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Niles knew that Dahlia came in around noon, after her classes were done for the day. He kept going and looking at that on the schedule, even though he knew it was the way it was. He’d made the damned schedule, after all.
Saturday, hungover as hell after the Jagermeister shots (plural, yes, because somehow after all that, Valdemar had gotten more of those into him), he’d slumped around the counter in the sandwich shop, working Dahlia’s shift, half-expecting Will to show up and yell at him for some reason or other, because that was what Will did.
But no one had come in except people who wanted to buy sandwiches.
Then Sunday, that had been his day off. He’d spent it lying around in his apartment watching Netflix because he’d needed some recovery time after all of that. He’d thought about calling her on Sunday.
Hecouldcall her.
He was her boss, so he had her phone number.
Well, text her, probably… Calling was weird. He wouldn’t havecalledher.
Anyway, the whole idea of thinking about that, it was atypical for him.
Niles didn’t do that. Never did that. Did not pursue women. Not in a long time, anyway. It sent out signals that Niles did not want to send out. Signals that he wanted things he wasn’t sure he wanted.
It wasn’t that Niles didn’teverwant to settle down with one person or whatever. He did. He’d eventually find someone he was sure of, he supposed. And when he did, when he was sure, he’d send out the signals. But until then, he played it cool. He had learned this lesson through many, many experiences that had blown up in his face, leaving him scorched and sore. He knew better than to want to call her.
But he almost did, anyway. Because she had indicated that she would have come to his place on Friday night, after everything, and he’d said they should both sleep on it, which had happened. Twice. Two nights had passed. So now?
Now, he wanted to text her.
Except he somehow managed to talk himself out of it. Thank the sacred teachings themselves, he managed it. He hunkered down and glared at the Netflix show and didn’t text her, which seriously took a herculean effort.
Now, it was Monday, and she was going to be there, and he was going to see her.
It was going to be weird.
But he was going to pretend it wasn’t weird, because that was the way these sorts of things should be done. As weird as it was for him, it had to be even weirder for her. He’d do her the courtesy of not making it worse.
He stood there, as noon approached, tapping his fingers on the counter, feeling sick to his stomach again.
Then he heard her voice from the kitchen. She was talking to Gordon, who was back there working on some raisin cinnamon buns for some of the sweet breakfast sandwiches they sold in the mornings.
He turned to stare, waiting for her to come through the swinging door that separated the front area from the kitchen.
Then, he realized that would be weird. What did he usually do when she showed up?
Well, he acted normal.
Sure, but what did that look like?
No, he couldn’t pretend to act normal, because it would never work. It would appear off and that would be weird, which was what hedidn’twant.
So, wait. Was he saying ithadto be weird? Was he saying weird was unavoidable?
The door swung open.
She was wearing a pair of ripped up jeans that exposed bits of her lavender skin. She was holding his scarf. She held it out. “Here.”
“Oh,” he said. “Uh, thanks.” He took it back from her.
“I washed it.”
“That’s… you didn’t have to…” He cleared his throat. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” She shoved her hands into her pockets.
