Chapter 14 #2
Marlowe waves a hand in the air, smiling. “You know what I mean. I was waiting for my daughter who helps with hiring,” Marlowe says to Olivia, like this is an unnecessary clarification. She picks up her pen, clicking it. “Now shall we begin?”
Olivia’s eyes fly to mine, putting the pieces together, and Nicolette’s eyes follow.
“My lanta,” Nicolette says, her voice thick with worry. “You look exhausted, Georgie. Are you okay?”
I breathe through my smile. “Yeah, just tired.”
“She was up at four thirty,” Olivia says for me.
“Four thirty?” Nicolette repeats in horror. “Why?”
“For work. The coffee truck,” I say.
“Georgie, you need a break. Swap with the afternoon shift.”
My eyes are sandy as I give her a tired blink. “I’m the only one working the truck right now.”
Nicolette’s mouth falls open. “Mom, did you know about this?”
Marlowe stiffens. “She asked to take the extra shifts. The early farm lot was her idea. The weekends were her idea. I can’t force her to rest if she won’t.”
“Mom.” Nicolette sounds exasperated. “If she’s working weekends, too, she probably hasn’t taken a break in weeks. She needs a break.”
“She insisted,” Marlowe says. “Who am I to tell her what to do?”
Nicolette protests that Marlowe tells her what to do constantly, and all I can think is what would it be like to have a mother care enough to want to tell me what to do instead of telling me what I’m doing wrong?
“I’m fine,” I say, but my body revolts and chokes on the word. I have to clear my voice. “I’m fine,” I repeat.
Olivia holds my eye before looking at Marlowe. “It sounds like your manager was right: You are short-staffed.”
Marlowe clicks her pen again, looking at me. “Bringing someone on is an additional overhead cost, and we’re still carrying the loan.”
My head is swimming, and suddenly, thoughts of the Tree fill my mind—no longer a tree, but a stump.
I cannot become a stump.
“Businesses need some redundancy, right?” I say, pressing a hand to my hollow stomach. I’ve made a point of never asking for anything, let alone hoping for anything—not affection, not even approval. “If I’m the only one who knows the operation, what happens if I’m sick?”
“You’re never sick,” Marlowe says.
Not that she knows, anyway.
“Mom, Georgie’s right. We need the redundancy—” Nicolette stops and looks at me appreciatively. “Well, hello, smarty-pants. When did you learn about operational redundancy?”
I shrug, my chest hot, my vision narrowing, my time to take a meaningful shower running out. “I understand it enough to know the truck needs it.”
Marlowe’s shoulders shrug. “All right, then. I’ll take a look at the operating budget and adjust the timeline.”
I nod.
Then Marlowe looks at Olivia. “You have restaurant experience. That’s good.”
Olivia nods. “And I can provide references.”
“But can you drive a coffee truck?” Nicolette asks, and I’m so thankful, I could sway.
No, I am swaying. My legs are practically Jell-o.
I place a hand casually on the chair nearest me, but Olivia catches my eye, her eyes too tense for her smile, and her knee stops jumping beneath the table. If I had a clearer head, I could probably interpret that, but as it is, she just seems nice to care at all.
“I’m going to go upstairs. Good luck with the interview,” I tell Olivia. “Bye,” I say, waving at my family.
I glance at my watch and rush to the back and up the stairs as quickly as my body allows.
The apartment is a stale combination of old Mexican food and older books, and I crack a window with one hand and untie my Chucks with another.
My feet feel like dough spilling out of a too-small bowl, the tension releasing, my toes and arches sighing in relief.
I peel off clothes haphazardly, only taking care with Logan’s hat, which I hang carefully on the bathroom doorknob.
I turn the shower on, and the pipes knock and hiss the way they always do when they’re forced to get to work. I crank the water way too hot for how poor the ventilation is, but I can’t not. I stand under the water—hair and all—and breathe in the steam as I let the long day slowly leave my body.
The water pressure in this building has never been good, but it doesn’t bother me. Nothing about this place bothers me.
I do sometimes wish it excited me the way it used to when I was little and Mama and I would dream big about new menu items, new mugs, new colors, and seasonal changes.
I loved watching her sketch ideas in her notebook and find new decor at thrift stores and estate sales. She kept the shop so vibrant.
I can run the shop without her.
But I can’t let myself dream the way we did.
The hot water is starting to loosen the kinks in my shoulders when my phone alarm rings, and I jump. I’m out of time if I want to be ready for Logan.
I turn the shower off and dry quickly, wrapping my long hair in a towel on top of my head while I check my texts.
Logan
Hey, I’m sorry, but I’ll be about fifteen minutes late. The bus got a flat outside of Sugar Maple, so we’re finally pulling in. I’ll get home and shower and then grab you as soon as I can.
Georgie
No problem—see you soon!
Logan
Are you hungry?
Georgie
Starving. I think I ate a half a burrito this morning, but I may not have. It’s a blur.
Logan
Georgiana Ashman: remember to eat!
I may have to drop off lunch for you tomorrow.
Georgie
I may have to say yes to that.
Logan
Perfect. Okay, we’ve parked.
Be there soon!
I smile at the phone and then look up at my mirror, which is still steamy from the shower. I wipe it with my towel, my smile falling as I see how dark the circles under my eyes are.
Good night.
I look like I have zombie face paint on, for heaven’s sake.
Alma wasn’t fooled. Olivia wasn’t fooled.
Marlowe was.
I reach a hand up and touch my jaw, where a phantom pain throbs in a tooth I’ve already had a root canal on. Marlowe took me to the dentist right after she and Dad were first married, and she was so sweet, holding my hand and giggling with me when I was hopped up on laughing gas …
Back when she noticed me.
She doesn’t notice me anymore.
Heck, I barely notice myself.
Up until right now, when even the filter of a steamy mirror can’t hide how I look, I honestly thought I was doing okay. But the mirror doesn’t lie. I look like I was a horse rode hard and put up wet, as Mama would say.
Nothing concealer can’t fix, thanks to me having an extra fifteen minutes to put on makeup.
My stomach growls loudly.
The white sundress is on the bed where I left it, and I slide it over my frame before putting on mascara and a healthy amount of concealer and bronzer.
Now that’s more like it.
I don’t look like a girl running on five hours of sleep because she fell asleep doing homework and woke before dawn.
I look like a girl about to go on an actual date with a handsome, bookish boy I have feelings for and who has feelings for me.
My stomach growls at the same time my phone buzzes on the small faded laminate bathroom counter.
Logan
Parking now.
I take the towel off my hair, run a comb through it, and then spiral it up into the world’s quickest topknot.
I rush through my cluttered apartment, taking note of all the things I’ll have time to organize and fix once Olivia is hired—a hire that is only happening because I didn’t give up every last apple on my branches.
Grabbing my cross-body purse and keys, I grin and bolt out the door.
I have a date.