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The evening drags by. The takeout does nothing for my mood. Neither does a long shower, where I try rather unsuccessfully to jerk off, unable to even conjure a decent enough fantasy of Kent in my mind.
Nothing compares to the real thing.
Not even phone calls.
“Goodnight,” I say after our short-lived conversation before bed.
“Night, Jonah. Catch you tomorrow.”
I hang up and toss the phone onto my nightstand, then roll over and hug my pillow angrily.
I’m pretty sure the Dreamwood gods are punishing me for something. Did I eat too much funnel cake? Did I piss off the Elysian Seaside Resort manager? Is there a Desert Moon Goddess and is she taking it personally that I didn’t order the oysters off the menu?
These thoughts follow me to work all week. I swear, my job is just standing around the store, giving borderline condescending wardrobe advice to people who never ask for it, fussing with clothing racks, and refolding the same designer sweaters twelve fucking times an hour. Even the usual banter I have with Rico (whenever we share a shift) doesn’t save me from the soul-deflating tedium.
It is relentless.
And every night is punctuated with the same sweet, heart-squeezing words: “Goodnight, Kent.” “Night, Jonah. Catch you tomorrow.”
Every day is the same.
Every day is a punishment.
Every day is—Hey, bitch, don’t go unfolding every pair of fucking jeans that I just spent the last half-hour folding and nicely arranging on that table. If you want a size, just fucking ask me! That’s what I’m here for, for fuck’s sake!
None of these thoughts come out.
Instead, only a neutral smile, and once they move on to the clothing rack, totally oblivious to my fury, I return to folding those clothes back into their pristine state.
Again.
And again.
And—“Tomorrow’s Saturday.”
I blink with surprise, lying back in my bed, just about to sleep. Kent’s observation catches me by surprise. “It is? Already?”
“Yep.” Kent chuckles. “Surprised?”
I stare up at the ceiling, wondering where my whole week’s gone. To be fair, it was only four days, since I had Monday off. Still … “Already Saturday. It’s a big day.”
“Really? What’s going on tomorrow?”
I’ve been in such a zombified daze, I nearly forgot. “It’s my performance review. I was promoted to an assistant floor manager two years ago tomorrow. I get to talk with my boss, evaluate how I’m doing, and get that big-ass raise I’ve been waiting for.”
“Wow. Shit. Last time Malik gave me a raise was …” He clears his throat. “Never, come to think of it. Maybe I should demand a little performance evaluation.”
“I’m hoping to negotiate my next time off, too,” I add. “Y’know. So I can come and spend time with you.”
“I can’t fucking wait,” he says at once.
The sincerity in his voice sets my heart afire. I can’t help the smile that spills over my face. Maybe Saturday will be the day I’ve been waiting for, the day it all comes together, the day I start to make sense of all of this agony.
“That’s what I’ll do,” I decide right now. “I’ll talk to my boss. I’ll work out a new schedule. I’ll get my raise. And I’ll make a concrete plan to come out and visit you again.”
“That’s music to my ears.”
I grin, close my eyes, and picture it. “I swear I can hear the waves. You’d better take me to the fair this time.”
“I thought you hated Ferris Wheels.”
I love so much that Kent remembers everything I tell him. He’s so thoughtful and sweet. “Maybe I just need the right riding companion.”
“That can be arranged. There’s always something new to show you here in Dreamwood. You think you saw it all last weekend? Hell no. That was just the tip of the cotton candy iceberg.”
Maybe hope isn’t such a game of denial. Maybe hope is the force that pushes us to making our fantasies real. “I don’t doubt you for a second.”
“Don’t you accept anything less than high-sung praises from your boss tomorrow.”
I grin. “You bet.”
“Goodnight, Jonah.”
For once, I feel like it will be. “Goodnight, Kent.”
I hang up. When I cuddle my pillow, there’s a smile on my face and choirs singing in my heart as I imagine where my Saturday is about to take me.
That feeling still lives when I wake the next morning. I am literally humming to myself as I make a quick breakfast in the kitchen. Rico stares at me over a cup of coffee, his eyes puffy with sleeplessness, and says, “What the heck is up with you? Did you get laid last night or something?” To that, I smirk and say: “Today, my life is gonna change.”
It’s today’s mantra.
My life is gonna change.
I march into the store, dressed crisply in a dress shirt with a matching stylish tie, designer belt, ironed slacks, and a pair of shoes so shiny, you can fix your hair in their reflection. I am extra cheery when I help customers. I put on a smile that never comes off. I don’t even mind folding the same pair of jeans over and over.
