Chapter 24 Aria
ARIA
Iwring my hands after finishing the inventory checklist, snap the binder shut and drag my gaze to Oliver, whose head is hung low by the register, furiously tapping away on his phone.
I’ve been thinking about asking him if I can leave a little early today since we’re both closing and the pace has slowed down significantly.
I scan the floor, void of customers, already swept and mopped.
The radio hums at a lower volume as we wind down to the evening. Only an hour left to the shift.
Pushing the binder aside, I edge over to him, his chin still tucked to his chest, greasy, overgrown hair glinting beneath the soft overhead light. He doesn’t look up once I’m beside him, fingers still tapping away.
“Hey, Oliver,” I say slowly, rubbing a hand over my shoulder. “I got most of the closing done. All that’s left is to stack the chairs and turn off the machines.”
He glances up briefly, brown eyes dulled out by the dark circles beneath them from long nights gaming. “Thanks,” he says, then sweeps a tired glance around the café before dropping his gaze back to his phone.
“Shit,” he mutters, his thumb dragging across the finger-smudged screen, still more focused on that than on what I said.
“Anyways,” I continue, “I asked Becca earlier if I could take the leftover faux vines in the back and she gave me the thumbs up. So I was just wondering if I could head out, since it’s not busy and I’ve got to walk home with the box.”
His brows knit together, the pace of his thumbs picking up speed as he grunts something indecipherable.
“What?” I ask, my arms prickling from the AC blasting inside. “If not, then that’s okay…”
“Damnit!” He jerks his head back, a flicker of red flashing across his face as he exhales and slaps the device against wrinkled khakis. He glances back at me. “Sorry, what’d you say?”
“I was just seeing if you’re okay with me leaving early,” I repeat more quickly, almost mumbling my words. “But it’s fine if you need me to stay.”
He stuffs his phone away, replacing it with a pack of cigarettes, then fishes a lighter from his back pocket. “Yeah, sure, you can leave.”
“Really?” I ask, a flicker of excitement catching in my chest as I lower my arms. “Do you want me to do anything else before I go?”
He slips a skinny cigarette between his fingers and lights it. “Nah, I got it from here. You always cover for me with Becca, so I owe you one.”
Relief slips out on a sigh as I drop my arms away, quickly untying the back of my apron. “Thanks, Oliver.”
He ducks out back for a smoke before I leave, and I slip through the little swinging door to the back room, brushing past the whiteboard where our schedules hang, then crouch to dig the box from a low shelf beside the freezer.
I’ve always wondered if Becca knows how much things like this mean to me. Sometimes I’ve even caught her smiling as I walked out with a box propped on my hip, but the moment I glanced back, she’d turn away, coughing into her fist and barking orders at Oliver. Stern, but not unkind.
She’ll never call it affection, but there’s something protective in the way she looks out for us. Maybe not quite as much as she cares for the café, but close enough. Part of me wonders if she really couldn’t find anyone to take my place, or if she just kept my position open in case I came back.
I punch out and give Oliver a small wave through the cracked back door before heading out, backpack slung over my shoulders and the box cradled in the crook of my arms.
The fresh sweetness of hyacinths drifts from the patch along the walkway, sharper than expected in the cool breeze as I round the corner, my hair swooshing behind me. I draw in a deep breath, the scent of damp earth crisp with florals and bright grass threading together into a soulful cleanse.
The season of new beginnings. Fresh starts.
The box’s corners dig into my hipbone, so I shift it, hiking it higher against me.
It’s not heavy, just unnecessarily cumbersome for a few garlands, though that’s not enough to bother me today.
My steps are carrying an extra bounce than usual.
I’m already imagining where to hang the vines, mapping it all in my head before I’ve even made it halfway down the block.
“Aria!” a deep voice booms from behind.
I turn slightly, just enough to see Jayce catching up to me, sucking in deep breaths as he slows his pace. He flashes a dimpled smile. “You’re off early? Weren’t you going to wait for me?”
My grin broadens, the stress of the world slipping past me as I carry on, still buzzing with excitement over the box in my hands. His gaze drops to it.
“Here, let me get that for you,” he says, reaching over to take it. His hand brushes past mine, swift and featherlike.
The contact startles me enough to loosen my grip, letting him take over despite a flicker of hesitance. “I was okay holding it, but thanks.”
“What’s inside?” he asks, peeking through the sliver where the Scotch tape crosses the top.
I adjust the bag over my shoulder. “A nest of snakes.”
“Funny,” he deadpans, eyeing me with mock suspicion, his lips still stretched in a smile. “What’s really in it?”
We reach a crosswalk, both of us glancing each way before stepping onto the road. “Just leftover vine garlands from work. Nothing special.”
“Oh, cool. Is that part of prom prep?”
My fingers tighten around the straps across my shoulders, unease creeping in under his scrutiny. “Uh, no, just a side project.”
“Crafty,” he says, a playful cadence to his voice. “I like it.”
I glance at him for just a moment, then up at the pellucid blue sky, pretending it isn’t strange for us to be walking side by side.
