Chapter 6 #2
“No, you’re not. I agree about misspelling names. And this place is amazing,” I tell Kalli, forcing down any envious feelings. “You did a great job with my latte, by the way. Delicious. And maybe you should just embrace the foam guns. Make them your signature. Hearts are so basic.”
Kalli laughs again, wiping her hands on her apron. “I’ll take that into consideration. Great to meet you, Molly.”
A few customers trickle in, and she heads back behind the counter. I make quick work of the breakfast croissant, which is pure bliss. Another Texas truth: the food here is just better. Whether we’re talking actual restaurants, food trucks, or even a coffee shop sandwich.
My phone buzzes, and I hesitate when I see my mom’s face on the screen. I was hoping to hear from Brightmark before I talked to her again. Not like I expected them to let me know right after lunch.
But I hoped.
Without a solid update, I still have to pretend I’m coming home in a few days and not extending my quick visit to see Chase into something more long-term. Possibly permanent.
“Hey, Mom,” I say, forcing a cheerfulness I don’t feel into my voice.
“Not your mom,” my dad says.
My stomach plummets. It’s really sad when a parent can inspire almost instantaneous nausea.
I squeeze my eyes closed before sucking in a deep breath. I should have considered the patriarchal phone ambush. This isn’t the first time he’s done this, knowing I’m much more likely to answer when Mom calls.
The sound of his voice used to hit my bloodstream and immediately produce a Pavlovian response to obey. A desire to be the dutiful daughter and to fall in line rather than make waves.
But ever since I started realizing how unhealthy our dynamic is, my normal knee-jerk reaction to acquiesce is joined by an even stronger, though still fledgling, desire to say no. To stand up for myself. To establish boundaries and fortify them with steel walls.
So far, my walls are more like rice paper and my attempts to stand up for myself look more like running away.
“Hey, Daddy.” I wince, wishing I’d stuck to Dad. Daddy makes me sound like a little girl. Not a woman asserting a healthy independence.
“I wanted to talk to you about your interview.”
Instantly, my lower back starts sweating. How did he find out? Chase doesn’t even know yet—unless Harper told him after lunch. Even if my brother knows now, he barely talks to Dad.
Is my phone bugged?
I hold it away from my ear and scrutinize the screen, then the back side. As if I’d be able to spot spyware by looking at it.
“Interview?” I ask, returning the phone to my ear and attempting to sound confused.
Dad huffs. “Yes—with Matt Baker.”
“Ohhh … right. Yes.” I’m relieved—but only slightly.
He’s not talking about Brightmark, but one of several interviews he set up for me back home.
I can’t even remember what kind of business it is or for what position.
Dad has an endless list of contacts and has been trying to shove me into a job with a friend or colleague since I graduated in December.
“See? This is why running off to Texas without telling us was a bad idea. You’re so distracted that you’re not thinking about your future. This is a critical time in your life.”
The way he says critical sounds like I’m a hospital patient who might not make it through the night.
“I thought we could go over some of the questions he might ask,” Dad says.
My irritation at the way Dad’s trying to micromanage me while I’m several states away is cut by a tiny sliver of guilt.
Because he’s also trying to help. He truly thinks he is helping—setting up interviews, trying to set up dates with nice boys who are going somewhere, polishing my resume without asking me first.
Overstepping is his love language.
But it’s not mine.
And is it really love when it’s expressed through explicit control?
“This actually is not a good time. I’ve got to go—tell Mom hi. Byeloveyou.”
I say this last part all as one word, then hang up before he can object or try to convince me this is actually a good time.
I turn my phone over in my hands. Though I know logically Dad didn’t bug my phone and doesn’t seem to know about my interview with Brightmark, the quick conversation leaves me with a sense of paranoia and unease.
Speaking of unease, I wonder how Collin’s talk with his family is going. If I had his phone number, I’d text him to ask.
But I don’t have his number.
I also don’t have answers about the job.
I don’t know for certain if Collin and I are really going to continue our ruse—at least, publicly—and how it will work.
