4. Bethany
Chapter four
Bethany
Ihitch the stack of microfiber cloths higher as the line at Iron Peak Coffee inches forward.
My phone is balanced precariously on top, the rental owner’s latest text still glowing across the screen.
Small problem at the cabin. Call when you can.
In landlord dialect, small problem can mean anything from a wobbly cabinet hinge to water pouring through the ceiling.
Eight in the morning is too early for problems that vague.
The phone buzzes. Caller ID shows Jenna.
I fumble it free and wedge it between my ear and shoulder. “Hello?”
"So why haven't you just asked Tim what's going on?" she says.
"Good morning to you too."
"I'm serious, Bethany. He's been weird for like two months."
Every alarm in my head goes off, the smoke-detector shriek of Jenna pushing her matchmaking plan.
I try to deflect.
"He's always weird. That's his whole personality."
"Weird weird, or Tim weird?" Jenna presses.
The old man ahead of me turns his head half an inch. Ears open for listening.
I drop my voice. “He’s fine, Jenna. He apologizes a lot and offers to carry things no one needs help carrying.”
“Exactly. That isn’t normal.”
“For Timothy, it is.”
“He’s a hockey player,” she says. “He smashes people into walls for a living.” She sounds delighted.
"Timothy is Timothy."
The espresso machine shrieks and mercifully swallows half of whatever she says next.
“What?”
“I said, did he seem nervous?”
“I saw him for four minutes, Jenna. I’m not qualified to write his biography.”
The older man nods slowly, apparently siding with me.
“How did he seem?” Jenna persists. “Tired? Sad? Distracted? Did he talk more than usual?”
“He’s your brother,” I say, flatter than intended. “Decode him yourself.”
“I have. He’s perfectly normal with me.”
“Congratulations.”
“He’s only weird around you.”
I'm not touching that trap.
The older man’s head tilts another fraction in my direction.
I switch the cloths to my other arm.
"Anyway," Jenna says, way too casual, "he's still single, you know."
"I'm aware," I say. "But that is not relevant to my morning."
"I'm just saying. He's very available right now."
“I’m trying to buy coffee, Jenna. I did not request a guided tour of your brother’s emotional availability.”
My grip tightens on the phone.
"Next order?" the barista calls, and I lurch forward.
Cloths under one arm, phone pinned to my ear, I dig for my wallet while Jenna’s voice leaks through the speaker.
“All I’m saying is, you should talk to him. He's a good guy.”
The old man’s eyebrows climb with real interest.
I consider simply dying of embarrassment, right here, at the register.
I find the loyalty card wedged behind an old receipt and slide it across the counter.
"Why is dignity always the first casualty of any conversation with you, Jenna?" I mumble before I give the barista my order.
"As I was saying," Jenna goes on, entirely unbothered, "he's steady. He remembers things. He shows up when it matters."
I open my mouth, trying to find a joke to lighten the mood.
Nothing comes out.
"Bethany?"
Nothing.
Because the stupid, inconvenient thing is, she's right. Timothy does show up when it matters. Birthdays, for one.
I still can't believe he found me in the pantry at my own birthday party. I was so upset that I told him everything, the whole ugly list. That no one wanted to be my friend. That no boy would ever notice me. That I was going to die alone, probably in a pantry.
“Bethany?”
Jenna’s voice pulls me back.
The coffee shop rushes in around me again: grinding beans, hissing steam, morning sunlight glaring against the front windows.
“What?”
“I said he’s always remembered more about you than you realize.”
My fingers tighten around the edge of the counter.
"That's a weird thing to say," I say.
"Coffee for Bethany!" the barista calls.
I grab my drink. The warmth seeps through the paper and warms my hand.
To avoid more matchmaking nonsense, I start listing chores aloud to Jenna who is still on the phone. "I've got so much lined up for today. Three repair jobs. There is a toilet paper crisis at one. And the mystery stain waiting at the rental on Elm."
"Fine, fine," Jenna laughs. "Go save the toilets." We say goodbye and she hangs up.
Outside, the morning is normal. Cars honk, a dog pulls its owner on a walk, someone laughs. None of it matches the crooked feeling in my chest.
Timothy used to be just Jenna's brother. Off-limits. Filed neatly under No Way.
And that is exactly where he needs to stay.
No matter if Jenna is circling us with glitter and bad intentions.
Or that one old promise is clearly enough to knock me sideways in public before I’ve even had coffee.