I avoided his look.
“Of course,” I said casually.
It wasn’t about the statue, even though she was always on my mind lately. Not entirely. It was about the fact that all day long, I heard people discussing their exciting plans for the night, the new year bringing hope for the future and a new start. Not a single person asked me what I was doing or invited me, whichI’d grown to accept, but for whatever reason, it wore me down today.
Deckard held my stare until I felt itchy. I carefully navigated my way through cats and back behind the counter.
“What are you doing on New Year’s?” I asked.
He blew out a breath through pursed lips. “I haven’t decided yet.” He started counting on his fingers. “My mom has her annual New Year’s Masquerade Party, but I don’t know if I’m up for that this year.” His mom was the mayor, and he had five, yes,five, older sisters. He switched to another finger. “Then there’s always the big party at The Tipsy.” The Tipsy Trekker was the bar the locals used, affectionately referred to as just The Tipsy. “I don’t know. I can’t decide. Why? Do you want to hang out? It could be like the old days, where we gorge ourselves on junk food and binge-watchTerraformative?”
I perked up hopefully. “Yeah? I’ll bring the Pop-Tarts and marshmallow fluff.”
(It would be difficult to believe that both Deckard and I were almost thirty based on this conversation.)
Deckard and I met in first grade, and by the time we were in fifth, we were inseparable. Much like most of the world, we became totalTerraformativenerds and watched obsessively in high school. Even now, we returned to the old show as much as we could despite it having just celebrated its twentieth anniversary. One of the things we had in common was our ability to enjoy things that made us happy without concerning what others thought of us—him because he’s beloved by all in town and me because nobody ever noticed me.
But even those traditions were fading as we got older, and the sentimentality I felt for those old days sometimes gripped me so hard I couldn’t breathe.
“I’m getting dinner with Cass first, but then we could all meet up after your shift.”
I had played third wheel to many of Deckard’s “not real” dates over the years, and rarely did the women he went out with find it charming that he brought around his lovable, zany, perpetually single best friend. But at least I had plans now. I came around the counter to his table, feeling more excited. We could wear our oldIntrepid Trioshirts, and maybe I could get him to be a model for my next knitting project?—
“Crap.” His eyebrows crashed back down as his shoulders slumped.
The flame of hope burning inside me guttered out. I knew that look. Deckard, bless his heart, always double-booked himself. A downside to being the best friend of one of the most popular guys in town. He was always helping a sister or his mom or any of the residents around town.
In addition to the absolute lack of attraction between us, this was one of the main reasons we would never work out. He’s too busy. I needed at least three to four hours a day to sit and stare out the window in silence.
Thankfully, I had that in spades.
“I just remembered one of my sisters asked me if I would babysit after dinner.” He tugged on his floppy hair. “You could join me?”
“Which sister?” I asked suspiciously.
“Dottie,” he said, not meeting my eyes. I bore my glare into the side of his head until he looked at me. “Yeah, okay. Now, I remember why I didn’t mention it before.”
Dottie hadn’t liked me since we were in the eighth grade and I accidentally set fire to her bedspread. It was an honest mistake, a science experiment gone wrong.
And then again at twenty-three. In my defense, the conditions were perfect for a re-trial.
She’d never forgiven me.
“She hardly brings up the peanut butter incident anymore,” he said, but still wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“Oh yeah, I forgot about that too,” I mumbled.
Apparently, she didn’t believe I was “fit to watch her children” when I had the attention span of a?—
“Look! Mr. Sparkles is snuggling with Godzilla. That’s adorable. Just last week, they wouldn’t even be on the same side of the café,” I said and crouched down to pet the two cats with their front paws wrapped in a hug. “Look at you cute wittle babies.”
“What are you going to do then?” he asked me.
“I’m just gonna let them snuggle. I should take a picture, though. Good idea.” I pulled out my phone.
“For New Year’s, Bee,” he said with another quirk of his lips before I looked back to add to my collection of cat photos for the adoption website.
I could be honest and say I had no plans, but Deckard would feel bad. Then I would get uncomfortable and probably do something stupid like knit little paw-puppets for the cats to perform a puppet show just to make him laugh. It would become a whole thing.
