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It had been three days since the fair, and she hadn’t seen Dean since he dropped her off at her apartment. Maggie knew it would take at least a few dates for him to realize she was the love of his life—especially after her gastrointestinal pyrotechnics. When the Ferris wheel had stopped, Dean had helped her off the ride and grabbed a bottle of water. Mac had propped her up against the security fence and offered a handkerchief to wipe her mouth. Neither had treated her like a leper, so she was hopeful Dean wasn’t too grossed out to keep their pseudo relationship going.
Maggie knew Dean’s advertising job held more traditional banker hours than her job at the shop, so she assumed their next date would be on the weekend. She had time to mine her favorite novels for ideas. Tropes were tropes for a reason. They always worked out. In books. Maggie’s first date had gone a little off the rails, but the Ferris wheel still stopped at the top, despite what Mac had said. The next date would go off without a hitch. It had to.
Heavy footsteps broke Maggie’s internal dialogue, and she looked up, coming face to face with the customer who’d waved her off not ten minutes before.
“Hi.” He leaned on the counter, smudging the clean surface with his blunt fingertips. “Maybe you can help me. Your employee—” he sighed and gestured towards the back where Shay must have been, “She was less than helpful.”
“I’d be more than happy to give you a hand.” Maggie’s smile stretched thin. “But I need to clarify that my coworker uses they/them pronouns, and we would both appreciate you using them going forward.”
“Seriously?” A muscle in the man’s jaw clenched. “Does it even matter? She isn’t here right now.”
“They aren’t here right now.” Maggie corrected. “And it does matter.”
“Sure, I’m looking for a Mighty Morphin Power Rangers Action Figure. The Red Ranger or Megazord from ’93 or ’94.”
“Let me check the computer, and we can head back to see what we have.”
“Thank you.” He pulled his body off the counter and out of her personal space.
Maggie sidestepped to the computer by the register and waited for the log-in screen to load. “This may take a few minutes. The system is pretty old.”
“That’s fine,” the man said. “At least you’re helping me. That girl just sat there reading her damn comic book while I—”
“My coworker is nonbinary.” Maggie’s annoyance clogged her throat. “They use they/them pronouns. I cannot help you if you cannot be respectful of them.”
“This has to be a joke.” The man propped his hands on his hips, teeth so tightly clenched that his words were barely recognizable. “She—” He looked at Maggie’s pursed lips and flashing eyes. “They are wearing a skirt.”
“The clothes someone wears do not dictate their gender identity. I’m wearing pants. That doesn’t make me a man.”
“What?” The man rolled his eyes. “You’re telling me that’s a dude in a skirt? Whatever. Just type on your computer, little girl, and tell me if you have what I want.”
“No,” Maggie said.
“I’m a customer.” Spittle covered the glass display. “Your job is to help me.”
“No.”
“It’s not like they hired you for your intelligence,” He said, his words choppy. “Listen, bitch—”
A hand slammed down on the display counter, clanking the daggers and action figures against each other. Maggie jumped at the sudden sound, and her heart hammered inside her chest, but as she looked up into Mac’s stony face, it wasn’t fear that made her pulse pound. Mac stared at the other man, his face blank. He was a few inches shorter than the rude customer, but with his dark glower and menace wafting off of his broad body, he seemed to take up the entire shop. Maggie could see the vein pulsing along his temple, and his cheeks flushed with anger. His knuckles ridged white bumps underneath his tanned skin.
“Don’t finish that sentence.” Mac’s voice was so low Maggie almost didn’t understand the words. She understood the tone, though. So did the angry customer.
“Are you the damn owner?” Mr. Angry sized up Mac, smirking when he recognized his taller height. Mac’s frown returned to his face, deep lines furrowing between his thick eyebrows and his nostrils flared as he took a deep breath.
“No.”
“How do you think the owner would feel about this prissy thing denying a huge sale because she just had to be politically correct?”
Maggie could hear the teeth grinding together in Mac’s jaw. Desperate to save some of his tooth enamel—he had a pleasant smile—she slid her hand over the top of the one Mac still splayed out on the counter. Mac took a shuddering breath and flipped his hand so their palms kissed. He laced their fingers together and squeezed. Maggie squeezed back, then slid her hand away.
“Gary supports his employees and understands that no job is worth debasing yourself for disrespectful idiots,” Maggie said, pasting on a sweet smile tailored to rankle the bigot in front of her. She kept her hands behind the counter so neither man would see them shake.
“You would be the disrespectful idiot.” Mac’s grin erred on the side of terrifying. “Get out.”
“Excuse me.” Mr. Angry glared at Mac. “You don’t know what happened here.”
“I don’t need to.” Mac said. “Get out.”