I don’t even know when Chase, Harper, and I are leaving Sheet Cake to head back to Austin.
We drove in late last night, and I think we’re heading back to Austin the day after tomorrow?
But I don’t even know that for sure because Chase made our travel plans.
At least I’ve got a caramel latte.
Correction—had a caramel latte. I’ve been nervously chugging and now it’s down to the last sip.
Awesome, I think, just as the coffee shop door swings open.
As though to prove Kalli’s earlier point about the quirkiness of Sheet Cake, a man who looks to be in his mid-thirties strides into the building, and I have to almost immediately avert my eyes.
Because he’s wearing a tank top paired with chaps over what looks like a tiny bathing suit.
I remember seeing him earlier today in the festival parking area when I was leaving with Collin. Kind of hard to forget this kind of outfit.
“Kalli, my love,” the man says, spreading his arms wide. “I come in search of caffeine.”
“And maybe a pair of pants?” she suggests. “Unfortunately, we don’t sell clothing, Wolf. Just coffee.”
The man does a little shimmy and spin, and I did not need to see the chaps and speedo combo from the back. Not that he’s got terrible legs or anything, but it feels wrong to see so much pale skin in a coffee shop.
It really is a SMALL bathing suit—featuring the Texas flag across the buttocks.
Because of course it does.
“There’s plenty of yardage here. I’ll have you know that these chaps cover more of my legs than most shorts,” he says.
“It’s not about the yardage. It’s about what they’re covering up. Or not covering up,” Kalli says. “You can order and pay, but you’ll have to wait outside. I’ll bring you your drink. Customers need actual pants in the store.”
“It’s not on the sign,” the man says, pointing to a hand-lettered chalkboard sign by the door.
I’m not sure how I missed it on the way in. Clearly, rules have been added in stages.
It starts out with the normal things you might expect in a coffee shop or business: No shoes, no shirt, no service and Only licensed service animals. But then … it takes a turn. The next handful are so specific, it’s hard to imagine they weren’t inspired by actual events.
No handguns, shotguns, rifles, or any other kind of gun including nerf, potato, water, and glue guns.
No possums (even ones pretending to be cats). Not even on a leash.
No dancing on tables.
No dancing on the counter.
***Please don’t make me go Footloose and ban all dancing.***
No outside alcohol may be consumed (or added to your order).
No spontaneous singing, especially of musicals, especially of High School Musical.
No streaking.
I snort at the last one. This guy’s outfit comes pretty close to violating that one.
Kalli sighs. “I guess I’ll have to add a rule about chaps needing to be worn over actual pants. You do realize this will make three rules added specifically because of you, Wolf.”
“But no one’s even here!” He looks around, and his eyes brighten when they land on me. “Pardon me—I stand corrected. You’ve got one customer. I will wait outside—in a minute.”
I find myself straightening in my seat as the man strides over, chaps flapping. I hadn’t even noticed the carefully coiffed mustache, curling up at the ends. Probably because I was distracted by his clothing. Or lack thereof.
“Wolf Waters,” he says, holding out his hand. I glance at Kalli who rolls her eyes and nods as though signaling he’s odd but harmless. “Did I see you earlier with Collin Graham?”
Neither his tone nor his handshake are flirty—just friendly—which puts me a little more at ease, his wardrobe choices aside.
I do my best to keep my eyes on his face. “You did.”
“Collin Graham is good people,” he says. “About time his luck turned around.”
I wonder what that means.
“Where is Collin?” Wolf says, glancing around like he expects to find Collin hiding under a table.
“I don’t know.”
When Wolf arches a brow, I realize that not knowing Collin’s whereabouts doesn’t sound very girlfriendy. But does Wolf even think Collin and I are together? He seems to. And I guess he’ll need to.
Before we parted ways Collin and I really should have talked about more than just the fact that we’d come clean to our families.
“I mean, I think he’s with his brothers right now,” I add quickly. “I just don’t know where, specifically.”
