Chapter 1 – GLENNA #2
I got to stand in the middle of a sea of plastic rolling tables, holding a Styrofoam tray, wearing a pad from the school nurse, the adhesive working just well enough to stick to my pubes, but not well enough to stick to my panties, while the whole school laughed at me.
I dropped the tray and ran. They had to send Mr. Ailes, the only guidance counselor available, into the girl’s bathroom to coax me out of a stall.
For bonus points, Toby made a big deal of confronting Cash later that day in the middle of gym class—not for trying to poach his girlfriend—but for making me the butt of a joke when I was clearly suffering from anxiety and depression.
Classic villain move—by both guys, now that I think about it.
That’s the thing about living in a small town. Your worst high school memory just hangs out at your place of work, wearing the exact same cologne he did on the day of your greatest public humiliation.
On the bright side, the burn of the epic embarrassment has mostly worn off from repeated exposure.
I finish with the quiches and schlep the tray of wrapped dishes to the back.
I take my time storing them in the fridge.
Usually, the shop starts clearing out around now.
We get another, smaller rush at midday and another when people get off work, but we generally only have full tables in the morning.
I bet people aren’t leaving because Cash is here. They all want a chance to shoot the shit with him, talk about hunting season. Flirt. Ask him about his truck and his folks and whether or not he thinks Stonecut will go to state this year.
People like him. He makes them laugh. I’ve never understood why. His jokes are bad.
The front room is livelier right now than it has been in weeks, and it’s making my anxiety spike. I like a chill and quiet coffeehouse. That’s a crowd who’s one hundred percent less likely to bring up Del Willis.
I smooth my damp palms on my apron and tie my hair back with a black band. I know I don’t have anything to actually worry about. People were mad when the Del Willis article came out—a lot of folks boycotted the shop and cancelled their subscription to the newspaper—but it’s blown over now.
Except for the Willises and a few of their closer friends, everyone has come back to Peace, Love, & Beans. We’re the only game in town if you don’t want convenience store coffee. I haven’t been asked “where I get off” or “how dare I” in months.
Some people still make remarks, call me “Woodward and Bernstein,” which I had to look up on Wikipedia. I can handle that, though. Cash Wall has been calling me names since I was thirteen.
He called me “Ferdinand” when I got my nose pierced. “Nut muncher” when he heard I was eating vegan. In gym class, whenever I dropped a ball, he’d clap and say, “Good job, Glen Davis.” I guess that’s an insult, but I never bothered to search it up on the internet.
Anyway, I don’t need to be jumpy because everyone’s chatting and enjoying themselves.
This is good. For a little while, Dad was talking about shutting down the shop to focus on saving the paper.
His angina was really acting up, and my insomnia got crazy bad.
He hasn’t mentioned scaling back for a while now. Disaster narrowly averted.
I try to make my face pleasant—according to Toby, I’m a default frowner, and it takes less energy to smile—and I head back out front.
Cash is standing by a front table, talking to Gary and Jim Ellwood.
His eyes find me the instant I come through the doorway.
My stomach goes bloop. Kind of like when you go over a bump at high speed on a country road.
Kinda like when you’re gonna puke.
“Glenna, this coffee is hella weak,” he hollers across the room.
Conversation screeches to a halt, and all the eyes turn to me. My face flames, and I can feel it crumpling into a combination of a forced smile and sheer panic. I’ve caught the look in my reflection before. It looks like I’m stroking out.
I hate public attention. It’s my kryptonite. I have lots of kryptonites.
I’m frozen.
Where’s Toby?
Oh. He’s slouching against the counter, dishrag jauntily slung over his shoulder. He widens his eyes at me like “well, what are you gonna do about it?” Then he looks down at his phone. No help coming from that direction.
“Do you want another cup?” I ask.
“Why would I want two cups of weak coffee?”
“Mine was fine,” Sue Acheson says, shooting a smile at Toby. “Delicious.”
“Do you want a refund?” I’m aware I sound snippy. I’m incapable of faking a good customer service tone of voice, but I am aware. Awareness counts for nothing. Sue and Bob Acheson exchange glances. I can feel the Yelp review.
Everyone is staring at me, and this is Stonecut County, so I know every single person in this place.
There’s my first-grade teacher Mrs. Fox sitting with my sixth-grade math teacher Mrs. Myers.
