Chapter 3 #2
“What’s happening tomorrow?” Collin asks.
Great . I hadn’t mentioned the workday to my family.
Mostly, they “help” by way of unsolicited advice.
It’s the hands-off, noses-in approach. Harper bugs me about proper bookkeeping.
Collin likes to give me business startup advice, as though opening a gym is anything like a brewery.
Pat—well, I never know what will come out of his mouth, only that it’s usually not helpful.
And Tank asks the kinds of probing parental questions that never fail to make me feel like a teenager caught sneaking out halfway through the window.
In short, other than the financial investment—which was hard enough to get me to agree to—my family isn’t involved.
“It’s nothing,” I say, just as Winnie settles next to me on the stool her brother just vacated.
“Tomorrow is a workday at the warehouse,” Winnie says to Collin, ignoring my glare. “Aren’t you going to be there?”
I wait for him to beg off and almost choke on my cake when Collin says, “What kind of workday?”
“Like you’d come work,” I scoff.
“It’s heavy lifting and cleaning,” Winnie says, then catches my dark look. “Allegedly.”
Collin huffs, then lifts his shirtsleeve and flexes. “I can do heavy lifting.”
I shove him, catching Winnie trying to hold back a laugh. At least she doesn’t look all doe-eyed and impressed by Collin showing off.
“Is Tank coming?” Collin asks. “What about Harper and Chase?”
“He’s busy watching Jo this week. And I assume Chase and Harper are doing their jobs, so I didn’t ask.”
“Well, I can be here. I’ll check with everyone else.”
Before I can stop him from getting everyone involved, Mari appears and passes a slice of cake to Winnie. Only, Winnie doesn’t start eating. Instead, she steps farther over the very solid line she just crossed.
“Mari, could you take over Jo duty tomorrow so Tank could come help James?” she asks.
“Of course,” Mari says, brushing a hand through her white hair with a smile. “We’re all helping watch Jojo. It takes a town.”
“I think you mean a village,” Winnie says with a smile.
Mari only laughs. “Town, village, city. Whatever. I can certainly help tomorrow.”
“I don’t need help,” I say, but Mari is already walking Jo back to the kitchen, presumably to help wipe the icing off her face.
The rest of my family is deep in conversation a few feet away, probably talking about me not telling them about tomorrow.
Harper shoots me a disapproving look. Yep. They’re definitely discussing me.
And this is why I don’t like involving all of them in this or any of my business. Because they get involved .
“Why don’t you want your family to help you?” Winnie asks. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
Speaking of getting involved …
“I do mind.” Because it’s none of her business. Just like inviting other people wasn’t her business.
Winnie takes a big bite of cake. I can’t help but wonder if she did so in order to keep from saying something she’d regret. But then she groans and her eyes roll back in her head. Maybe she just really likes cake.
Whatever the case, I shouldn’t be watching her as she licks her lips, groaning again and wiggling on her stool. My thoughts are no longer on her crossing lines or on my family. I am completely focused on the last woman I should be focused on.
“Do I taste beer in this frosting?” Winnie asks, wiping her mouth with a napkin. The red lipstick she wore this morning has been replaced by a soft pink shade. The smallest speck of chocolate remains in the corner of her lips, and I have the ridiculous urge to wipe it away with my thumb.
Now, THAT thought needs to die. I scoot a little farther away from Winnie, training my eyes on the counter, where there’s a coffee stain resembling a three-legged elephant.
Mo, collecting empty plates, tilts his head toward me. “It’s from Dark Horse. Ask James.”
Winnie spins on her stool to face me, leaning one elbow on the counter. Her knees brush my thighs and I slowly inch my legs out of reach.
“I haven’t tried any of your beer, you know.”
“It’s not sold here.”
“I have an in with a guy who could probably procure me some,” Winnie says, tapping her lips in mock thoughtfulness. “Though he doesn’t seem like the kind of man who likes sharing.”
“I share just fine. With people I like.”
This makes her throw back her head and laugh. Why does that sound make something inside me shift? I should probably leave. But I don’t move a muscle.
Winnie nudges me with her elbow. “All two of them? Or is it one?”
“I like lots of people.”
“Sure you do, boss. Anyway, back to your beer. I should probably have some familiarity with my new company’s product.”
I grunt, which is more polite than the words on the top of my tongue.
Words which would remind Winnie it’s not her company.
She’s a glorified temp, and I don’t care if she knows anything about my beer.
I realize also that sharing with her, letting her taste the recipes I spent hours and a lot of failures developing would feel much too personal.
If anything, Winnie and I need to be less personal.
“Maybe you could set up a private tasting? You, me, and your beer?”
I really need to NOT have that idea in my head. “No.”
Before she can argue or throw some sharp retort my way, a big hand lands on my shoulder and squeezes.
“What time do you want us tomorrow, son?” Tank asks. I’m grateful for the interruption, even though I can tell by Dad’s tone he’s not happy I didn’t tell him or anyone else about the workday.
