The rage sweats. #2
Folding my arms over my chest, I tip my head to the side. “Did you forget your login again?”
“I don’t need a login; I have you,” he deadpans, sifting his big, dirty fingers through the greasy strands of hair that have broken free from his man bun.
“So you forgot your login,” I reply, rolling away from the computer to allow room for his big ass body to shove in and look up whatever he needs to look up. Never mind the fact that these guys have two computers in the shop that haven’t been logged into for at least a year.
His jaw ticks, and I can see a familiar look settle onto his face: irritation.
“Look it up, Delane,” he says, digging into his pocket to produce a scrap of paper with a part number scrawled across.
“You look it up; I’m not your personal assistant, Atticus,” I say, my jaw snapping on the last letter of his name because fuck! Can’t I just have a minute to be annoyed without them needing me for something ?
“This bad attitude of yours wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with the blonde that just left here, would it?
” I can’t even get annoyed by the shitty smirk that comes over him because my brain latches onto something else.
Left here , he said. Not giving a fuck what Atticus thinks, I turn around, and yep, sure enough, Miller and the blonde are no longer out front.
When I face Atticus again, he’s still got that smirk on his face. How does Goldie tolerate this man, seriously?
“That’s what I thought,” he says, with so much satisfaction I really want to sock him. But I don’t because, thanks to Rock, I’ve met my lifetime physical violence quota.
“Shove it up your ass, Atti,” I say, yanking the piece of paper from his grubby hand. In under thirty seconds, I’ve found the item, ordered it, and told him when it’s coming in.
“Thank you, Delane,” he says, overly enunciating everything, which only gets under my skin even more. God, he’s like the annoying brother I never wanted.
Plunking back down in my chair, I face my computer and dive into my invoices, not caring if Atti is still there or if Miller is going to use that number he got, or if my EarPods are dead. All I care about are these… muffler… invoices, apparently.
And when the clock hits five, I don’t do my usual hang-around and help close-up routine. I log out of my computer, shrug into my parka, grab my purse, and head the hell out of there.
I’m off at five, and nowhere in my job contract does it say I have to go say goodbye to all of those fuckers.
Okay, Beau isn’t a fucker. Beau’s amazing.
And Miller didn’t do anything but exist as a supremely sweet, adorable, and totally fuckable guy. He didn’t put a spell on the bimbo to come drop her number off.
Atti’s still a fucker.
Ready for some quality time making dinner with mom or even some time hovering over mom’s car in the garage with Art, I come home to an empty, dark house.
The driveway is empty, so calling out is pointless, but I do it anyway. “Hello?” My keys clatter against the side table behind the couch where I drop them, shimmying my coat off and hanging it up.
Flicking on the light in the kitchen, I spot a note on the table with the basket of teabags centered on it. I slide it out and read.
Mom’s picked up an extra shift, and Art’s gone to the emergency department because his back was acting up, and he had an unbearable spell. Mara’s next door hanging out with the neighbors because she doesn’t like being home alone.
She’s like me that way. A full house with voices and noises is where I thrive.
I get my jacket back on and cut across the lawn to the house next door, using the heel of my palm to knock a few times. A moment later, Kassie, the thirteen-year-old who lives there, answers.
“Oh, hey, Delane,” she says cheerfully. “I love your hair. I know I always say that, but god, I love it,” she says, reaching out to pluck a curl from my face, wrapping it around her finger.
Normally that would totally invade my space and annoy me, but with Kassie, I know she means it only as a compliment. She’s a good kid.
“Thanks, Kas. Hey, can you tell my sister I’m home?”
She nods, but Mara appears in the hallway behind Kas, her bag slung over her shoulder. “Hey,” she says, coming forward to meet me on the porch. “Thanks, Kas.”
“Anytime,” she says, waving at us as we walk the fifteen feet back to our house.
Once inside, Mara hangs her backpack and kicks off her shoes. “I like Kas.”
I nod. “I was just thinking that.” She follows me into the kitchen, where I pull open the cabinet and survey the cupboard. Mara takes a seat at the table and reads Mom’s note.
“Have you heard from dad?” she asks, holding the paper up.
I shake my head. “No, I came home, read that note, and got you.”
On her feet, she goes to her bag, where she digs out her phone, returning to the table already texting.
Looking through the canned and boxed food, I spot an amazing-sounding option for the kind of day I’m having.
I pull the blue box out and hold it up to her, shaking its contents to get her attention.
She looks up, the phone glowing up at her. “Mac ‘n’ cheese?” I ask, shaking the box of dried pasta, She nods, so I grab the pot and fill it with water from memory.
I start the burner and set the pot over the open flame, thinking about the bomb chicken teriyaki Miller made the other night. He cooked like me—literally no measuring utensils or recipes. Just going off pure vibes, and I adore that.
