Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
WIL
A week before Christmas, Sam hands me the truck manifest: pages and pages of media product that we both need and don’t have room to store—a complicated situation.
“Gonna be at least ten pallets,” he says.
“Where the hell are we going to put it all?”
“Well, your first problem is: Who’s going to work it?”
Everyone’s maxed out on overtime hours, and the product just keeps coming. “It’ll have to be Rhodes.”
“You can’t do that to her,” Sam says. “She’s already here six days a week. Six long days.”
“Who else is going to do it?”
“Approve more overtime for Kevin or Lavender. Abbey’s not going to make it to Christmas if you keep working her like this.”
“I’ll do it,” I hear from behind me. “I can totally do it.”
Abbey looks like something out of a Dr. Seuss Christmas special.
I trail my eyes from the giant, glittery red bow on her headband to the sparkly candy cane earrings, red cable-knit sweater, red-and-white-striped skirt, and finally, her bare legs, where my eyes stay a beat too long before I glance at her red high tops and then snap my eyes back up to her face.
“See something you like?” she asks under her breath, but she knows I heard. Then, when I don’t respond, she says, “Jeremy said we could enhance our uniforms for the holidays, remember?”
“Enhance, Rhodes. Not completely overhaul. I don’t see any part of your uniform in this getup. You look like Cindy Lou Who.”
“And you’re acting like the Grinch,” she volleys back. “The fans love this getup.”
I don’t want the fans to love her getup. I don’t want anyone else to look at those legs.
“Get back out on the floor, Cindy Lou,” I mutter.
At 11:30, Abbey’s voice comes over the intercom, paging a manager to the time clock. Crystal, the closing manager, messages me over my walkie. “It’s gotta be you, Wil. We’re missing like two grand from one of the tills, and I’m not leaving this office until we find it.”
“Got it,” I say. Any other time of year, I’d tell her to walk her lazy ass two feet out of the cash office to the time clock but tonight, I make the long haul from the warehouse.
Or maybe I want to see Abbey.
She’s leaning against the wall by the time clock. “What are you still doing here?” we ask at the same time. Neither of us laughs.
I enter my override code. “You shouldn’t be here. I never should have told you that you could approve your own overtime.”
“Rookie mistake,” she says as she punches in her employee number. The time clock blares an error alarm.
“You’re delirious,” I say. “I’m not a rookie, and you can’t even remember your own employee number.” I enter it for her. “You’re clocked out. Go home.”
“Fine,” she grumbles. “Good night.”
Fifteen minutes later, after Jeremy kicks me out, I walk out to the parking lot to find about five fresh inches of snow. I hope Abbey got home okay in that stupid, adorable get-up.
But as I near my car at the back of the lot, I see that Abbey’s is still here, too, and it’s not running.
Where the hell is she? I sprint the rest of the way, sliding twice.
She’s inside her vehicle, which, again, is not running.
I start mine to get it warmed up, then walk over and knock on her window.
She startles and whacks the back of her head on the headrest.
She rolls down the window and smiles at me sweetly. “Yes?”
“Battery?”
She sighs. “Unfortunately. Dad wanted to replace it the other day, but I didn’t want to be late for work, and…”
“Roll up this window and get out of the car.”
“Why?” Of course she’s arguing with me.
“Because I’m going to give you a ride home.”
“It’s fine, I’ll call Brianna and… oh, shoot. She’s at work, too.” She drops her head onto the steering wheel. “Leave me here. Go on. Save yourself.”
“Come on,” I say gently. “It’s late.”
She gathers up her things and follows me to my car, which hasn’t quite warmed up yet. I reach into the back seat for an extra pair of Choppers for her hands and a thick wool blanket to cover her legs.
“You have a Faribault Woolen Mill blanket? Don’t these cost, like, a hundred dollars?”
“You have your keys, right?” I ask.
She holds them up and jingles them. “Yes, sir. Seriously. How can you afford a blanket like this? If this is how much they pay assistant managers, maybe I should think about jumping into the rotation pool.”
“It was a gift. From my mother.” I back out of the parking space.
“You don’t talk about her much. Oh, look,” she says. “The m is burned out on the sign. Hoetown Electronics. Hoetown. That might be the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.” She laughs.
