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Tristan’s laughter booms. “Promise.” He crosses an X over his heart.
I bet his pecs are as defined as Captain America’s.
Remove that image from your brain.
If only wiping away thoughts was as easy as deleting files from a computer.
We clean in silence for the first few minutes. I won’t lie and say I don’t appreciate the help. My body’s taking some time to adjust to my new job. Being on my feet all day makes them swell and hurt.
Instead of focusing on the negative, I keep my mind on how grateful I am to have a job. I lost my last one when I called in sick one too many times. They said it affected my efficiency at work, and I wasn’t able to perform the tasks they’d hired me to do—and that had been at a desk job as a secretary.
Serving coffee is more exhausting on my body, but it also distracts me more. In a couple of days, I’ll be good as new.
For now.
Getting a lupus diagnosis when I was twenty and in the middle of my shining college career was a hard blow. They might as well have struck me with a wrecking ball because my life fell apart in that moment.
This isn’t an illness that can be cured with medicine or antibiotics. It’s lifelong, and complications from it are scary.
“What do you like to do outside of work?” Tristan’s voice is distant, but it brings me out of my head.
“Huh? Oh . . .” My brain catches up to my ears after a moment. Thanks for joining the conversation, brain.
I look over at him to find him leaning against the broom, staring at me with raised eyebrows.
“Are you with me?” His eyes scan my face.
“Yeah, sorry. Lost in my thoughts a little. Outside of work, I like to read, bake, and sometimes I draw, but I’m not very good at it.”
“Really? I doubt that. Do you paint or sketch?” The way he looks at me makes me feel heard. He’s intent on creating conversation.
“I mostly sketch. I mean, I could paint my drawings, but I love the simplicity of pencil on paper.”
It’s something that’s kept me grounded during this time. I’ve found solace in the meditative practice of putting lead to paper, in the soothing flow of letting your hand guide the way.
“I understand that.” He nods as if he really does, but Tristan doesn’t seem like the artsy type. “I’d love to see your work someday.”
“What? No, like I said, I’m not very good. It mostly helps me disconnect and destress.” I go back to wiping the display shelves.
“Oh, come on. I’m sure your drawings are great. I’m not some art genius who’s going to look at them with a critical eye. My artistic talent only reaches to stick figures, so anything you draw will be amazing to me.”
I laugh and look down, tucking my hair behind my ear. Yeah, Tristan is definitely one of those people who’s always in a good mood and makes everyone around him smile. I’ve only known him for two days, and I can already tell.
“I mean it,” he says as he continues to sweep the floor.
“Anyway, what do you like to do besides save the world?” I’ve never met anyone who actually works in the non-profit sector, and I find myself interested in what he has to say.
Seeing someone so young have an interest in humanitarian work gives me hope for the world. Usually, you hear rich people talk about non-profit organizations to get you to donate money. I often wonder if that money really goes to the people who need it or to the pockets of those running the organizations.
“Anything outdoors—running, hiking, rafting. It’s hard for me to stay put in the same spot for too long.”
“You stayed here for hours.” I lift my brows in surprise.
“I had a good excuse.” He winks, and the charm rolls off him like expensive cologne.
“Oh, no.” I shake my head. “Don’t.” I waggle my finger in his direction.
“What? You’re good company.” Feigned innocence marks his face, but I won’t fall for it.
