9. Stairway to Spite #3
Just what a girl always wanted to hear—I’m an opportunity.
“I’m fine,” I say, pouring more lemonade into plastic cups.
“Viper, please.” I don’t know if it’s the way Cole says Viper or please that has me putting the pitcher down, but I do.
“I’ll be back in five minutes,” I tell Nana Mae.
“No need, dear. I’m closing up soon. Time to head over to the pie eating contest. Stanley’s been practicing all year, so I promised to support him.”
Great. At least I still have work to use as an excuse.
I slip out the back of the tent and Cole holds out his hand as though I should walk with him.
I do. All the way back to his house, beyond the garage, and to a tree swing that overlooks the ocean.
I don’t remember seeing this down here before. Is this another kindness he performed under the cover of darkness?
He holds it steady, as though he expects me to jump on like I’m a ten-year-old.
Instead, I walk to the edge of the water, kick off my sandals, and sink my toes in. Moments later, he follows, coming to stand beside me with his jaw set and his shoulders squared.
Great. Another fight.
“I apologize for using you to get away from Lola. She doesn’t take no for an answer, and when I saw that ring on your hand, I—” His chin drops to his chest. “I’m sorry.” He nudges me with his elbow, then slips me a small tube of Aquaphor. “This might help get it off.”
Doubtful. So far, olive oil, coconut oil, dish soap, ice water, and something called beef tallow that Nana Mae gave me haven’t worked.
But I take it and tuck it in my pocket.
“Why does Nana Mae hate them so much?”
Cole’s shoulders droop even more. “Lola’s mom and my mom were sort of friends when they were young. They went their separate ways for college but became competitors in adulthood when they both went to work for the same company, just in different cities.
“But I think Nana Mae has had it out for Paula since she hit on my grandfather when they were teens.” He bends down to pick up a rock and throws it far out into the ocean.
“The real issue is that Lola’s mom was supposed to be on assignment in New York, not my mom.
Apparently, Paula had a meltdown that kept her daughter here, and because my mom was so competitive, she went to New York in her place.
Dad went with her—they were making a weekend of it.
But they never made it home. Nana Mae blames Paula for our loss. ”
I dart my hand out to rest on his forearm. It’s the most I’ve heard him talk about his parents. Ever. Before I can offer anything in sympathy, he changes the subject.
“I also read your report last night.”
That has me standing up straighter and removing my hand like I need armor for this conversation.
“And?”
“The LLC. The vendors.” He lowers his voice, though the nearest person is two football fields away. “I want you to stop digging into the account holder.”
I take a step away. “Excuse me?”
“For now,” he amends when he clocks my expression. “I want you to focus on the tax assessment first. Get the books clean for the county deadline. Find proof for what you believe is going on. The proof is the priority.”
“The priority is figuring out where $48,000 went, Cole. The tax assessment is damage control. The LLC is an actual crime.”
“Junie—”
“You hired me for this.” My voice drops to a register I don’t entirely control. “You said you needed me because you couldn’t find the connecting thread. I found the thread, and now you’re asking me to stop pulling?”
He exhales through his nose, and the tendon in his neck jumps. “I’m asking you to prioritize.”
I tug harder on the ring. I need it off. I need it to come off now.
“You’re asking me to look the other way.”
We stare at each other as another battle wages. His walls are up, but so are mine. We’re two people standing on opposite sides of the same silence, both armed, neither willing to fire first.
Then something shifts—his armor showing the first signs of a crack. A sadness buried by fear that’s gone before I can call him on it.
“There are things about this situation,” he says carefully, “that are more complicated than numbers.”
“Numbers aren’t complicated, Cole. People make them complicated.”
“Exactly.” That one word sounds heavy and laced with regret as it leaves his mouth.
What the hell is he afraid of?
Once upon a time, he would’ve trusted me. He would’ve believed in me. But apparently that time has passed, and now I’m just an employee.
As an employee, I can be ice-cold. No heat, no burn of righteous indignation. Just a clean, sharp frost that coats my insides and turns my voice into something polished, professional, and utterly, completely empty.
“Understood. I’ll focus on the tax assessment.”
He blinks. Whatever he expected, it wasn’t compliance. “Junie—”
“I said ‘understood.’ You’re my boss, Mr. Whittaker. You gave me an order, and I’ll follow it.”
His hand reaches out lightning fast. The warmth of his palm cradling mine causes another fissure in my wall. He feels like home and love and happily ever afters I’ve obviously made up in my head.
Because that’s not what this is.
So I smile. It’s the smile I gave when I presented my capstone project. The one that could pass a polygraph while lying through its teeth. “I’m going to head in. I’ve got a lot to do to prepare for the assessment.”
I don’t storm off. I just…leave. Clean and quiet, like flipping a switch.
This is what the world didn’t see of me because they decided I’m all fire. But the truth is, the fire is the performance. The ice is real. Fire is what I’m forced into when I’m out of options. Ice is what I reach for when I still have the chance to disappear.
I climb the steps to my apartment—the treads glowing beneath my feet, mocking me with their warmth—and close the door behind me.
Then I sit on my couch and stare at the wall while I quietly rearrange my carefully constructed plans.
Eventually, I grab my laptop, open the program that will sort Cole’s tax assessment, and get to work on what my boss told me to focus on.
And if the world comes crashing down around us in the meantime, fuck it. I’m just following orders.