4. CHAPTER 4 #2
I shake my head and force a smile back. “There’s no drama. Just a few things out of both of our control. And…” I bite my tongue.
“And?”
“And, nothing.”
“Oh, come on. You can’t do that.”
“I can,” I tell her, and after I’ve wiped away the latest ink and blood, I toss the paper towel in the trash.
“You’re no fun.”
“I didn’t know I had to be.”
I reach for more paper towel but feel nothing but the empty roll.
I swear under my breath, and go to stand, but a roll appears, held in a golden-tanned and veiny hand, like an olive branch. My eyes pan up, and Carey just stands there. No words, just a slow blink.
“Thanks,” I mutter, snatching it.
“What was he saying about me?” Carey asks my client, all sunshine.
“Not much, actually.”
“Sounds boring.”
“Right? I asked if you were his boyfriend or the secretary—”
“And I told her you were neither,” I interrupt.
“Which is true.” He confirms. “The receptionist part, anyway.”
I groan.
Carey rolls his eyes. “He’s just playing hard to get.”
I glare up at him. “And you’re making it real easy.”
The phone starts ringing again, and I can feel my client's muscles tense.
“I better get that,” Carey says, then leans closer to her. “And you can ask him why he hates me so much, and tell me his answer after.”
She nods with a tight-lipped smile, and watches him walk away.
“Hi, Teken Ink, this is Car—no, Eden’s not in today…
No, we still don’t know when he’s gonna be back.
” I can feel the weight of the call on my own shoulders, but Carey remains standing tall.
“I’m really sorry, but a personal matter has arisen, and due to unforeseen circumstances we are unable to give you a return date. ”
“Why don’t you like your 'not secretary' who does secretarial work?”
“I don’t not like him."
“So it’s just a lovers quarrel then?” she teases.
“Goddamn,” I sigh. “He was messing with you.” I look at her. “You’re not gonna stop pestering me are you?”
“Nope.”
“Fine. The guy people keep calling about, Eden. That’s his brother.” I wipe her skin, then re-ink. “And he screwed us both over royally. So I guess, just the sight of his face reminds me how much I hate his brother right now.”
“So his brother’s the one you don’t like?”
“I don’t hate him either. Not really. He’s just… Why am I telling you this?”
“I don’t know.” She shakes her head with a genuine expression.
I go back to work in silence.
Once I've finished the last pass, I wipe her down then tell her to, “Go check it out.”
She’s off the table in a flash, skirt flippantly hanging on, grinning from ear to ear.
She makes a beeline to Carey. “You gotta see this.”
He throws her a shaka hand gesture then looks at me over her shoulder, but I can’t decipher whether his eyes are asking me for help, or taunting me that my client likes him better.
I look away first. “C’mon, I’ve gotta dress it.”
She skips back. “I love it.”
“I aim to please.”
I rattle off the aftercare instructions and hand her a printout too because she’s not really listening. She’s already talking to Carey about her favorite bar in town.
I ring her up, she pays, and leaves a tip.
Carey holds the door for her, and she says something to him that I don’t catch. He laughs; loud, and easy. Then she’s gone and the shop is quiet again.
Carey remains still for several long moments, almost like he’s contemplating whether or not he should follow her out. But he doesn’t. He drags his hand down his face and returns to the desk. “I cleared all the messages. You’re welcome.”
I glance at the answering machine. “I didn’t ask for your help.”
“But you took it.”
My jaw tightens. “I told you I didn’t need a fucking secretary.”
He leans towards me over the counter, a borderline seductive smile on his face. “How about a not-fucking secretary?”
His words slice at me like a paper cut. “You’re not on the payroll. You can go.”
“Cash is fine, but I also accept sexual favors. So if you know anyone, I’ve got an entire apartment to myself.”
“That’s furnished with camping supplies.”
“There’s also a twenty year old futon.”
He’s baiting me, and I know better, but I’m tired, and the caffeine is gone from my system. “I can’t deal with you right now, Carey. I can handle it on my own.”
“God. Look at your face. You can’t even convince yourself.”
“Just leave.”
“You look dehydrated.”
“Jesus Christ. You sound like your fucking brother.”