I can’t believe there is a list of things Miller and I have in common, and I can’t believe that it’s growing.
“I had really good chicken teriyaki at Miller’s the other night when I was there,” I say to my younger sister, craning my neck to see if she’s still texting or if I have her attention.
“Dad got a lidocaine injection, and he’s just waiting to get discharge paperwork, but he’ll be home in an hour or two, he thinks,” she says, reading from her phone. Then she looks up at me and smiles. “I love chicken teriyaki.”
I nod and turn to the pot on the stove. “You would have liked his. It was the best I’ve had.”
“What made it the best?” she asks, taking me by surprise.
“Good question,” I reply, adding salt to the water. “He sliced the vegetables really thin, and everything was really fresh,” I decide.
“That sounds good. He’s a good cook?”
I nod, happy to be facing the stove so Mara doesn’t see the smile I can’t hide. “Seems to be.”
“What else is he good at?” she asks, tone way too teasingly for a twelve-year-old.
“Mara!” I spin to face her, hands on hips. “What does that mean?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “What do you think it means?”
From behind, I yank the slotted spoon off the countertop and wave it her way. “You’re too young to be insinuating things.” But I can’t help but smile when I face the stove again because we’re so alike. I was so curious about everything at her age, too.
Still am.
“You like Miller?” she asks, then, “he’s pretty hot.”
“Mara! You’re twelve,” I say as if she doesn’t know, but she caught me off guard. Miller is hot but my little sister telling me is kind of weirding me out.
“I’ll be thirteen in like four weeks, Lane.”
I dump the macaroni into the now boiling water and give it another stir and shake of salt. Turning, resting my tailbone on the counter, which I’m gripping, I ask, “do you really think he’s hot? ”
God, I’ve regressed to age thirteen, where just talking about your crush makes you all warm and fuzzy. I don’t care that she’s twelve (going on thirteen); if she supplies me with a hit of the good shit, I’ll take it.
“Umm, completely.” She bites her bottom lip, putting my senses on edge. Waggling her eyebrows, she asks, “do you think the carpet matches the drapes?”
I chuck the slotted spoon at the wall above her head, intentionally missing. Laughing, my cheeks burning, I cackle, “Mara! Don’t you dare say that!”
She rocks forward, palms gripping her knees as she laughs, the veins in her neck bulging and tears starting to form. The harder she laughs, the harder I laugh, and my god, Mara is old enough to know about… penises.
Did I at her age?
I did.
“Don’t say that around mom,” I warn, realizing if she’s going to admit she’s not a baby anymore; I’m the only safe audience. “How long have you known about… that stuff?” I say, choosing what I say very carefully.
“Pubes?” she asks.
I volley my head, laughing a little. “Not just pubes but, like, how long have you been aware of boys?” Now I waggle my brows. “Like, aware .”
She shrugs. “Just this year.”
I’m a little relieved at her response and return to the pasta to give it a stir. “Well, take your time with… all of it. And be friends first. Always be friends first.” That’s the best advice I can give; when I think about it, it works for her age and mine.
It’s advice my mom gave me after I dumped stupid ass Rock.
Rock was not my friend. She knew that .
“Are you and Miller friends?” she asks, genuine curiosity in her tone. I adjust the burner and watch the boiling slow.
“We are, yeah.”
We’re both quiet for a minute.
“Do you like him as more than a friend, though, like, for real?” she asks.
I don’t waste any time answering.
“Yes.”
To say the least.
Mara and I eat Kraft Mac n’ Cheese while she recounts her day to me, leaving no detail left behind. Preteens can sulk, but they can also talk like hell, too. Once we get to the bottom of the pot, scraping it clean, we wash the dishes and go our separate ways for the remainder of the evening.
In my room, I decide to charge my EarPods and listen to an audiobook on my phone.
In the privacy of my space, I don’t need earphones.
When I have my shoes off and am shuffling my way to the center of my bed, I unlock my phone and freeze to see I have one new message from Atticus. One new photo message, actually.
I fall into the pillows and click his name, preparing myself for some snarky bullshit. A photo of what, I’m not sure, but nothing would surprise me with Atticus.
The photo appears as soon as the message is open, and I take it back. I’m surprised.
In the rectangle is a waste basket. But not just any trash can. It’s the shop can at Wrench Kings, the one the guys keep near their bench where they eat and write things down.
I recognize the stamped concrete ground shining beneath and the blue liner. We have blue liners in all our cans because Beau has a partnership with an Earth-friendly company.
That’s the can at Wrench Kings, the one Miller uses.
And inside is a crumpled piece of paper .
A pink one.
Three dots wiggle and roll, and then a message comes with the photo.
Atticus
he tossed it, so quit actin like a brat
I lock my phone, turn on my side, and enjoy the warmth behind my eyes as I exhale for the first time today.