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“Definitely. It’s all fine.”
“Everything is totally fine,” I say, even though I feel dirty.
That night there’s no text from him. I don’t text him either.
Sex complicates everything.
20
WTF
Gage
The next night at Sticks and Stones I mess up a drink order—switching an olive for a lemon twist in a martini—because I’m elsewhere. I’m in my head, wondering if I’m supposed to apologize to Elodie.
What would I even say? I mull that over as I remake the drink, then set it down for the customer, who then orders a sandwich and an app of warm olives and hummus.
“Coming right up,” I say, like my helpful attitude can erase the blunder, then I turn to the kitchen to place it when I bump into Zoe. The salad she’s carrying wobbles precariously on the edge of her tray then tumbles onto the floor.
I curse myself privately as I try to catch the bowl but I’m too late—the salad is the collateral damage…of me.
“Oh shoot,” Zoe mutters.
“Sorry. My bad,” I say.
“No, it’s fine. I got it.”
“I’ll clean it,” I say, insisting.
“It’s okay. Let me just have the kitchen redo it and I’ll clean it.”
“I really will get it. I’m just…” I swallow the words I’m distracted. Don’t need my employees knowing I’m unreliable right now.
As I hustle to the back of the house to grab a rag and straighten up, this is my reminder. This is why I don’t want to get close again. Because it leads to messes, to mistakes, to a lack of focus.
I face the same problem the next day, too, when I go to a fall softball practice with Eliza’s team and I’m hardly present. I’m the damn coach yet I’m lost in my head. Am I missing something with drills? With this scrimmage? With the batting practice? I feel like my brain is breaking. It’s split evenly between how to field a hard grounder and whether I messed up when I went cold the other day.
But I’m still pissed at myself for giving in to desire in the supply room. It’s so easy to give in with Elodie. She’s temptation in a clever, bright, loyal, feisty, vulnerable, sexy package of blonde hair, red lipstick, and polka dots.
When I’m home that night with Eliza, I try to reset. She’s telling me about what she learned in history class as we unmold the soap we made two days ago—the day I confessed so much of my past to Elodie. This loaf is finally cool and dry enough to slice. Eliza sets it on a sheet of wax paper, then wields a butter knife that’s sharp enough. “This is my favorite part.”
“It’s very satisfying,” I say.
“Why is it so fun?” she asks, grinning.
“Because it’s the reward. For all the hard work.”
“Like chocolate is a reward too,” she says, then digs the knife in, the tip of her tongue sticking out as she concentrates.
And I try to concentrate too. I try not to think about chocolate, or Elodie, or the way she listens when I talk, and how she seems to want to know me.
Eliza finishes the first bar, then lifts it high. “Reward!”
“It sure is,” I say, staying focused, staying present.
She cocks her head, considering it, then her green eyes sparkle. “What if we gave one to Elodie? Wait. No. They won’t be ready. Can we give her one of the grapefruit ones I made a couple weeks ago? You can give it to her as a gift on opening night?”
So much for my efforts to stop thinking about her. “How about you hold on to it for the next time you see her? It’s really a gift from you.”
