I haven’t been on the receiving end of…anything.
She didn’t rip into me for leaving without her on Monday. Hasn’t demanded an explanation or another ride-along. Hasn’t seared me with glares or even passive-aggressively avoided eye-contact.
No. Any time we’ve passed on the farm, it’s been a subtle chin dip of acknowledgement. A politeI see you there.
It’s been the worst kind of punishment, slowly peeling the wrapper away from the ball of guilt I’m doing my best not to acknowledge.
She waslate.
I left on time. Like I had every right to do to any colleague who didn’t take the work schedule seriously.
It shouldn’t make me feel like the world’s biggest dickhead, but it’s threatened to with every civil, silent pass-by. And that constant undercurrent of shame has somehow—despite all my efforts—made her an even biggerdistraction than she would have been had I just waited for her to show before leaving the dock.
Which is why I’m done giving her headspace.
Now.
Mark’s moonshine suddenly looks far less deadly and exponentially more medicinal. I’m stepping toward the fire when Joy intercepts me.
“Grayson, dear. How’s that little angel of yours?”
We chat for a minute about Lala, whom Joy babysits whenever we’re in a tight spot, and then she tells me about her new garden.
“Nothing like your brother’s operation, of course,” she laughs, batting my chest. “But it’s lovely. Gives me an excuse to get away from my husband when he starts to annoy me.”
I doubt her husband minds that one bit.
In fact, I find myself wishing for a garden to materialize when she glances around and pauses at the very direction I’d just stared too long at. “Ah! There she is. That wonderful phone girl.”
“Social Media Director.” The correction slides out automatically.
Why do I care what Joy calls her?
“Sure. That’s what I said,” she agrees amicably, gaze still aimed at Boston. “I owe her a thank you for Monday morning. Excuse me.”
She pats my chest in dismissal, but the day of the week registers and I blurt, “Thank her for what?”
“Oh, you didn’t hear?”
No, I didn’t. Unlike Joy, not everyone mainlines town gossip. I arch a brow in question.
“There was an incident at the coffee shop. Nancy tripped into Ms. Director there and spilled coffeeeverywhere. It was a total disaster. Poor thing, that Nancy.” She tsks in sympathy. “That girl helped us clean up and walked Nancy out to her car. Then she ran off in this big rush before I could thank her, or she could even get her own coffee.”
I’m no longer smelling the campfire, or thinking about Mark’s moonshine, or hearing the genial buzz of conversation.
“Joy, what time was this at?”
She takes too long to think about it. “Just before work. Nine or so, I’d say.”
The wrapper flies off my guilt in one clean pull, and the sense that I’m a total asshole is no longer just a niggling thought.
It’s front and fucking center.
Eliza was late because she was helping an elderly woman with an unfortunate accident.
Not because she didn’t prioritize the farm schedule or respect the time we set.
Because she was busy being a good fucking person.
