I pop behind the counter to crank up the music, then put the chairs up on the tables. As I grab the broom to sweep up the empty sugar packets and napkins that cover the floor, “Steal Away” starts playing.
“Take me away, Robbie Dupree,” I whisper to myself as I sweep the floor with a little more bravado than usual. The rain is pouring down outside and I spent my day helping my brother move into a hellhole and I didn’t visit my dad tonight which makes me possibly the worst daughter in the world, but for now, it’s just me and the smooth, smooth music. I shake my shoulders, let my hips wiggle, do a slight body roll. When the song gets to its breakdown, I belt the lyrics into the broom handle/microphone and spin around to see Nick standing three feet away from me, arms crossed.
I shriek and throw the broom at him.
He catches it, his eyes wide. “What the hell?”
“I didn’t know you were there,” I shout. “Way to sneak up on me.”
“I work here,” he says, starting to sweep where I left off. “In case you forgot.”
Lightning flashes and the power flickers. “Well, so do I, and I’m sweeping.” I grab the broom out of his hands, my fingers brushing against his.
“You are . . . tense today,” Nick says, leaning against the counter and shoving his hands in his pockets.
My shoulders are near my ears as the power flickers again. A crack of thunder booms as I flash him my trademark Chloe Sanderson smile, the one that charms customers and elderly people. “I have a lot going on.”
“Want to . . . talk about it?” Nick’s voice is tentative, and for good reason. We don’t normally “talk about” anything, unless we’re talking about how much the other person’s musical selections annoy us. Sure, I tell him when I have to leave to take care of my dad . . . but the other stuff? Feelings? Personal lives? The movie? It’s all off limits. But then again, the two of us are usually surrounded by people, and it’s hard to have a serious conversation when Gary’s around.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I say, my tone as brisk as my efficient broom sweeps. “Everything’s gravy.”
“Gravy?” Nick says from behind me, sounding disgusted. “Is that supposed to be good?”
“Duh,” I say. “Everyone loves gravy.”
“Well, they wouldn’t love it if everything was gravy. I can tell you that much for free,” Nick mutters.
“Okay, grandpa.” I think about how he smells like a sexy grandpa and I remind myself not to get close enough to find out if he smells like that right now.
I hum along with the music, aware of Nick watching me. It’s not like I can sweep the floor in a suggestive manner (not that I even want to), so I try to be competent. But then he says, so quietly I almost can’t hear him, “You don’t have to take everything on by yourself, you know.”
I stop, broom in midair, then spin around. “What?”
The lights turn off for one second. Two seconds. We stare at the ceiling, as if the answers to something are up there, until they flicker back on. Nick looks at me again. His face is even scruffier than usual at this time of night. “I said, you don’t have to do everything all by yourself.”
I snort and grip the broom handle tighter. “Okay. Uh, thanks for the advice.” I know he’s only offering me a platitude that’s meant to make me feel better, but it pisses me off. Like he knows. Like he even knows half of what I’m carrying on my shoulders.
“Seriously,” he says. “I can finish up here. Go home and go to bed.”
Bed. The thought of sinking into my mattress, listening to the rain fall on the sloped roof of the carriage house as I’m tucked under the orange, white, and yellow quilt I found at a yard sale, sounds so good that I almost melt into a puddle right there on the floor. The mere idea of sleeping all by myself is almost sensual. But I have some busywork assignment for one of my online classes that needs to be finished by tomorrow, and if I’m up then I might as well make a pie because I have the crust chilling in the fridge, and I can see the way this night is gonna go. It’s not going to involve bed in any way, shape, or form until at least 3 A.M.
“You sure you don’t wanna talk about it?” Nick asks, his voice uncertain and low. And I don’t know what it is. If it’s the fact that rain has always made me feel safe, or the fact that everything’s built up so much that it has to explode, or that I’m so tired. At least if I’m talking about my shitshow of a life, then I’m not thinking about how Nick’s ass looks in his jeans, which is obviously not an appropriate place for my mind to wander.
I don’t know why Nick is asking me, what’s making him push his way into the uncharted waters of my personal life, but I don’t even hesitate before I unload it all on him.
I lean against the broom handle, one hand on a hip like I’m about to start a stand-up set. “Well, my dad’s been accusing the staff members at his facility of stealing from him, which is a real bummer because they definitely aren’t and so he’s worked up and they keep calling me and it’s all a big mess. Since no one else is around to take care of him, it’s kind of my problem. And, as you know, Milo’s back in town, but he hasn’t given me an apology or anything for leaving me here to care for our father. He did, however, expect me to help him move into a terrible duplex that, oh yeah, is owned by a grown-ass man who chooses to call himself Mikey Danger. Also I have business school homework. And I need pie but pie doesn’t currently exist.”
I take a deep breath. “Oh, and my back hurts. I’ve been standing all day.”
Nick walks toward me, closing the gap between us in a couple of long-legged steps. I stop breathing when he’s in front of me, the way you do when you step outside into freezing weather; his nearness is a shock to my system.
He puts a hand on my arm; that’s all it is. A hand on an arm, but it feels like more than that. “That sucks, Chloe,” he says.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” I ask, desperately trying to avoid the small fire burning under his hand. “Shouldn’t you be making fun of me or something? Or complaining about how I’m not working hard enough?”
Nick gives me a half smile, one eyebrow raised. “I think we both know how hard you work.”
I swallow hard as “Steal Away” ends. And then, as we stand there staring at each other in the empty coffee shop, broom forgotten, the opening notes of “Steal Away” start to play. Again.
“Chloe,” Nick says, and I really wish he would stop saying my name, because every time he does I imagine him saying it in other contexts and in other places, like against my lips or in my ear. “Didn’t we already have a conversation about the song ‘Steal Away’?”