Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
WIL
Aurora’s on her way to Texas. Cesar leaves in a few days.
Abbey’s a mess, and I know it’s got to be more than her teammates abandoning her or what happened with Tyrell.
She doesn’t need to worry about him anymore, and because it’s no secret what happened, everyone else is acting on their best behavior.
Even Eric has stopped swearing around the managers.
Still, she puts every ounce of energy she has into the department and helping fans.
She goes the extra mile to find what people are looking for, even going so far as digging through boxes on a truck that’s still being unloaded to find a video game or movie.
The other day, I heard her explain to Kevin that accessories like a CD holder for the car visor or an extra video game controller—items that make us a lot of money—are like the merch table at a concert.
“Do you need a T-shirt from the show?” she asked.
“Yes, of course. But do you really need a mousepad with every Billy Joel album cover on it? Probably not, but the merch guy sees you eyeing it up, and suddenly you own a Billy Joel mousepad. And then you need a tote bag, too, because how else are you going to carry all that stuff?”
“Yeah,” Kevin says. “That makes sense.”
She’s motivated and determined, and she expects hard work from her employees.
I don’t think she’s simply trying to make up for the interview.
She looked so disappointed in herself that day that it nearly killed me to show my disappointment.
And I was hurt, too. Maybe it’s stupid, but I take it personally that she’s been looking for a new job.
She’s told me how much she likes working here, and I don’t want her to leave.
I hated having to write her up, but I would never want anyone to accuse me of playing favorites if I hadn’t.
Either way, whether she’s trying to make amends or not, media revenue has jumped.
They’re sitting at the top of all the media departments in the district for revenue and margin, and Kevin sold every visor CD holder we had in stock last week.
I’m MOD on a busy Friday night, making my rounds on the diamond, when one of our media regulars comes in.
He’s a short white guy, early thirties, with long, curly, light-brown hair and a bushy mustache that makes him look like the Cowardly Lion in The Wizard of Oz.
He’s really into jazz—I overheard him tell Abbey once that he plays “keys” in a local jazz group—and he buys those expensive 24-karat gold CDs, popular with both jazz aficionados and shoplifters.
I pause in appliances, across the diamond from the last of the CD aisles, and watch while Abbey helps him. Even though she’s overworked and no doubt exhausted, she greets him with a broad smile.
“Leo!” she says. “Good to see you!”
No way is that guy’s name Leo.
He smiles—or at least, I think he smiles under all that facial hair. “I’m glad you’re here tonight.”
“I’m here most Friday nights,” she says. “Lucky me. What can I help you find?”
“Do you have the original master recording of Thelonius Monk, Live at the Monterey Jazz Festival, ’63, Volume 2, on twenty-four-karat-gold? It was released in ninety-four.”
Abbey taps her finger on her lips. “We got a few of the gold CDs in this week, but not that one. I’ll check to see if any nearby stores have it and we can have it transferred over.”
“Great,” he says. “What time are you off work? You wouldn’t want to go hear this awesome jazz trio over at the Dakota with me, would you?”
I grit my teeth. No, she fucking wouldn’t.
I think, anyway. And what the hell is wrong with me? Am I jealous that some random fan asked her out but I can’t?
“Aw, thanks for the offer,” Abbey says, “but I’m more of a blues fan.”
He shrugs, and I let out a long breath. She leaves him to browse in the jazz section and goes over to the media desk to work her magic. I have no doubt that she’ll find that Thelonious Monk CD, and I’ve never been happier for the blues.
Later, I find Abbey in Sam’s chair in the warehouse, hacking at a roll of packaging tape with a pair of scissors. “I will not let this tape gun win,” she says to herself. “I will be the victor. I have lost to this tape gun too many times, but not today.”
The sunny personality she showed Leo and all the other fans tonight has disappeared, her brow furrowed and her mouth pinched.
“Hey,” I say.
She jumps and drops the scissors. “Scooby Snax! Don’t sneak up on me!”
“Sorry. You good, Rhodes? Need help?”
She scoffs. “No, I do not need help. And don’t worry, I’ll be back on the floor as soon as I can get this box taped up.”
“I’m not worried,” I say, “except about you.”
She stands up and huffs. “Oh, well, you know me, Wil. Totally fine. Fine, fine, fine.”
“You seemed stressed.” I’m a moron. That’s an understatement. “What’s going on?”
She swallows so hard I can hear it. Just when I think she’s going to completely shut down and walk away, she says, “How could they do it? How could they leave me on my own right before the holiday season? I’m completely clueless.