His smile is gone and his eyes hold mine. They're two different colors. I never noticed before. One's blue and one's grey.
The knot in my stomach pulls tighter.
I don’t really want him to leave.
I want him to ask why I’m so fucking angry.
I want him to just keep talking.
The door opens—the bell cutting the tension.
Carey pushes off the counter and greets my next client with a smile.
She’s young, just eighteen. She walks towards us on platform boots, her gaze fluttering from me to Carey and back. “Uh hi! I’m your ten o’clock. For the script.”
I check the calendar, confirm the name, tell her to take a seat.
“Do you know how to use the coffee machine?”
Carey locks his eyes with mine again, his top lip rising in a tiny smirk. ”I can figure it out if you say please.”
I grit my teeth. “She’s nervous. Just get her a fucking drink.”
“Aye, aye.” He salutes, and I get to work stripping my station to clean and prep it again.
I take my clients script design and scan and print it, even though it’s small and basic and would probably take less time to just trace it myself.
“Did you figure it out?” I ask Carey.
“I think so. She’s lactose intolerant so at least I didn’t have to figure the milk out. You should probably get a substitute… You know you can buy ones where you just have to press a button?” he says, tapping the steam wand.
“Shawn chose it, and I’m certain she did so she could spend more time out here slacking, pretending it takes forever to make a damn coffee. So you can blame your brother for that one.”
“Can I blame him for everything?”
“Be my guest. I am.”
“So that’s one thing we have in common.”
With the stencil in hand, I stop by the door and look back at him. “And?”
He doesn’t look at me, instead he dispenses more grounds into the portafilter then stamps it down and locks it into place.
I roll my eyes and start turning away when he finally says, “And so maybe you can stop being such a dick to me.” Then he slides another cup under and presses for the water to start.
“I’m not being a dick.”
“You still haven’t said thank you for anything other than the paper towel.”
“I don’t see why I need to be thankful for something I didn’t ask for.”
Carey turns to me and raises one hand to his hip. “You and Eden really are cut from the same cloth, aren’t you? You’re both toddlers trapped in the bodies of old men.”
“I’m not old.”
“Well you’re not fucking young.”
With my whole body tense, I watch him turn back to the coffee machine, move the cup over, and add hot water.
“How many sugars do you have?”
“I don’t want one.”
Carey slams both his hands down on the counter and hangs his head—his wild blond waves falling into his face again. Then, slowly, he turns his head to look at me, the sunshine in his eyes, gone. “You need to cut the bullshit.”
“You don’t get to talk to me like that.”
“And you don’t get to keep playing the victim.
I don’t really wanna be here any more than you want me to be, but we both need each other right now.
You know it just as well as I do.” He moves the Americano to the side and slams down a handful of sugar packets and a spoon next to it.
With my client's coffee in his hand he walks towards me, and stops.
Close. Almost eye to eye. “Drink the damn coffee, and stop acting like such a fucking baby.”
As he walks out, I’m left staring at the mug like it’s going to lunge at me, the echo of his voice crawling under my skin, burning up all the excuses my brain can come up with for why I need to make him leave. Because, fuck him, he’s right.
My palms itch.
My jaw aches from how hard I’ve been clenching, and… I want to feel like that again.
Like I did just now. When he spoke down to me. When he called me out and took some of the weight from my shoulders.
Like a zombie I walk to the counter, pick up two sugar packets and empty them into the coffee. I stir them in, throw the spoon in the sink, and return to the shop floor.
I see Carey sidled up next to my client on the seat beside her.
“He’s grumpy today,” he whispers, loud enough for me to hear.
She giggles nervously.
I glare at him, but he grins back, his eyes bright and unrepentant.
My client comes over with her coffee and setup goes smoothly. She’s getting a phrase in a delicate script in Norwegian on the inside of her forearm.
She tells me, “My mom always said this to me.”
“Cool,” I say. I don’t ask her what it means, but Carey does. The question calms her nerves further and he pulls one of the chairs by the door over to sit on the other side of her, focusing her attention away from the needles, and everything about to happen.
They talk about high school, her best friends, and a bunch of other things that mean something to her and nothing to anyone else.
It grinds at me.
I hate that it helps.
And I hate that the room feels less empty with his voice in it.