“This is great, Mikey,” Milo says with bravado. He’s trying to save face, trying to convince me that this is really a great idea and that living with Mikey Danger is going to be nonstop fun, because he’s always been unable to admit when he’s wrong. Milo looks at me and flashes a giant smile, and I roll my eyes.
I help them carry in the rest of their few boxes, wading through a messy living room that boasts a futon, a TV, and nothing on the walls. The guest room is similarly bare—a bed and one tiny window that overlooks the patchy grass outside.
“Home sweet home,” Milo says with a contented sigh, and then he leans in to give me a hug. “Thanks for helping us. I mean it.”
“Um . . . you’re welcome,” I say, unexpectedly touched. Fred gives me a quick hug, too, and then both of them walk me to the door. Mikey Danger is now cooking something unspecified at the stove.
“See ya, Chloe,” he says, raising his spatula. “Gimme a call sometime if you ever want to . . . gimme a call.”
“I probably won’t do that, Mikey.”
He nods, accepting this.
As I step out the door and Milo and Mikey are in conversation about something, Fred grabs my arm, his eyes wide, looking like Tyra Banks just asked him to do abject fear at the idea of living in a nightmare garbage dump, but make it fashion. “Take me with you,” he whisper-hisses.
“You’ll be out of here so soon,” I promise, then step on another beer can that somehow materialized on the front steps. I think about asking him why he’s with my brother—why he even agreed to come all the way to Ohio—but it’s still raining, hard, so I pull my hood over my head and run toward Nick’s truck.
* * *
* * *
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I say, rushing through the coffee shop and into Nick’s office. I slide out of my coat, spraying water everywhere. “I know I’m late. It took way longer than I expected because of the rain and—”
“It’s okay.” Nick looks up from his computer, where I presume he’s balancing the books. Or reading fan fiction about Canadian ice dancers. Nick’s a private man, so who knows. Perhaps the greatest part of the Nick Velez allure—I mean, not that he has an allure to me, but if he did—is the mysteriousness. What does he do when he’s not working? What goes on inside that head?
“Ugh,” I say, wiping my bangs off my forehead. There’s no mirror in Nick’s office because it’s Nick’s office, but I can tell my sopping wet hair isn’t exactly a great look. “I’m disgusting. Customers are going to be like, ‘Who let a soaking wet golden retriever become a barista?’”
Nick stops what he’s doing and focuses on me. “You look good, Chloe. You always look good.”
He doesn’t say it dismissively, like he wants me to shut up and stop complaining. He says it matter-of-fact, like it’s so obvious, and the way he’s staring at me makes me feel hot and tingly. I can feel my skin growing pink under his gaze.
“Uh, okay, well,” I say, bumping into a shelf. “Better go help Tobin. God knows what he’s getting into up there.”
I make my way behind the counter and exhale loudly. Good Lord. This is Nick. I need to be professional, and I need to focus on my job and school and my dad and not the unbridled lust that is currently running rampant through my entire body.
Tobin stares at me, not moving.
“What’s wrong, Tobin?” I snap, then feel bad because it isn’t his fault I have an uncomfortable amount of sexual tension with Nick. “I mean, why are you staring at me?”
“I heard this story, on NPR,” he says slowly, which isn’t unusual, because Tobin says everything slowly, “about how measles are making a comeback. You know, because people don’t vaccinate their kids or whatever?”
“Right,” I say, wondering what this has to do with me. “Wait, you listen to NPR?”
“And, like, no offense? But you look hella sick right now.”
I stare at him.
“Not sick in the good way, like, ‘Your new tat is sick.’ Like, you’re really red.”
“Ugh.” I rub my hands over my face. “I promise I don’t have measles, okay?”
“Actions speak louder than words when it comes to infectious diseases,” says Gary, who’s standing at the front of the line, waiting for a refill on his usual black coffee.
“Do you want me to cough on you so we can watch you not get measles?”
Tobin shakes his head. “Nah. Nick says we’re not supposed to cough on customers.”
Gary waves a hand at me. “Psh. Cough on me all you want, Chloe. I can take it.”
Maybe it’s all the infectious-disease talk, or maybe it’s the Radiohead that Nick is playing, but I’m feeling much less turned on now. “Hand me your cup, Gary,” I say, and I finish the rest of my shift in a state of blissful distraction.
* * *
* * *
That is, until I have to close.
Tobin departs to go do whatever it is Tobin does when he’s not at work and leaves me alone with our quiet weeknight crowd . . . and Nick. The rain means there are even fewer people than usual in the shop, and since Nick’s still in his office, I turn off his Bill Callahan tunes and take the liberty of putting on some yacht rock. Yacht rock, in case you’re not familiar, is the smoothest, chillest music of the late ’70s and early ’80s (although the yacht rock spirit, if you ask me, can belong to music of any era). It’s music that always sounds upbeat, that makes copious references to sailing, that is best enjoyed while sipping a tropical drink with one of those little paper umbrellas. And it’s my genre of choice, because it’s fun and the lyrics never make me pause and think about the realities of my life. Unlike Nick’s music, which seems expressly designed to make a person reflect on regrets and losses, yacht rock will never let you down. It will never make you sad. It will always be there, with a buoyant beat and a smooth male vocal (there aren’t a lot of ladies in yacht rock).
When our last customer leaves (Gary; it’s always Gary), I flip the Closed sign over. For a moment, I peer into the dark night at the rain that’s coming down even harder than it was earlier. My walk home is short, but it’s much more pleasant when it doesn’t involve getting soaked. And it’s not like I want to ask Nick for a ride home because, well, the last thing I need to do is put myself in a confined space, like a pickup truck, with him. I might be unable to avoid flinging myself at him, which would at best cause some awkwardness and at worst cause a car accident.
But I can’t pretend that my respect for vehicular safety is the only reason I’m reluctant to give in to our physical connection. The truth is, I have enough responsibilities already without having to manage another person’s feelings. And while Nick may act all quiet and mysterious, the sad male indie rock playlists I’ve had to listen to let me know the truth. Somewhere underneath that gruff exterior, Nick Velez has feelings, and I sure don’t want him spraying any of them in my general direction.