Page 38 of The Truth of Our Past

Em sticks around after closing and offers to lock up after he goes to the bathroom. My gut tells me he might be in trouble. “Hey, if you ever need it, there’s an empty room for rent upstairs. Cole owns the building, and he likes to rent it to people he knows. I lived there for years.”

A slow smirk spreads across his face. “Please tell me I’ll get to sleep in the famous Alec Ivy’s bed. Will there be an army of men searching for you?”

“Nope, I put my change of address on blast. No sloppy seconds for you,” I deadpan and give him a look that the offer is serious.

“Yeah, okay. Thanks, that’s good to know. I might take you up on it later.”

That’s code for he’s dead-ass broke and can’t afford rent until he gets paid. I nod and walk out with him. He can’t sleep in the shop, but I’ll call Cole.

“Coffee guy’s back.” Em nods toward the door as it opens.

This is the fourth day in a row Von’s brought me coffee. It’s pathetic. And sweet.

Von offers a tentative smile as he hands me the coffee.

I’m not mad.

Disappointed. And possibly hurt, but only for a minute.

I thought we had something, but I was wrong. I’m the last guy who should fault someone else for not wanting more than a night together.

The first time he brought coffee, I assumed he wanted to apologize and tell me he wanted a chance at another night together. Most men do and I honestly can’t tell if Von hurt my pride or my feelings. I thought he liked me. I’m a likeable guy.

But in the end, he pretended to be my fake boyfriend, and we had a fun fake day-date. Game over.

He’s obviously going through something and that sucks. But I don’t understand what he’s doing. He brings me coffee but is practically mute. He’s serving some sort of penance, and I don’t want to be a part of that.

Taking a sip, I know he’s switched from buying me coffee to making me his Swedish coffee. “Good stuff.” I hold my cup up to salute him. Von says exactly nothing and stares at me to say more.

The standoff is ridiculous. To end it, I say, “I hope you get arthritis in your foot.”

Von’s mask of indifference disappears and his features play out his inability to understand what I mean.

“Is that an American saying?” It’s the most words he’s strung together in five days. I hate how much I miss his accent.

“No. I thought your career-ending injury was to your foot.” I wait a beat and then say, “From when you got it lodged in your mouth. Or was it up your ass?” These pity visits need to end. It’s maddening.

Em chokes on his shitty Keurig coffee with a laugh. “Dude.”

The bottom line––I refuse to be treated like a pariah when I tried to help. Excellent coffee can’t redeem him for thinking I’m a horrible person. He must’ve believed I was going to use him for money or fame or both.

Von doesn’t know if he should smile either, and I lose my battle and chuckle.

“It was my knee.” Von’s ears turn pink then he adds, “I deserved that.”

“Yeah, ya did. By the way, I don’t work tomorrow.” I walk backward and watch his disappointment as I turn around.

Em says, “You can be my coffee slave. I’ll even be nice to you.”

Of course he doesn’t say anything before he leaves.

At closing time, Em disappears in the back on his phone. When he emerges, he looks defeated.

“Hey, man. How much is the rent for the place upstairs? I can’t stay in my old place.”

“Don’t worry about it. You can sleep there until you get your next paycheck, and then you can work out a deal with Cole.” I unlock the bottom drawer and remove a set of keys.

“I’m not a charity case.” He sticks his chin out.

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