I make a mental note to call facilities tomorrow to have them fix the light. I try to stop before pulling out onto 80th, but we slide right through the intersection. We drive in silence for a few minutes and she hums along to “Lady Picture Show” by Stone Temple Pilots.
When I finally get to the freeway on-ramp, she reaches over and turns off the stereo. “Is it me or is it your last name?”
“What?” I turn to look at her but then snap my eyes back to the icy road. This is not ideal weather or road conditions for this conversation, if she’s asking what I think she’s asking. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” I say softly.
“Sometimes I think you might… have feelings for me. But you’re so hot and cold.
Or maybe you do have feelings for me, but you can’t act on them because of Hometown and who you are and who your father is.
” She takes in a gulp of air. “God, this is embarrassing,” she mutters, like she’s talking to herself. “He’s your boss, you moron.”
Yep, definitely talking to herself.
For a long moment, I don’t say anything.
Then: “I’ve been on rotation for nearly three years.
Sales, inventory, ops. I’m finally in my last position before assistant general manager.
I can’t be the AGM at the store where I worked my rotation, so once I finish merch in March—if I’m lucky—I’ll have to go to a different store, most likely Lyndale. ”
“Lyndale,” she echoes. “That’s close.”
I can’t imagine what she’s thinking.
“Fewer than twenty-five percent of GM candidates finish the entire rotation,” I say.
“There’s a lot of pressure. Some decide they like a certain department and want to stay there.
Some go to the corporate office. Some leave the company altogether, get recruited to Best Buy or Circuit City or Target. ”
“And?”
“It’s a lot of pressure,” I repeat. “Now imagine that you’re the son of the company’s founder.”
“Ah,” she says.
“I can’t fail at this, Abbey.”
“You called me Abbey,” she says in a small voice. “You never call me Abbey. Only Rhodes.”
Huh. She’s right. I’m telling her things I haven’t told many people. It’s more personal—for us both.
“I can’t fail,” I say again. I glance at her. She gives the smallest shake of her head, purses her lips, but doesn’t say a word. I wish it didn’t have to be this way. I wish I could reach across the center console and take her cold hand in mine.
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel instead.
“I haven’t dated since I started rotation,” I continue. “Shit, before that. Maybe once I get my own store, I’ll… revisit my responsibilities and consider dating again.”
She takes a deep breath. “Do you or do you not have feelings for me? It seems like you do. Am I wrong about that?”
I swallow hard. Of course I have feelings for her.
I feel so much for her. Pride, attraction, admiration, tenderness, longing.
Frustration because she can be so damn stubborn.
Sometimes even panic because I like her so much.
I’ve been fighting these feelings since the moment I saw her at The Golden. But this is my life. This is my career.
“You’re not wrong,” I say quietly.
“Well.” Her tone is surprisingly crisp and harsh. “Don’t expect me to wait around until you have your own store and maybe, just maybe, after you’ve revisited your responsibilities, you’d consider dating me. Turn right at the next street. I’m the first building on the left.”
“I remember,” I say. The Ruh-Roh show seems like years ago.
I tried to be so careful, and I still fucked this up.
“You’re off tomorrow, right?” I ask once I’ve pulled into the loop at her front door. “Buy a new battery and bring it to the store, and I’ll take care of it.”
“I got it,” she says as she unbuckles her seat belt and opens the door, letting in a burst of cold air and snow. “Thanks, anyway. And thanks for the ride.”
“Take the blanket. I can’t have you freezing from here to the door.”
She nods and swallows hard, her pinched, pissed-off features softening. “Please drive carefully, Wil. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.” Her lower lip trembles.
I want to kiss that mouth, soothe it, soothe her. I want to carry her across the icy parking lot and make her tea and hold her close to warm her up and kiss her, over and over. I want to take back everything I said. I want to quit my job, get a new family. I want her. So badly.
“I’ll be careful,” I say.
She mumbles what I think might be, “You’re never getting this blanket back,” and then slams the door.
Somehow, I score Christmas Eve off. We close early anyway, and, contrary to popular belief, it’s not the busiest shopping day of the year.
That’s the Saturday before Christmas, which I survived thanks to Jimmy and Abbey.
Chanelle has planned a “quiet Christmas Eve function with family and a few close friends,” as she wrote in an email to me and my siblings. A work email. So heartwarming.