I’ve got a journalism degree. I’m a writer!
I don’t do, I write about what other people do!
What if—what if you decide I’m not competent enough for this store and you ship me off to some dump like—like Crosstown? ”
I burst out a laugh before I can stop it.
She puts her hands on her hips. “What’s funny about this? I bare my soul, I’m totally vulnerable, and you’re laughing?”
I shake my head. “No, I’m not laughing at you or your situation. I’m laughing about Crosstown. It didn’t take you long to figure out the hierarchy of stores. Impressive.”
Her frustration with me seems to dissipate and her shoulders slump. “I’m already so tired and it’s not even November. How am I going to get through this? My parents are disappointed that I took a job in retail—no offense—and my degree is useless! No offense. I’m disappointed with myself!”
“Rhodes—”
Something flashes across her face, and whatever she’s thinking sends her over the edge. She bursts into tears and puts her hands over her face. “I will never have a Palm Pilot!” she wails.
I can’t help it. I laugh again. “What?”
She drops her hands, and my heart cracks at the sight of the tears streaking down her face. I step closer and wipe one away with the pad of one thumb. Before I can overthink it, I wrap my arms around her like I wanted to do the night she was upset after what happened with Tyrell on the truck.
And then, she does the same, tight, and it feels amazing, like when we danced to “Purple Rain,” but different, too.
Warm and somehow soft and firm at the same time.
Desperate, yes, yet tender. And it sends a wave of sadness and contentment and longing through me, and I wish—again—that this could be something more.
That I’d been brave enough to kiss her in the parking lot after our celebration at La Cuchara.
That I hadn’t been such a hard-ass—like Jeff—after she skipped out for that interview.
She starts to pull away, but I tighten my hold, and I know it’s wrong, but I murmur, “Not yet. Please.”
And then, I stroke her hair. Long, tender strokes from top to bottom. And I feel her relax, melt into me, my touch, into whatever she’s feeling right now. I want to hold her and take away whatever’s making her sad or stressed or angry. I want to anchor her, help her get through this.
“Thank you for the Snickers bar,” I say into her hair.
I didn’t eat it. I took the candy and the note home and put them on my kitchen counter next to my coffee maker, so they’re one of the first things I see when I wake up in the morning.
I wonder what it would be like to wake up with her next to me, her deep brown hair in one of its wild buns.
“Hey,” I say, “you remember that Hometown League thing on Saturday? Fall Fest? I’m volunteering. It’s a good time. Harmon Killebrew’s going to be there, and there’s a Battle of the Bands competition. Want to come?”
“Oh,” she says. “I work that day.”
“Only until two-thirty. Come over after. I’m playing in the ball game at three, and you’ll be able to catch the last couple of bands. It’ll be worth it, I promise.”
“I’ll think about it.” Her hold tightens, like she doesn’t want to let go, either. Goddamn, this is the best hug of my life. I allow myself to live in this fantasy world—one where I can hold her like this whenever I want, for as long as I want—until she says, “Wil? What are we doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean—” She pauses. “What does this hug mean? I’m sorry you’re stressed, or I’m glad we’re friends, or is this like the night in the parking lot? I wish we could be more than friends? None of those? All of the above?”
When I don’t answer right away—because I have no idea how to answer—she pulls back, places her hands on my chest, and gives me a light shove. “Never mind. Forget I asked.”
She turns away and when I reach for her arm, she shrugs me off.
“Rhodes, wait—”
A loud buzz and the sharp feedback of the intercom system interrupt me. “Hey, Wil, where ya at?” It’s John at LP over the loudspeaker. “We closed five minutes ago, and the last customer is gone. Get up here and lock this door.”
“Fan,” she mumbles. “Not customer.”
“Clock out,” I say. “Go home. We can handle the close.”
She shakes her head and her mouth turns down. “Absolutely not. We had that tour bus of Canadians stop in tonight. I’m sure the floor is a disaster. I can’t leave my team to clean that up alone.”
She’s right; the cross-border tourists who come down in droves to shop at the nearby Mall of America can do a lot of damage. Doesn’t matter. I cross my arms. “You can and you will.”
“I’m not bailing on my team,” she says with a steely look. I almost smile, I’m so happy to see it, but I don’t, because it’s also clear that she’s upset with me for not answering her question.
“Go home. I can’t have my media team captain crying in the warehouse every night, not with the long hours of the holiday season coming up.”