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I grit out, “That’s because it’s broken, and she was waiting for the coffee people to send someone to come and fix it, dumbass.”
Nate ignores this and watches the brown sludge drip from the copper spout on the malfunctioning machine. “Ouch…shit, that’s hot,” Nate mutters. “Here you go, that will be twelve-fifty.”
Twelve-fifty for a fucked up espresso and two day-old donuts. Oh my god.
I watch as my son fumbles through using the cash transaction app on his phone while handing over the order.
“Come see me for a job tomorrow when this goes belly up. And don’t forget to return the generator,” I seethe, then stalk away because I’m unfit for the public right now.
I climb into my truck and think about what transpired.
Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. Perhaps I should let Nate be Nate and be more supportive.
This thought battles with the idea that, no, the boy is clearly doing this to get my goat. That’s fine. What I don’t like, what really set me off, was that he was doing this to hurt Mariam. The thought of anyone disturbing her world makes me see red.
Even when it’s my own son.
ChapterEight
Mariam
Look at them all out there.
Chatting and laughing and eating crappy donuts, probably made from frozen dough.
Well, I can’t control what Jesse does, but I can respond to Nate. He wants to mess with me? He’s going to lose.
He can try to turn my day into garbage. But am I going to let him?
No. No, I am not.
Because I have an idea. I run to the back room to grab my portable sandwich board, and on it, I scrawl in big chalk letters: “Sweetie Pie’s is from scratch!” I walk across the street, planting the board a few feet away from Nate’s kiosk.
“You can’t put that here!” Nate says.
I turn to face him, in shock that he could even have the balls to talk to me after what he did, after never bothering to explain himself for not showing up to our date.
“It’s a public park, so if you can be here, so can I,” I say, smiling sweetly, turning the sandwich board around to ensure the giant arrow I drew points to my shop. Because it would be just like me to point it facing the wrong way.
Jesse and Joyce are gone, and I suppose that’s fair enough.
The cowboy got distracted by a pair of long legs in a pencil skirt.
Doesn’t matter. I hold my head high and march back across the street, pouring myself a third cup of coffee I do not need.
I do not get to drink it, though.
My sign is far more effective than intended.
Within minutes, my little shop is buzzing with customers.
I sell out of everything in less than an hour; it’s so busy that I let the bakery phone go to voicemail, even though someone has been calling urgently during this busy time.
I close up shop at noon, exhausted, but satisfied at seeing Nate outside, still standing around with his weak-ass cold donuts, most likely made from a batter from a giant restaurant-supply conglomerate.
Why he decided to compete with me, this morning of all mornings, is beyond me. I’m done trying to figure out that guy. I’m done trying to understand anything about that entire family.
What weird behavior from both of them.
