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Me: None of your business.
Axel: I could ask Ellen.
Me: She’s a vault.
Axel: Brit.
Me: Okay, she would tell you in a few seconds flat. But what is this? You avoid me but you want private information? What are the boundaries here?
Axel: Wait, we’re talking boundaries? Is it therapy? It’s gotta be therapy.
Me: None of your business!
Axel: If it’s therapy, I’m all for it.
Me: I’m done with this conversation.
Axel: My therapist’s name is Patricia Avveduto.
Me: Why are you telling me this?
Axel: Because if we had the same therapist, it would be fucking weird.
THIRTEEN
Brit
In February, as dreary rain blanketed Portland, I decided to woman up. My abject embarrassment from Christmas Eve had gone down a notch, and my craving to see Axel hadn’t subsided. I missed him. I wanted to be in his aura again, kiss or no kiss. We wouldn’t sleep together—I’d definitely pushed that boat from shore and watched it sail away, all by myself—but Axel was good for my mental health, and my therapist agreed.
“If he’s been through recovery, he’s done the work,” she said when I spent an entire session talking about Axel like he was the second coming of Jesus. “He understands the process. The key is to communicate with him clearly, Brit. I think you should try.”
I couldn’t communicate with him when he knew my schedule and never came to The Corner when I was there, so I played a trick by swapping shifts with someone else at the last minute.
As a result, I came to work twenty minutes before my shift started to find Axel and Grant in the back storeroom. Axel was lifting a box off a shelf and labeling it with a Sharpie, and Grant was sitting in a folding chair, watching.
“It’s a good idea,” Grant said.
“I don’t know,” Axel replied, uncapping the marker and scribbling on the box. “I’ll have to see the numbers.”
I stepped into the doorway, and both of them looked at me.
“Hi,” I said.
Axel gave me a look that was narrow-eyed but not angry. “You’re not scheduled to work,” he said.
“I switched shifts with Alison.” I held his gaze, staring into those blue eyes and not looking away.
Ignoring our standoff, Grant clapped his hands once. “Brit. This is excellent. You can settle a debate for us.”
I gave him an amused look. “One about how Axel does all of the work?”
“I’msupervising,” Grant replied. “Someone has to.”
We smiled at each other. Grant made a show of hating anything to do with spreadsheets or manual labor, but I’d worked here long enough now to know that he’d come up with the original concept for The Corner, scouted and rented the location, and made a business plan to borrow money from the bank. He’d created the interior design and the menu. Axel, according to Grant, supplied “cash, eye candy, and an aura of cool.”
I looked back at Axel. I couldn’t speak about the cash, but there was no arguing with the eye candy or the aura of cool. How did he make a hoodie and artfully ripped jeans look so hot? He was still looking at me, his expression unreadable.
“Cupcakes,” Grant said, unaware that my brain was screamingI kissed him, I kissed him!at top volume inside my head. “I met the most amazing baker, and she’s willing to supply us. I think we should add them to the menu. What do you think?”
