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He’s smiling now. I have to tilt my head up to meet his eyes. He’s so tall.
I let an exasperated sigh leave my lips.
“Are you sure you’re not following me?” I ask him, crossing my arms across my chest.
“Are you following me?” he asks, still with the wide grin on his face.
I drop my hands to my hips in annoyance.
“I’m working. I had a delivery here.”
“Oh yeah? And why weren’t you watching where you were walking?”
He looks over my head behind me and his smile fades. It’s replaced by a grimace, and I can see his jaw clenching. I follow his gaze and see the boy behind the counter still. He’s the only one over there. The petite blonde is nowhere to be seen.
“Please tell me you don’t have a thing for Adam?” he says, rolling his eyes.
Adam? That must be his name. I let it roll around in my mind. I wonder if his parents are religious and named him afterthatAdam. Of course, the first guy to make my skin tingle and butterflies swarm in my stomach every time I see him, shares a name with the first man created by God. I absentmindedly let out a small laugh at the thought.
I turn back to the wall of a man standing in front of me. His eyes are narrowed and his lips are slightly puckered.
“He’s not a good guy, Aubrey.”
“I have to go,” I say. “I have more deliveries.”
I try to move around Emmett and he grabs my arm. What is with this guy and all the touching? I yank my arm free, scowling at him. He puts his hands up in a surrender.
“Sorry. I uh–do you hang out at the water tower a lot?” he asks, his voice so quiet it’s almost a whisper.
I don’t even bother answering him. I turn and leave.
The last thing I need is this guy taking over my ritual Friday night escape.
I’m not sure why I only go there on Friday nights. About a year ago, I was lying awake in bed at two in the morning and I have no idea what came over me. I lifted the window in my room, crawled out and started walking around, somehow ending up at the water tower. Without even thinking much, I climbed the ladder to the top and sat up there for hours. Looking out over the city, mesmerized by the beauty of the sparkling lights–imagining what all the people in the town were like. Making up little stories in my mind–each light a person, each person with a life incredibly different from my own.
The next Friday came, and I did the same thing, and never stopped. Right now, I’m wishing today was a Friday.
I get back to Shelby and check my deliveries list. The next stop is to the faculty offices. I put on the floral helmet, grateful it’s so large and brings me some anonymity. Not that anyone besides Emmett seems to know who I am.
As I continue making my deliveries–happily exchanging brown paper bags for a few dollars in tips–my thoughts keep irritatingly wandering back to Emmett. The way his hands felt on my skin, the tingling sensation it created under the weight and warmth of his grip. The way it sent goosebumps up and down my arm when his pinky brushed up and down painfully lightly. I’m not sure if I’m more annoyed with him or myself for the reaction his touch pulled out of me.
When I finish my deliveries for the day, I take a seat at one of the small metal tables inside the shop. Bea insists she make me a sandwich before I go home. I don’t turn her down, because I am in fact incredibly hungry. I was so nervous and excited for my first day I couldn’t stomach breakfast this morning.
Mom had been long gone at her own job when I left this morning. Her days usually start and end pretty early. Her afternoons are typically filled with church activities and bible study groups. Dad stopped me before I could leave, making me sit at the dining room table with him as he prayed that I would find ample opportunity to share God’s word with my new job. The only time I’ve brought up religion was when I shouted Jesus to myself when I nearly tripped jogging up the stairs making a delivery in the dorms.
Then internally cursed myself when I felt guilty for using His name in a way that wouldn’t be approved of. As much as I know in my heart of hearts I don’t want anything to do with the church anymore, breaking the cycle of guilt isn’t easy.
“This is my favorite sandwich on the menu,” Bea says, placing a plate with a delicate floral design around the rim in front of me.
The design is hardly noticeable though because the giant sandwich is taking up nearly every inch of available plate space.
“This entire thing is for me?” I question, my eyes wide, staring at her.
“Oh, you don’t have to eat the whole thing. I’ll wrap up what you don’t and you can take it home. But this—this beauty is a turkey sandwich on sourdough bread with cranberry sauce, stuffing, baby spinach, warmed gravy, dijon mustard, mayo and a sprinkle of paprika. I call it the Grateful Bread sandwich–get it?” she says, laughing to herself.
I don’t get it. I don’t want to admit that I don’t get it, so I stare at her.
“It’s a play on words. It’s all the ingredients for a traditional Thanksgiving dinner, so that’s the grateful. And well the band Grateful Dead… and of course, sandwich–bread–no?”
