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She grins. “Exactly.”
But when the time comes to go, I can’t make myself leave. I end up staying home, a pitcher of Blue Hawaiians on the table. I drink and scroll through my old texts with Drew. I want to delete his contact, but I can’t. After half the pitcher, I go to the Daniels Vet Care website and stare at his photo in a white lab coat, stroking the screen as if I can feel his jaw.
And I can. Everything about him is sharply familiar. His chest, his arms, the way he looked down at me when he hovered over my body. Tears come again so I drink faster, watching true crime shows instead of Hallmark because I don’t want a whiff of romance.
But even murder makes me think of Felicia and her red wine–stained dress. Then the rain, and the shed, and Drew, Drew, Drew, Drew.
Thankfully, the booze does its job, and I fall into a fitful sleep.
I’m a little hungover when I arrive at Farm to Market Bank and Trust the next morning, but it’s manageable.
Cindy envelops me in the biggest hug. “I couldn’t wait to see one more Ensley outfit before I go.”
I step back and strike a pose as if I’m my usual bubbly self, even though inside I feel like I’m dying. I chose an eighties throwback in honor of Cindy’s coming-of-age—a distressed denim miniskirt, a black cowl sweater, and fat black suede boots that sag like the jowls of a bulldog.
Bulldog. Vet clinic. Drew.
I shake it off.
“You nailed it!” Cindy says. “I had those very boots!” She marvels over my wrist full of black plastic bracelets and the giant bow in my hair. “You couldn’t muster a side pony, though, even for me.”
“Some things need to be left in their time period.”
Janet side-eyes us as she drops the tills in the drawers. That’s weird. She never had vault-and-till privileges before.
“Come meet Milton,” Cindy says, swishing in her new navy suit. She’s obviously upping her wardrobe with the promotion. Normally, she wears slacks and oversize silky blouses. Still. Navy. Blech.
We head to the safe deposit box room, and I run my hands down my miniskirt nervously. I’d been thinking about Cindy when I got dressed and should have thought about first impressions with the new manager.
When we enter the space, a tall, lean man in a stark black suit stands with arms crossed, watching another young woman struggle to open Box 304, which we’ve known for ages has been bent and impossible.
“Just get it open!” he booms. “Good grief, woman. Can’t you do anything?”
Cindy straightens her jacket, her face neutral. She’s got her poker face on. That’s not good.
“Milton, this is Ensley James. I told you about her.”
He turns to me, his round glasses shaded gray even though we’re indoors. He looks like the villain of a James Bond movie.
I wave. “Hi! I’m Ensley.”
He looks at me over the frames of his glasses. “The prodigal employee. Finally decided to grace us with your presence?”
Oh boy. I glance at Cindy, who motions for me to step closer to him. I feel like Dorothy facing the Great and Powerful Oz.
Only he’s a skinny jerk.
“I cut my vacation short by a day to be here,” I say.
“Oh, she wants a trophy,” Milton says. “I’m anxious to see this stellar work ethic I’ve heard about.”
Gosh. “But who is this?” I gesture to the new girl.
“I’m—” she says, but Milton cuts her off.
“She’s temporary unless she does better,” Milton says. “Thirty-day trial period and all that jazz.”
The woman deflates. She’s wearing the most beautiful blue dress with yellow flowers, and I already want to be her friend. “And your name is?”
