“Both are coming right up.” Turning quickly, I march back to the counter to get his order in. The man makes me nervous. Not because he’s a famous movie star; if anything, that fact repels me. But there’s something about him. Something that intrigues me… just a little.
“Nikki, why do some buildings stay standing in earthquakes, but others fall apart?” James asks me as he chews the end of his pencil. I grab the fresh pot of coffee and my service cloth.
“It’s all about structure and flexibility. The best buildings have designs that absorb shock, things like reinforced steel frames or base isolators that let them move with the ground instead of fighting it.” The information rolls off my tongue easily. MIT was hard, but I graduated, right before we escaped in the dead of night, taking a Greyhound bus with our hats pulled low and all our possessions in a small duffel.
“So why don’t they make every building like that?” His follow-up question gives me pause.
“Money, mostly. Safety costs. They build fast and cheap, without thinking about the consequences.”
“What’s with all the questions, kiddo?” Rochelle moves around quickly as more people stream in, and I know I need to get back to work.
“We’re going to visit the sheriff's office tomorrow on a field trip. I want to be prepared with questions. Our topic is disaster relief.”
Swallowing hard, I try not to show any emotion. Not that visiting the sheriff is bad. He comes in here a lot, and I’ve met him many times. He’s Rochelle's husband, the two of them almost inseparable. But if anyone were going to try to find us, I have a feeling the local sheriff would be the first person to be notified.
Swallowing down that concern, I agree with him. “It’s good to be prepared.”
James looks at me as I walk away, his smile slipping, giving me a little nod. He knows. We’ve talked about it at length.
“One hot coffee…” I stand at Sutton’s table and pour him a fresh cup.
“Your kid asks good questions.”
I stop mid pour. James and I weren't talking loudly, but with no one here to talk to, Sutton is probably attuned to the conversations around him. James is here every day after school, doing his homework and reading books, sitting at the end of the counter for an hour until I finish my shift. Sutton has seen him around multiple times but never commented until now.
This is new. Sutton normally doesn’t talk much, doesn’t look up or around. He’s staying with his brother, but rumors have it that he’s building a house here. Liking the privacy a small town like Whispers brings. For weeks, I’ve served him, and we’ve barely said two words to each other. But I know his eyes follow me wherever I go. I can feel him watching me. Caught him a few times too.
“He’s smart,” I say simply, placing the coffee in front of him.
He looks back at James and then me again. “He looks like you.”
My heart thuds harder as the fear of people knowing too much creeps in. One of the first things we did when we left Manhattan was dye our hair. My usual blond tresses are now black. The upkeep is one that boxed dye ensures I do almost monthly. James grew his hair, looking less polished than he did when attending one of the most expensive private schools in New York. Again, I color it, trying anything and everything to keep our real identities hidden. So far, no one’s come looking, although I know there are missing person posters everywhere in the city. Here, in Whispers, is a world away from all that.
“He would hate to hear you say that.” I make light of it as a small grin comes to my face. It’s the truth; James would hate to be compared to a girl.
“Shouldn’t be. It’s a compliment.”
My smile stalls as my eyes meet his. The air around us thickens. Taking a breath, I reinforce my shield.
“Let me just go get your pie.” I ignore his statement and walk briskly back to the counter. I haven’t had many genuine compliments in my life. Instead, many merely tokens, off-the-cuff remarks that are said without even looking at me. That’s what happens when people want to get to know your father rather than you. They use you to get to him, using a cloud of contrived bullshit to cover their real agendas.
“Can I just grab a small chicken pie for Sutton?” I ask as I approach the counter. They smell amazing as Rochelle pushes the hot little potpies from the tray into the large display dish.
“Sure, honey.” The roar of my stomach has her pausing. “Sounds like you need one too?” She looks at me in a way that a mother might look at their daughter. Knowingly. “Did you eat today?”
Her eyebrows pinch when I don’t respond. No, I haven’t eaten. I took my lunch break and sat in the park down near the school, eating an apple that was so old I should’ve stewed it. I also skipped breakfast, giving James the last bagel, which I’m now thankful for because he skipped lunch.
“Of course,” I lie. My fake smile is wide, but my stomach betrays me once again.
She clicks her tongue, a move my own mother used to do, giving me a sense of warmth that’s been absent for too long.
“Go give Sutton his pie, and I’ll put one on a plate for you and one for James.”
“No, Rochelle, we’re fine—”
She interrupts me quickly, frowning, giving me her don’t-mess-with-me face. “The afternoon rush is about to start, and I don’t need you fainting on me.” Her voice is matter of fact, and I suck in a sharp breath. I know what she's doing. She acts tough, but she’s a big softy underneath. I’m glad I met her; her heart is pure gold.
But I hate handouts. I’m the last person who deserves them. Yet she’s right. I don’t want to faint, not here. Not now. So I deliver Sutton his pie and walk back to sit with James, the two of us eating quickly. With my stomach now settled, I get started on my last hour here, relieved I don’t need to scrounge up something for dinner tonight.
