before walking the short distance into the bedroom.
My phone sat on the bed where I’d tossed it, and two notifications flashed. A voicemail from my best friend in Texas and a text message from Sybil. I hit play on the voicemail and pulled a pair of boxer shorts from my dresser.
“Hey, man. It’s been forever!” I hadn’t heard Miles’s voice in over a year, though we’d exchanged a few texts. We’d lost touch the way you do when you no longer have anything in common day to day. “Sorry I didn’t call, but third year has been kicking my ass. Clinical rotations are no joke, but it’s amazing. You wouldn’t believe how real shit gets. I got to scrub in to observe a coronary artery bypass. Man, I was, like, in there! All I was doing was holding a retractor, but I was in there!” He sounded the same, and I missed drinking a beer with him after class and complaining and imagining being done with school and practicing medicine. “Anyway, we are going to have a room in our apartment next year. Philips is dropping out. Are you coming back? Spot is yours if so, we just need to know by end of March. We miss you, man!”
The message ended, and I pulled a T-shirt over my head. I’d missed year three with my cohort, the year we went from the classroom to hospitals and clinics. Everyone said we’d love it or hate it because of the hands-on experience and the harried pace, plus the constant expectation to learn more as we explored specialties. There was a hollow sensation in my chest at knowing I’d missed it all, missed the next step. My class had been moving forward while I was standing still. The letter from the school was on my nightstand like a ticking clock for making the decision. I read it over and set it down before climbing into bed. I had every word and every digit of the amount due memorized anyway.
I’d be a year behind my cohort, but I’d do my own rotations and be back on my way toward graduation, residency, and my future. A future that would include financial stability and the opportunity to fix things like that doctor years ago had done for us. I didn’t blame anyone for my decision to come home—I owed Granddad and Grandma Rosie everything, but lately I’d been disconnected from myself. Needing to be a doctor, to reach the goal I’d set for myself when I put the pieces together of my role in our family, was all I’d worked for, and without it, I was floundering. I just had to let this thing with Sybil take its course, and if I could keep reminding myself her constant energy and the dimples that popped on her cheeks when she smiled were annoying and not sexy as hell, I’d be fine. I tapped on her text message before setting my phone aside.
Sybil: Alarm is set.
Sybil: See you in the morning.
Sybil:
My thumb hovered over the message, touching the screen the way I wanted to touch her. I pictured the way her tongue was probably peeking out between her teeth because she thought she was embarrassing me or annoying me with the emojis. I navigated to the menu, toying with the idea of sending one back, of sending something that might make her smile in that way that made her dimple pop on her cheek. I selected the same icon she’d used and typed Sweet dreams, beautiful.
“What am I doing?” I held down the delete key until the regrettable reply was gone. This was exactly the kind of thing I needed to avoid. I sent a thumbs-up and tossed my phone aside, vowing to keep myself in a thumbs-up headspace the next day. There was no room for kissing-face emojis.