“Eight thirty,” Winnie answers before I can. She shrugs when I give her a look. “Right? That’s the time you told me.”
“Eight thirty is fine.”
“I can stop by between the breakfast and lunch crowds,” Big Mo says.
At this point, we might as well put a post up on the Neighborly app, Sheet Cake’s go-to gossip source. Then again, most of the town hates the fact we’re here at all. The city council hasn’t made any of this easy. If someone posts about it publicly, we’d probably have a picket line forming.
“I promised you we’d keep this party short, so we’re headed out. I’ll see you tomorrow, son. And next time?” Tank gives my shoulder a last, borderline-painful squeeze. “I better hear about something like this directly from you .”
I want to shake my head, to shake off my discomfort at the idea of everyone and their brother showing up tomorrow. It will be easier with more people. My irritation gives way to a little bit of relief.
See? It’s not so hard to accept help , I tell myself.
But the words don’t stick. They haven’t for a long time.
I can trace this tendency back to a very specific period in my life.
One I’d prefer not to think about, where the idea took root that if I’m not fully in control, everything will fall apart.
Trying to trust other people, even my own family sometimes, reminds me of physical therapy after my knee surgery. My own body felt wrong .
Winnie, the catalyst for all of this, bumps her shoulder into mine. “Living in a small town is like living in a nosy family.”
“I’ve already got a nosy family,” I grumble. “Next time, check with me before asking people to get involved.”
Winnie actually looks chastised. “I’m sorry.”
An apology is the last thing I expected. More like a smart retort or a teasing comment. An uncomfortable sensation tugs roughly at something inside my chest.
“It’s fine.”
Jo appears, the perfect distraction, climbing up in my lap to give me a hug. She’s tiny in my arms and smells like cupcakes. Probably because she’s still got a little icing in her hair.
“Happy birthday, Uncle James,” she says through a yawn, and I catch Winnie watching us with an expression I can’t quite read. I look away, feeling more exposed than I have all night, which is saying something.
“Thank you, little one,” I say, just as Tank scoops Jo from my arms.
“Goodnight, birthday boy,” Tank says. “Don’t party too hard.” He grins even before I roll my eyes.
“Even if there were somewhere in this small town to party, you’d be at home alone anyway, wouldn’t you?” Harper teases, giving me a pat on the shoulder.
She’s not wrong.
“Goodnight, old man,” Collin says, slapping me on the back. “Better take some aspirin tonight so you don’t wake up with a sore back.”
“Has this turned into a roast instead of a birthday party?” I ask.
“We’d need a lot more time for that, brother.
” Collin darts out of reach as I take a playful swing.
With Pat gone, Collin seems to be stepping into a more light-hearted role.
Or maybe it’s just that his very uptight new girlfriend, the one none of us can stand, isn’t here so he’s letting loose while he can.
When I turn back to the counter after saying my goodbyes, Winnie deposits a small gift bag in front of me. “Happy birthday, boss.”
I stare. The bag is pink with a photo of a pug wearing a pointy birthday hat. A rainbow of tissue paper peeks out from the top. It’s offensive on every level, which I think is the point.
I want to knock the obnoxious gift bag right off the counter so I don’t have to look at it. But I also want to rip right into it to see what kind of gift Winnie chose.
The bag is too small for things like cologne or a shirt, the kinds of gifts I get every Christmas from my family.
Exactly what I ask for, no surprises. This morning, Winnie gave me a seed, which is still in my pocket because what am I supposed to do with it?
I don’t want to plant it, and I feel bad throwing it away.
A gift card? Too boring.
Cash? Ditto.
The pug stares back with its bugged-out eyes, mocking me. I want to look away, but I can’t meet Winnie’s gaze right now. “You didn’t need to do this.”
“I know. But I did, and there are no take-backs.”
I’m still fishing for a response when Winnie stands and heads for the door, moving faster than seems possible wearing high heels. Probably better I say nothing.
She’s gone, leaving only the gift bag and a napkin with her pink lipstick as proof she was ever here. The rest of the party disbands, thankfully, and I’m left carrying a few cards, a box wrapped in newspaper from Harper, and Winnie’s gift bag, which I hold with two fingers like it’s a snake.
I wait until I’m at Pat’s loft, showered and ready for bed, before opening her gift.
My heart thumps a crooked rhythm as I pull out layers of pink and purple and lime green tissue paper I just know Winnie picked to mess with me.
I can almost imagine her standing in whatever aisle of whatever store sells tissue paper, a finger tapping her lips as she wonders what color combination I’d hate most.
I finally extricate a coffee mug reading World’s Best Boss, just like the one Michael Scott has on his desk in The Office . Is it just because I am her boss? Or did she buy this today, after hearing my one reference to the show?
I stare at the mug for a solid minute before stuffing it back in the bag and hiding the whole thing under the sink in the guest bathroom where I can pretend it doesn’t exist.