There’s Amy the dental hygienist who cleans my teeth next to her husband Doug who used to pump out the sewage tank at my grandparents’ place before they passed.
There is a table of kids I went to high school with, and oh, there’s Samantha Becker, the willowy cool girl Toby dated before me.
She must have come in while I was in the back.
My stomach sloshes dangerously.
I dig into the tip jar and fish out three bucks. “Here.” I hold it up.
Cash’s smartass smirk disappears. His brow wrinkles. “I’m not gonna take your tips.”
“Why not?”
“I’m just not, Glenna.”
I stare at him, holding up the ones.
He stares back and folds his arms, bunching up his body-builder biceps.
For some reason, I’m stuck. His brown eyes are tar. Toffee. Quicksand.
My stomach flips.
Hate makes your body do really weird shit.
“I’ll make you a fresh pot, man.” Toby finally bestirs himself from his DMs and shuffles toward the coffeemaker to help. It always feels a little bit like he’s pushing your head underwater when Toby comes to your rescue.
Conversations resume. Jim Ellwood is jawing about something to Cash, and Cash is still looking at me. I keep my head down, but I can feel it.
I’m hot all over, and also, simultaneously, all the blood in my body has flooded to my feet.
I hate him so much.
I know why he messes with me. When we were kids, his twin sister Dina and I were best friends.
I spent a lot of time at the Wall farm, riding horses, swimming in their pool, hanging out in her super awesome tree house.
I grew up in town, but I always loved the country.
The woods. The mountain. Those are my happy places. Me, my camera, and outside.
Dina was a great friend. She’s on the autism spectrum, so she never thought I was weird. We both liked books, cartoons, animals, music—all the important stuff. We played at her place because that’s where she was comfortable.
It was fine until seventh grade when Cash got really annoying.
He was always around, but suddenly, we couldn’t get rid of him.
And then one day, he had friends over, and we all were swimming in the Wall’s pool, and I overheard him say to Logan Rolf that I was “the chairman of the itty-bitty titty committee.”
Chair man . See? Stupid. But I overreacted.
My mom had died a few months before. My dad had all these doctor’s appointments for his heart, and I was scared I was going to lose him, too. I wasn’t eating or sleeping, and I just decided I was never going to the Wall’s farm ever again, and I didn’t.
I’ve always felt bad about it. I still think about reaching out to Dina and explaining, but she married a biker and moved to Petty’s Mill, and whenever I run into Cash, he acts like a complete dick, and I get mad and figure it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie.
From how they act toward me, the Walls think I dumped Dina because she’s autistic, and I’m basically scum of the earth.
It sucks, but in a way, it prepared me for the fallout from the Del Willis article.
I know I can take a little hate. You deal with it like any crap life throws your way.
Eat a whole cake. Cry. Focus on doing your thing.
I turn my head away from where Cash is still standing, blocking the aisle so people have to wind through the tables to get out, and I admire my photographs.
It’s almost fall, so I’m going to have to swap them out, replace the river and lake shots with colored leaves and bucks.
I didn’t sell many this summer, even after I dropped my prices.
I don’t sign them or anything, so it wasn’t like folks were boycotting me personally.
The tags just say “local artist,” but less foot traffic equals slower sales.
On the bright side, I’m doing great on the stock photo sites.
I had my best month ever last month. It feels better to sell my work to a real live person, though, especially when they get excited because they know the place, or it’s a buck they recognize, or a bird they haven’t seen since they were younger.
I’ve been able to take a lot more photos since Toby and I broke up. Another silver lining.
Customers are talking at a regular volume again. They must figure the entertainment is over. Toby heads over to deliver a fresh cup of regular. Cash tosses his cup in the trash. I don’t think he ever noticed the “Dumbass” on the side. Which is about right.
One hour and forty-three minutes until lunch. I’m going to eat the hell out of that onion tart, and then I’m going to walk down to the river and see if I can find the egret Mr. Henry was telling me about the other day. He said it had a five-foot wingspan. Pics of that will sell like hot cakes.
I reach under the display case and get the sandwich makings from the fridge.
Weekends are turkey, ham, and chicken salad on ciabatta, brioche rolls, or multigrain bread.
Toby won’t help because he’d have to touch meat, but I don’t mind doing it all myself.
I like to stay busy. It makes the time go quicker.