Jayce has been kind, patient, and surprisingly persistent with me. But what I can’t shake off is why. I mean, I know he’s friends with Clara and apparently has been since childhood, but that doesn’t mean he has to like me, too.
I want to ask why he’s doing all this. Why wait for me to get off work again? Why walk me home and ask me to prom? The questions press at the edge of my tongue, but I swallow them back, not wanting to lay bare my uncertainty.
I told myself I’d be different this time. Swore I’d give life and people a chance again. So why can’t I shake the quiet thread of doubt tugging at the back of my head?
We trudge up the hill into my neighborhood, my thoughts spinning inside, silent loops, like a rinse cycle stuck on repeat, until finally, we reach my driveway.
“Do you think I can come inside for some water?” he asks, cutting through the churning in my head.
I blink at him wordlessly, seconds slipping by before I snap out of it, my gaze dropping to the box in his hands. “Yeah, of course. Sorry, I’m just not used to bringing anyone inside.”
Patting my jeans, I dig for my keys, fumbling as I jab them toward the lock.
I step in first, shifting aside to let him enter.
His eyes scan the entryway as I shut the door behind us, an uneasy knot settling low in my stomach.
Nobody besides Clara has been in here, and even that was rare once we started hanging out at her place more.
He follows me past the staircase and into the kitchen. Thankfully, between work and school, the place has stayed mostly tidy. I only ever sit in my room anyway when I’m home.
I pour him a glass from the tap and hand it over once he sets the box on the faded laminate counter, its surface marked by swirls of beige and brown, the edges slightly lifted from water damage. He downs it in seconds, like it’s a shot of tequila, then places it down with a soft thunk.
“Thanks,” he says, his eyes meeting mine. He holds my gaze a beat too long, then flicks to my lips.
I hadn’t realized how close we’re standing until now.
I stand so still I forget to swallow. “No problem.”
He closes the inch between us, leaning in. My heart skitters in my chest, then stills, his breath brushing my own. A silent question flickers in his eyes. I must’ve nodded, because next thing I know, his lips are on mine, pressing a kiss so soft it almost feels hesitant.
Then he deepens it, turning the softness into something rougher, messier. It’s the kind of first kiss that tries too hard to be something it’s not, too eager and mechanical. Rushing to impress.
Except this isn’t my first.
I dig my fingernails into my palm, desperate to quiet my mind, to feel something. Anything. But the spark never comes.
Regret coils low in my stomach, the tightness stretching north until my chest aches with it.
I push him off, breath shaking, tears already prickling behind my eyes.
Why am I crying?
“What’s wrong?” he asks, his breath catching. He cups a hand to the side of my face as shameful tears drip into it. “What happened?”
I can’t bring myself to look at him.
“I-I’m sorry, Jayce,” I say, stuttering through heaves of tears that only come faster, humiliation carving into my chest.
He’s quiet for a second, my choppy, breathless sobs taking over.
“What happened?” he asks again, rubbing a tentative thumb across one of my wet cheeks.
I suck in a shaky breath, trying to steady my voice, and pull away from his touch to wipe at the tears. “I’m sorry,” I repeat, finally lifting my gaze to his. “I think I made a mistake.”
He waits for me to go on, to explain myself, but I just keep apologizing, like a broken record. I don’t even know what else to say.
The whole thing is confusing even to me. I thought I wanted this. I thought I was ready. But I can’t shake the past. It’s all still too fresh in my head. Ledger’s too fresh in my head. That’s not something I can easily explain to anyone, let alone Jayce.
Anger begins to crease his brows and shadows his eyes as he snaps back, widening the space between us even more. “Then why the hell did you lead me on?”
His tone is sharp, biting. It makes me recoil, flashing me back to all the times Steven used to shout at my mom while I listened from under the covers.
He scrapes at his jaw, nodding, nothing in his voice but irritation. “Whatever, I’m fucking out of here.”
I hear the front door slam behind him after he storms out of the kitchen.
My arms wrap around myself, my entire body trembling as I try, and fail, to hold back the tsunami of tears. This is my fault. He’s right. I did lead him on. I let him kiss me.
Something’s seriously wrong with me. I’ve felt it for weeks, watching passing cars on my way to school or dreaming of him sneaking into my house only to wake with the gut-wrenching ache of losing him all over again.
It isn’t normal.
I’m not normal, and I have no idea what to do except cry.
I’m still sobbing when the phone rings, yanking me back to the present. I fumble behind me for my phone, breath hitching as my eyes lock on the screen.
That same unknown number from before.
I don’t think as I answer. A burst of anger spikes through me, but it doesn’t last. My voice comes out warped, stumbling over hiccups and salty tears.
“Hello?” I say, voice strained. “Who is this?” I hate that I’m still crying, making a fool of myself for whoever’s listening. Not that it should matter.
Silence.
Nobody responds.
I’m about to hang up and block the number for good, but then a deep, familiar rumble cuts through the static.
Ledger.