Page 63 of I Saw You First

“No, no, she’d write for The Green Thumb Gazette. You know, the newsletter they mail out.” Mom sits down in front of the tiniest sliver of pumpkin pie. Mine’s gigantic and piled high with Cool Whip. I need to keep my strength up for tomorrow. “When can I tell Bobbi that you’ll be available, Abbey?”

“Um, never? First of all, I don’t have time for an interview. I worked almost seventy hours last week. Secondly, The Green Thumb Gazette? Really?”

“Why not?” Mom asks. “It’s a newspaper, isn’t it?”

“I want to write about music and concerts, not… not soil types or whatever they write about in The Green Thumb Gazette. I can’t even keep a spider plant alive.”

“Well,” Mom sniffs. “That’s because you’re never home.”

“Now, Jeannie, give poor Abbey a break,” Glamma says. “She’s working so hard.”

“There’s nothing wrong with working retail,” Dad chimes in. “Builds character.”

I don’t sleep through my alarm Friday morning, thankfully, and I’m showered and out the door by 2:30. My mouth falls open when I turn into the parking lot. A line of people, bundled up against the cold, begins at the front door and wraps around the corner of the building. Some sit in camp chairs, some huddle together against the brick building, wearing various items of winter gear, sleeping bags, and fuzzy blankets. I was expecting a crowd, but I wasn’t expecting this.

“What time do you open?” asks a middle-aged woman with orange, fake-tan skin and platinum blonde hair with dark roots. Her teal and purple Charlotte Hornets jacket is so saturated with ashy, bitter cigarette smoke that I have to hold my breath.

“Six,” I gasp out.

“Walmart opens at five,” she whines.

I’d like to say something along the lines of, “So go shop at Walmart and get out of my line, you cow,” but instead, I smile pleasantly, turn, and suck in a lungful of fresh, cold air.

I straighten my reindeer headband. The jingle bells hanging from the antlers chime. When Jeremy informed us that we could “enhance” our uniforms in the spirit of the holiday, I immediately went to Glamma’s and raided her Christmas totes for accessories and vintage clothing, and I’ve got more than enough embellishments to get me through the next few weeks.

“Morning, toots,” a greasy, bearded guy of indeterminate age in a flannel jacket says as I walk past. His coat does nothing to mask the ripe, sweaty stench rolling off him in waves. “I like the way you jingle.”

Gross. It’s official, I’m a creep magnet.

I balk and clutch the straps of my backpack, glad to see that Wil is only a few yards from me. He waits at the front door with a white bakery bag at his feet and a gas station coffee in each hand. He looks… amazing. Messy black hair, those sexy dark glasses, scruff on his face like he couldn’t be bothered to take time out of his holiday for something as mundane as shaving. He smells a thousand times better than the people in line. I wonder how much sleep he got yesterday. I wonder if he spent the day with his family or if he stayed home and watched football alone.

“Hey,” he says in that low, scratchy voice that turns me inside out, and I want to put my palms against that scruff and mash my face into his. Me and Wil against the world.

Clearly, I’m sleep deprived.

“What is wrong with people?” I whisper. “I already need another shower.”

“It’s only downhill from here,” he says. “Black Friday brings out the worst.”

“And the stinkiest.”

He hands me one of the cups, warm with wisps of steam rising through the little hole in the lid, and then the bag. He shrugs, a tiny smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “I got you a donut. And I know how much you love your Irish cream lattes, but gas station house blend was the best I could do. Nothing else is open.”

I blink. Wil bought me a donut. And coffee.

Before I can thank him, Jimmy whips his pickup into the parking lot and flings himself out of the cab. He’s wearing a bright green sweater with the Grinch’s face and blinking, battery-powered Christmas lights. Jimmy’s the new merch TC, a transfer from a Chicagoland store who calls me by a different Beatles album name every day.

“Ho ho ho!” Jimmy runs through the parking lot singing “Sleigh Ride” by TLC at the top of his lungs.

“Jesus,” Wil mutters.

“Is the reason for the season!” Jimmy shouts.

“Jimmy! You look so festive!” I hug him. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Was that… TLC?” Wil twists the key in the lock.

“Fuck, yeah! Let’s do this!” Jimmy pulls me into a headlock. “Oh, whoops, fans. Pardon my language. But what up, Wil? I saw you give Magical Mystery Tour a coffee. Where’s mine?”