And without his phone number, I can’t find out. Considering the complicated things we need to discuss, not getting his number was a definite oversight. Especially now that regret and panic are setting in about the whole fake boyfriend thing.
What was I thinking?!?!
All I know is that I miss him. Which is totally ridiculous given the limited amount of time we’ve spent together. Does this afternoon somehow count as trauma bonding or something? Because I feel like I’m in Collin Graham withdrawal, and my head is less clear than it was before I left him.
“You know,” Wolf says, stroking his mustache like a cartoon villain. The twinkle in his eye—and the chaps—make it funny, not threatening. I’m not sure how much wax or product he has in his mustache, but it doesn’t lose shape as he touches it. “I’m headed to my bar now, if you want to hitch a lift.”
“You want to take me to your bar?” I know I sound dubious—and I am—but I’m equally intrigued. I didn’t ask so I wouldn’t appear rude, but this guy owns a bar?
Wolf studies me. “You and Collin must be a very new thing.”
“We … are. I mean, we’ve been mostly long-distance. Until now.” I wish I could call upon my acting skills to save me from my fumbling. If I can pretend to be a whole other person, I should be able to lie better.
But as today has proved, my lies are just shovels digging a deeper hole for me to fall into.
“Well, the Grahams just so happen to spend a lot of time at my bar. You might just find them there.”
I shouldn’t be considering this offer. Not when it comes from a stranger wearing chaps and little else.
Though it wouldn’t be the first time this week I’ve gotten in the car with a stranger. Or a man I thought was a stranger.
I’m not picking up either I’m a serial killer or I’m interested vibes from Wolf. More like I’m just your average friendly neighborhood small-town weirdo vibes. But still.
Then again, Collin might be there …
The idea is suddenly very appealing.
“Kalli will vouch for me,” Wolf says.
I glance over at Kalli, who smiles reassuringly. “Wolf is safe. Despite his crimes against fashion.”
“See?” Wolf puts his hands on his hips, which somehow manages to make what he’s wearing look even less appropriate. I drop my gaze to the dregs of my latte, wishing I’d ordered a larger size.
“While she’s making up her mind, I meant what I said,” Kalli says. “Wait outside.” She points to the door, and Wolf hangs his head, shuffling outside.
“Think about it,” Wolf says as he slips outside. I nod, though I can’t look at him. I’ve seen enough of his thighs. “You haven’t really been to Sheet Cake until you’ve been to Backwoods Bar.”
Once the door closes behind him, I glance over at Kalli. “Why do I both feel like I need to go and also like I should definitely not go?”
She laughs. “Wolf is a character. But he is a decent man, and he’s right that the Grahams often hang out at Backwoods Bar. Well—there and at Dark Horse, James’s brewery. How do you know Collin?”
I decide to skip right over the boyfriend thing for now. “His sister is married to my brother.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh! You’re Chase’s sister? Cool. He and Harper come in sometimes when they’re in town.” She grins. “They’re adorable.”
I shouldn’t be surprised that people in this small town really do all know each other—and the Grahams. If anything has become clear to me, it’s that the Grahams are Sheet Cake royalty.
“They are. Disgustingly so.”
Kalli laughs. “Wolf’s coffee is ready if you’re considering his offer. You would be safe with him and at his bar—I promise. Despite all the theatrics and his pantslessness, he’s a gentleman.”
I hesitate. “I don’t know …”
“No pressure,” Kalli adds. “I can get you a refill on the house to go if you’d like. I close in an hour, but you’re welcome to stay until then. Until I get a few more employees, I’m only open mornings and afternoons,” she explains.
For a moment, I waver. Stay here alone. Or take a ride to a bar with a man confident enough to walk around in the world wearing chaps over a Speedo.
I could just stay here and drink another caramel latte alone while waiting until it feels safe to go back to the loft. Or I could make yet another choice that’s out of my comfort zone.
Making a decision I hope I don’t regret later, I stand up. “I’ll take that to-go cup.”