“No?”
We both glance over as Marcela comes out with a tray of clean mugs and starts to stack them with the rest. Nate’s eyes linger a second too long and I harrumph and return to the kitchen with the dirty dishes. Since it’s slow out there I grab a leftover croissant and count inventory as I eat, and when I eventually make my way back to the front, I see Nate say something to Marcela, his expression stern, and the tight set of her mouth as she stands at his side. She looks like a reprimanded child who’s being made to apologize.
“What’s going on?” A quick look around the shop shows we’re down to three customers, all of whom are sufficiently absorbed in their own activities.
“I have to leave early tonight,” Nate says. “You two need to close and do the bank deposit. Together.”
“There are like, eight people in this whole town right now,” Marcela argues, clearly not for the first time. “And this place is dead. One of us can do it.”
“You’ll stay and do it together,” he says, his voice remarkably firm. “I’m leaving at six, you’ll lock the doors at nine-thirty and be out of here by ten. Together.”
Marcela rolls her eyes but drops the argument. Once he’s got our unspoken agreement, Marcela heads off for her break, Nate disappears into his small office to work on payroll, and I tend to the random customers who stroll in over the next couple of hours. Marcela keeps herself busy in the back and I don’t even think about her again until Nate comes up with his jacket on, car keys in hand.
“Think you two can be civil for a few hours?”
“We’re always civil.”
“Like the Civil War,” he replies dryly. “Don’t burn this place down.”
“Me? Never.”
“And keep all your clothes on.”
“I told you. I turned over a new leaf.”
“A new leaf that’s living with Kellan McVey?”
“How did you—” I break off when I spot Marcela over his shoulder, halfway out the kitchen doors and most definitely having overheard that last bit about Kellan if her stunned expression is any indication.
Nate winks at me. “There are no secrets in this town.”
I shoot him a warning look. “Are too.”
He points between Marcela and me as he backs away. “Best behavior.”
“Aye aye,” Marcela replies, sounding bored.
I give him a thumbs up and watch Marcela retreat into the kitchen, a festering feeling of guilt growing in my stomach. I know it’s not fair of me to be the one to end our friendship and then resent the fact that we’re not friends, but I do. It wasn’t like she had to work to convince me to do any of the stuff we did, but she’s a gateway drug. A super fun, loyal, sensitive gateway drug in a black sweater dress, fishnets, and red platform heels.
I didn’t come to the decision to call things off easily. But my scolding visit to the Dean’s office was followed up with half a dozen irate phone calls from my parents and a very stern talking-to from the judge when I got called in to be reprimanded for my drunk, naked sprint through town. There’s only so much a girl can take. If only to get everyone off my back, I swore up and down I’d make things right, and “make things right” involved giving my friendship with Marcela the ax. It’s not like she’s Miss Perfect—the streaking was her idea, after all. She’s just a faster runner. And better at hiding. Because while I got caught crouched naked behind a compost bin, she never got found at all, even though I knew where she was hiding. I also refused to supply her name, which resulted in an additional fifty hours of community service for me.
Marcela was a lot of fun, but staying friends with her and not going to parties is like a recovering addict saying they’ll just go to the movies with their former dealer—nobody’s watching a movie. If I fail another class, my scholarship is over and I’m out of here. My parents can’t afford another year of tuition, and my income from the coffee shop is barely enough to cover minimal rent and groceries. This is it for me, and that, more than anything, is what has me picking up a dishtowel and heading off to wipe down tables instead of following Marcela into the kitchen to clear the air.
*
By eight, things in the shop are pretty much dead. I’m working on the Sudoku puzzle in yesterday’s Portland Press Herald, and Marcela’s sitting at one of the tables doing some sort of glitter polish thing on her fingernails. Nate doesn’t care so much about the Sudoku, but the nail polish is strictly off limits and I know Marcela’s just doing it to get back at him for sticking her with me tonight. Oh well—if her fury is directed at someone else, hopefully she’ll forget to aim it at me for once.
I’ve finally figured out which number goes in the upper right corner of the puzzle when the door swings open and Kellan and Crosbie stroll in. Despite the chilly night air, they’re wearing Tshirts, shorts and sneakers, and both are drenched in sweat.