Soon there’s the jingle of bells and the first onslaught of early-morning customers, and like Cate, I get lost in the business and familiarity of that.
“Good morning!” I call out. The regulars like when I’m on my own in the mornings. They smile too big like I’m some six-year-old they need to humor. They crack jokes and offer to come behind the bar and help. Usually harried and tapping their fingers at breakneck speeds on the counter, they are suddenly monk-like in their patience. They pick up the paper from the wire racks we keep next to the counter, or make awkward, frog-voiced small talk with the person ahead of them in line. They leave five-dollar bills as tips, and smile so wide and so close to my face, I can tell whether they remembered to brush their teeth this morning.
“Lady Tabitha’s in charge,” I hear when my back is turned to steam a bunch of skim milk for the dieting new mothers. There is only one person who calls me Lady Tabitha, and I smile before I remember I have to hate him for being related to Jemma.
“Devon.” He doesn’t go to our school, so we haven’t even caught sight of each other since Jemma dumped me. Which means when I do turn around and he is there in his fitted flannel shirt and his shaggy dirty-blond hair and his cowboy boots, I almost drop the boiling milk on my toes.
Just another reason not to wear wedge sandals in November, I guess.
“We miss you, Tabs,” he says. I push stray bangs back and blush. Not because Devon wasn’t cute before. He was. He’s always been. But right now he isn’t throwing water balloons at me or getting into a screaming match with Jemma. He’s digging his elbows into the countertop and leaning over enough so that we are eye to eye. He used to be part brother, part crush, but with Jemma no longer my best friend, does that mean he’s . . . all crush? “You know, miss having you around all the time.”
His smile isn’t unlike Jemma’s. His eyes drift down my body, and it doesn’t feel all lecherous like when some guys at school do it, but I cross my feet and my arms anyway. Neither of us moves or speaks for five seconds, which is forever when no one is moving or speaking.
I turn away to get some napkins and busy myself with the milk I already poured and the coffee I already brewed. If I look away for long enough, I think I can get mad instead of wistful. I think of Jemma’s raised eyebrows and too-straight hair and I decide I am totally over the nostalgia. I will not miss that bitch or the life I thought we had together. I refuse.
“Jemma says you’ve been too busy with a new boyfriend to come by lately,” Devon continues. “I think it’s been hard for her, you moving on and dating guys and stuff. She’s not ready for that yet. Or not confident about it, you know?” I would do a spit take if life were a movie, but instead I swallow hard and smile even harder. I’m sure it looks like one of those scary-angry smiles, but that’s all I’ve got right now.
“That’s what she told you, huh?” I say. I am on the precipice, and I know the right thing to do is to shrug and lie and agree with whatever slightly damning lie Jemma has come up with to explain my sudden absence, but I can practically hear Zed and Agnes and everyone else in my head if I were to type it up and tell them about it. So I shift gears and plow ahead into something honest and risky and bad. Something Normal Tabitha would never do.
“Gosh, that is so weird,” I say. “Because, you know, I don’t have a boyfriend at all. Haven’t in over a year.” I cock my head and gauge Devon’s response. Decide I have not said enough. “But maybe that’s why she hasn’t talked to me in three months. Maybe Jemma thinks I have a boyfriend?” I keep the edge out of my voice. Try to steer clear of sarcasm. Sound as close to earnest as I can possibly manage. “This is so great,” I say. “I can totally clear this up! Dude, I’m so glad you came in today. This is, like, a total weight lifted off. Jemma thinks I have a boyfriend! Well. I’m sure I will be seeing you at your house ASAP now that we’ve figured out this whole miscommunication.”
Devon gulps. I hold his gaze and keep my mouth a steely-straight line; I think he gets it. I know he gets it, because he blushes.
People in line behind him cough and close in on him, shuffle closer to the register. They’ve had enough of our small talk, and I have too. I hand him the coffee he didn’t order but I know he wants. He clears his throat and starts to move on. I don’t want to take back what I’ve said or anything. I don’t exactly regret calling Jemma on her crap and telling it like it is. It’s sort of a new rush, and I don’t mind it. But I want him to like me. I want him to tease me for my somewhat nasal voice and call me Freckle Face and buy Boardwalk and build three hotels on it and watch me go broke while we sit cross-legged on the plush carpet in the TV room and play four-hour Monopoly marathons.