18. Bethany
Chapter eighteen
Bethany
The lodge kitchen is quiet. It's half an hour before curfew, and I'm racing against the clock to get in and out without breaking any rules.
I am only supposed to be here long enough to check the supply shelves, update tomorrow’s order, and leave before one of the guys discovers I am still on the property and gives me another emergency.
Trash bags. Paper towels. Dishwasher tablets.
I write the date at the top of the inventory sheet.
Then I stare at it.
My birthday is next month.
My twenty-fourth birthday.
For years, twenty-four was just a distant age attached to a ridiculous promise made by a teenage boy in a pantry. It belonged to some future version of me I never had to think about too closely.
Now it is less than four weeks away.
I glance toward the pantry door.
It is a different kitchen in a different house, but the memory slips in with me anyway.
I pull the door open and step inside.
I stretch toward the package of napkins on the top shelf.
The shelves are different. The light is brighter.
But for one second, I am thirteen again, sitting on the floor and pretending I do not care that no one came. And Timothy is beside me, promising that if boys are still too stupid to choose me by the time I turn twenty-four, he will marry me himself.
A floorboard creaks behind me.
“You planning to reorganize the pantry?”
Timothy stands in the doorway, one shoulder against the frame.
I turn so quickly I nearly take out a shelf with my skull.
He looks like he has been standing there a while.
My hand flies to my ponytail, as though rearranging it might restore some portion of my dignity.
"I'm inventorying," I say.
He raises an eyebrow. Unconvinced. Infuriatingly calm about it.
Best defense, offense.
"Are you lost, or do you just orbit snacks and shelves like it's a hobby?" I ask.
I wish I could reach out and physically pull that sentence back into my mouth.
His mouth does the almost-smile thing. The one that isn't fair to anyone.
He glances at the box of napkins stranded on the top shelf. The one I was reaching for before he interrupted me.
“You need those?”
Before I can answer, he reaches past me. The little room shrinks by half. When he pulls back, he has the napkins in hand.
He gives them to me.
"Yes. Thank you," I say.
I gesture toward the shelves.
“I'm just glad snack patrol is not part of the maintenance contract. You people go through protein bars like they grow on trees.”
He does not laugh.
“Too bad. You’d be good at it.” His gaze settles on me. “You notice everything. What’s missing. What needs fixing. What everyone else forgets.”
My fingers tap against the clipboard. "You're low on paper towels," I announce.
He smiles again, and my eyes catch on his mouth before drifting lower to the movement of his throat. When he crosses his arms, his t-shirt pulls across his shoulders.
I drag my attention back to his face.
He doesn't rush to fill the quiet.
Internally I start listing every reason this is a terrible idea.
Item one: his sister. Item two: workplace liability. Item somewhere in between: he looks at me like I am the only person in the kitchen.
“You remember that birthday party, don’t you?” I ask.
He glances at the pantry behind me. “Yeah.”
“All of it?”
“More than you probably want me to.”
“Look, you don’t have to keep whatever promise you made,” I say. “We were both young, and I know you didn’t mean it like—”
“I remember the promise,” he says. “But that isn’t the part I was thinking about.”
My grip tightens around the clipboard. “Then what is?”
“You.”
The word lands softly between us.
“You were sitting on that pantry floor trying to convince everyone you were fine.” His gaze stays on mine. “I hated that nobody had shown up for you.”
I swallow. “You did.”
“I’d show up now too.”
I tighten my grip on the clipboard.
I should look away.
He takes one step closer. Unhurried. Giving me every chance to move.
"Why?" I ask.
The pantry light hums overhead. Or maybe that's just my heartbeat.
"Because I like you."
His hand hovers near my jaw, not quite touching, asking a question without a single word.
I lean in, just slightly. Enough that gravity could take the blame if anyone asked.
My phone buzzes against the counter, loud and merciless, and cracks the moment clean in half.
Jenna's name lights up the screen.
I step back so fast I nearly knock over the napkin box he just handed me.
"Inventory," I mumble, gesturing wildly.
Timothy lowers his hand.
For one second, disappointment shows plainly on his face. Then he steps back and gives me space.
"Good night, Bethany." His voice is low and gravely now.
I busy myself with the trash bags and the napkin count.
"Good night, Timothy."
I stare at the napkin count until the numbers blur.
Jenna’s call interrupted us. Fear made me step away.
Because if the phone had stayed silent for another ten seconds, Timothy would have kissed me.
And I would have kissed him back.