She cocks her head and doesn’t even need to sayduhbecause it’s written all over her face.
God, it’s only been a few weeks since I moved back here, but I really missed them.
Of course, when I tell them this, they both groan.
“Are you still going to take us to the beach, Uncle Benji?” Dom asks. “You promised.”
Yeah, that’s a lie, but fuck me because I can’t deny them anything when they’re both looking at me like that.
“Sure thing, kiddo.”
Chapter Twelve
PAIGE
It’s been a week since the Color Wheel, and things with Benji are … fragile.
I’ve waved hello in the mornings. I’ve let myself smile when we make eye contact through our shop windows.
I’ve written and deleted a hundred texts before Skye threatened to take my phone away.
But it’s not like it wasbefore.It’s too new; the ice feels thin and ready to break. I think Benji is worried that I don’t want him anymore, but I do. I just … want more.
I need to know that this Benji—the one who shares what he’s feeling, even when it’s hard for him—is going to stick around. That this isn’t temporary. That we can last.
I’m staring at his number again when Skye pushes into the shop, thirty-five minutes late. She madeway better time than I’d thought she would after hitting up a concert with Rhys last night.
“Look who the hangover dragged in,” I tease, leaning my elbows on the counter and taking in her haphazard appearance. “You didn’t get caught in this morning’s rain, did you? There are puddles up and down the alley.”
My least favorite pothole looks like a small pond right now. Fucking council.
Skye walks by, sliding her feet along the floor, her eyes half shut. “Last night … amazing.”
I snort. “Must have been if you can’t form complete sentences.”
“Shh,” she whispers. “Want my birthday now.”
She continues past me to the studio, and I let her go without a fight. She needs it more than me today. Instead, I change over to our hangover playlist and text Marcie to add an extra shot to Skye’s coffee.
The reminder of her birthday gives me pause.
I love our store. I love the hand-painted sign with anEthat looks like it’s jumping for joy because we were too excited to draw guiding lines before Skye started painting. I love the fake plants we hung in the corners of the room, even though we both hate dusting them. I even love the fingermarks that kids leave on the windows when they’re begging their parents to let them inside. Kids never hold back their reactions to smells, and it’s the best part of any day.
So, yeah, I love this store, and, dammit, we’ve worked so hard to get here. So hard to keep it going. Two years isan amazing accomplishment, but I’m tired. I want a break, and Skye needs one too. That’s why I offered her the week off for her birthday. She’s earned it. We both have.
I hate how much I’m dreading that week though.
Who gets upset at a gifttheyoffered in the first place? Awful people—that’s who. So, I smile and shut up because I would do anything for Skye, and she deserves this.
It’s just that … have you ever worked in retail?
It’s … how do I put this nicely? A psychological torture like no other, which will leave you questioning exactly how much you like people anyway.
Case in point: “Excuse me. How long do these last?”
Calm Candles gets customers of all ages and walks of life. Unfortunately, it also seems to attract a few of the most disrespectful, entitled assholes I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting.
I take in the woman at the far side of the store. Mid-forties. Dark hair in a painfully tight, slick-backed ponytail. She’s holding up one of our hundred-hour candles. The jars are actually made from reclaimed glass bottles, recycled by an artist who crushes the top halves and turns them into hilarious stained-glass hangings they sell online.
