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"Don't look at me. I didn't go to college."
"Me either. Not yet."
I never thought about those kinds of technicalities. I was an angry kid without responsibilities. One who'd never ever wanted for anything. Who'd never worried about anything.
Easy to decry three-dollar meatballs and cheap decorations when you have the time and money to make your own dinner, sew together your own jeans.
You get older. Start making compromises. Realize some of your ideals were naïve.
But owning my own business—even one adorned in Ikea decorations—that warms me like nothing else does.
She smiles. "You're going to do it."
"I was always going to do it."
"No... you weren't. I know you. I know every single one of your facial expressions."
"I have expressions?"
"Barely. But you do."
"You have a room to furnish."
"You saying you can't handle it?"
"You baiting me?"
She shakes her head.
But she is.
She has no idea how much she's baiting me.
We pick out a bed, a bookshelf, a chair, a handful of decorations. It's not a lot. Just enough for the room to scream Kaylee. Just enough for the room to feel like home.
Her eyes go to the sign next to the elevator. The ones that label the cafe on the third floor. "I guess I can give the three-dollar meatballs a chance."
"Generous."
"I think so too."
The elevator dings as its doors slide open. I motion after you.
She steps inside and presses her back against the metal wall.
I pull out my phone. Check my texts from Ryan. Manning has been an absent owner for years. Ryan and I more or less manage the place.
We try to check with each other about any changes—schedules, pricing, difficult clients, even what brand of coffee we keep on hand—but it's a formality.
Neither of us listens.
Brendon: I want to do it. Me and you. Or the four of us.
Ryan: You know I'm off relationships.
Brendon: And I?
Ryan: Only have eyes for Kaylee. You sure about this?
