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She finally meets my gaze.
Her brown, doe-like eyes are inquisitive and nervous. I see recognition, her gaze flitting over my features, to place me correctly.
I stop about a foot away, and her chest rises in a large inhale.
Mine collapses in a deeper one.
I pass the backpack to Willow, our fingers brushing, and something tugs inside of me. I can’t make sense of it. All I know: we’ve been bypassing each other for weeks, two separate strands of time—and in this second, we’ve finally touched.
“Thanks,” she says, pulling the backpack over one shoulder. She holds onto the strap.
When she turns around, she trips over her feet, stumbling a bit before she collects herself and trudges forward.
I feel my lips pull up again, remembering the article. Where her backpack ripped open. She looked cute in the photograph—but the actual article was fucking stupid. It made me want to dump out the journalist’s backpack or purse or whatever and highlight every item for the world to see.
“Garrison,” Lily says as Willow disappears into the break room.
“Yeah?” I rotate to face one of the most famous people in the world. I think it’d dawn on me more if Lily Calloway didn’t live in my neighborhood. If I didn’t grow up surrounded by a similar kind of familial wealth.
It’s just all ordinary for me.
“You can’t,” she says with a confident nod.
I frown. “I can’t what?” I pull off my hoodie and then fix my hair with my hand.
“You can’t…with her.” She clears her throat. “I expect professionalism in my establishment.” She comically raises her chin, and I almost can’t tell if she’s being serious or not.
“Right…” I nod. “Yeah. I won’t…with her.” I don’t really know what I’m agreeing to—my mind is halfway inside that break room.
Lily nods again. “Okay then. I have to go, but Maya will dole out duties and tasks. Please listen to her.”
“I will,” I say, wanting Lily to trust me. I know I have to prove myself.
She exits through the employees’ only door. Leaving me alone with Maya.
The store manager pounds on the keyboard and lets out a frustrated breath. She never looks over at me, but she begins talking.
“You’re the one who peed all over the tiles in the boys’ bathroom.”
I wince at the past memory. “No, that was my… friend.” I’d like to say John drank too much alcohol and drunkenly missed the toilet, but he purposefully pissed on the floor.
Her lips purse, her glare set on the computer screen. “Then you’re the one who rearranged all the action figures on the shelves into an orgy.”
“Not me.” I shake my head. Kyle.
Though her words are a punch to the gut—because I can deflect all day and know that these acts are partially mine to claim.
I never stopped my friends. I couldn’t. And I’m not all innocent either.
“You’re the one who put porn mags in front of every DC comic.”
I shake my head harder. “That wasn’t me.” Hunter, not my brother but my friend.
She tenses and types faster on the keyboard. “Then you’re the one who wrote on the bathroom wall with Sharpie: ‘stop trying to invent the most revolutionary shit. It’s already been done.’ And then you drew a slice of pizza.”
I rub my lips to keep from laughing. Her eyes flicker to me in my silence, narrowing and narrowing.
My mouth downturns, and I drop my hand. “Yeah, that was me.” I gesture to her. “I can go clean it…”
She turns her attention back to the computer and says something in another language. I think Korean. I watch too many foreign YouTube videos that I can just barely detect the language. If I paid more attention, I might’ve been able to catch one or two words and understand her better.
That’s not the point though. She purposefully wants me to not understand her right now. It’s working. I shift uneasily, realizing how much trouble I’ve caused the store manager.
“I’m sorry,” I finally apologize—what I should’ve started with. “I’m really sorry, and I’m going to try to make it up to you.” I extend my arms. “Put me to work.”
I expect her to direct me to the bathrooms, to go clean toilets. “I was going to put Willow on inventory today. You can start in the storage room with her—blasted piece of technology!” She bangs the side of the computer, frustrated.
“Hey, let me see.” I head over to Maya, setting my hoodie on the counter.
She scoots to the side and points at the blue screen of death, pretty much the worst problem for Windows. “I’ve restarted it four times.”
“It might be a hardware problem.”
“How do we fix that?” She drums the counter with two fingers.
“You’d have to buy new equipment.”
Her mouth falls. Before she freaks out, I add, “I’m going to reboot it in safe mode and then check the computer’s memory. You didn’t install any new drivers, did you?”
