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I was called “The Therapist” in high school because everyone came to me with their problems and I always knew what to say. It took a little bit for Goldheart to catch on, but now I get one to two advice-seekers each shift.
Ingrid is two years younger than I am and trying the apps in a small town with no big city close, which means the men are scarce and the good men even scarcer.
I don’t want to know how bleak it is.
Ingrid reappears. “Okay, so should I…”
“Enough,” Jackson says, stepping up to the bar. I didn’t see him come in, but now he’s mere feet away from me. He studies me, and I let out an audible breath.
He found the decorations, and he’s not happy about it.
“Jackson, hi,” Ingrid says, turning toward him. I get it, he’s a good-looking guy, but she’s looking at him like she’s a German shepherd and he’s a pizza box she wants to destroy.
“Are you going to order?” he asks Ingrid.
“I, um, I…”
“Shiloh, why don’t you help that person over there? I’ll finish up with Ingrid,” Jackson says, straightening his arms as he leans into the bar top. His position causes his triceps to bulge, and my eyelashes flutter. Does he find Ingrid attractive? She has the longest, most toned legs I’ve ever seen, and dark, silky hair. She fills out those jeans, while mine always gap at the waist because I have no curves whatsoever.
I’m nothing like Ingrid.
Turning, I help a customer, pulling a beer just as I was taught, tilting the glass to the side to avoid too much foam. Ingrid is gone when I turn back, and Jackson still stands there. After I smile and start a tab for the customer, Jackson is still staring.
I made a big mistake.
“Where did Ingrid go? Did she order a beer?” I ask.
“No. She was just wasting your time.”
“She wasn’t wasting my time,” I whisper. My cheeks heat.You can do this. It’s just confrontation.
“Why do you do this?” he asks, his chin tight.
“What?”
“Decorate my office.Bugme.”
My mouth doesn’t work; the saliva has dried up.
“What do you want from me?”
“Nothing.”
“People aren’t nice. Not really. Unless they want something.”
“No, I…” I couldn’t stand up for myself in the past, but there’s always new chances to change. Direct course. Be different. I take a deep breath. “I like being nice. It makes me feel good.”
“Well, stop it. There’s a mess in my office right now because of you.”
Tears threaten my eyes, and I sniffle them back. Holding my chin high, I look at him directly.
“Let’s go into the office.” I turn toward Tyson, who is helping a customer and point to the hallway. Tyson nods once.
I follow Jackson to his office like a kid caught cheating in class. Fifty percent of the decorations are down, except for the tinsel on the bookshelf and the streamers hanging from the ceiling.
This reaction wasn’t what I wanted. I just wanted to cheer him up. Instead, it’s gone so, so wrong.
We stand across from one another, and I cross my arms as a reflex. I can’t meet his eyes. If I do, I will cry.
