Page 42 of Sweet & Salty
I sigh, face heating as the shame of being The Worst Best Friend on Earth courses through me. “Ruby doesn’t know,” I mumble. “I haven’t told her yet.”
He hums, head tilting in my peripheral as he considers this and all its implications—namely that I Suck with a capital S.
“How long have you been taking classes?” he asks, finally.
“I don’t know,” I reply. “A while.” Four months. “It’s not a big deal.” It’s a supremely big deal. “I’ve just been taking a few classes.” A full courseload for the second semester in a row, on top of working full time. “You don’t need to make a fuss about it.” Or about me being The Worst™ friend Ruby has ever had.
“You’ve been taking classes for months? On top of working and planning the wedding? Those aren’t recreational classes you’re going to every week?” Understanding dawns. “You’ve been locked away in your roomstudying. I thought… Well, I thought you were doing your metal yoga or something. What are you going to school for? What made you want to?”
That first question is easy. “Business. And…” Oof. I don’t want to answer this. Not when I’m barely on board with all ofhischaracter growthnonsense, and especially not on the heels of accidentally inflating his ego by admitting hemaybelooksslightlylike Soren, a certified hottie.
To be clear, he does not look like Soren. His jaw is sharper. His eyes are bluer. His shoulders are… shoulder-ier. To say they look alike is to compare a Gala apple to a Cosmic Crisp. They’re both red apples, but one is a lot more… firm.
And, unfortunately for me in this exact moment, one is also a lot more inspiring.
I wince, then push the words out as quickly as they’ll go through my discomfort, “And what made me want to do it was… you. You have an incredible work ethic, and you always seem to know exactly what you’re doing in your professional sphere. You’re very competent. I wanted my own version of that for my position. I’d like to, eventually, be promoted to manager. Maybe even general manager, if Cordelia trusts me enough. I like my job, but…” I grip my apron in my fists and work up the courage to meet Roman’s eyes, which clash against my own. Something foreign passing through their deep blue depths. “IloveSweet & Salty. I want to help it grow even more. I want to be a part of making it grow, like you have with your menus. I want…” To matter. I want to matter so much. To be a person that people come to when they need someone smart, competent, and capable. I don’t say that, though. Instead, I say, “I want to do my best, like you have.”
Roman sets his tray down on the counter, closes the four feet separating us, and wraps his arms around me, pulling until I’m squished against his chest and have to turn my head to be able to breathe. “I’m so proud of you, Sweet,” he says into my hair, resting his cheek against my curls. “So incredibly proud of you. It can’t be easy going back to school when you’re older than your peers, and it definitely can’t be easy doing it all alone. I don’t know why you haven’t told anybody about it. You know we’d allsupport you.” He lifts his head, dipping it until we’re eye to eye. “I won’t say anything, El. It’s your choice when you want to tell everybody, but know that, when you’re ready, they’ll all be here for you, just like I will be now. Supporting you.” His eyes well, startling me. “You’re doing amazing. I hope you’ll let me support you. I hope you’ll let me make things easier for you.”
I can’t speak. I can’t, really, even think. His eyes, so blue, sparkle into mine, sincerity ringing through them.
Or… no. That’s the bell above the door.
I sniff, blinking away the wetness on my lashes as we straighten. “I’ll be right with you!” I call, but keep my eyes on Roman.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “It means a lot to me, what you said. That you would help. That you would keep my secret. I’m… I’m grateful.”
I hold my breath, unsure how to navigate this new space with him—a space void of sass, insults, or ill will. A space I find us in more often than not lately.
His eyes flit back and forth between my own, and his arms, still around me, convulse. “Sweet,” he mutters, leaning forward. His nose hits mine, and then—
“Uh, can I get a coffee?” a young voice snaps from the other side of the counter. “Or do I have to watch you two make out first?”
I squawk, pushing away from Roman, and swiftly approaching the counter. “Sorry about that!” I squeak, face flushing. “What kind of coffee would you like? Drip? Americano? Iced?”
The teenager, a gum-chewing blonde girl with a serious case of side eye, scoffs. “Iced, obviously.”
“Perfect! One iced coffee with whole milk, coming right up!”
“I wantoatmilk,” she sneers.
Oh. Sure. Yes. Of course, because I would obviously assumethat she wants a dairy substitute based on my powers of premonition and also mind reading.
I beam at her. “Iced coffee with oat milk! You got it!”
“Next time,” Roman grumbles, “mention the dairy sub in your order. The default is not oat milk. The default has never been oat milk. The default will neverbeoat milk.”
I blink, turning my head slowly until I see him, hovering behind me and glaring at the girl, who narrows her eyes right back at him.
“You’re hot,” she says. “But not hot enough to be rude to customers and get away with it. Do you even know how to smile?”
Excuse her.
I grit my teeth, elbowing Roman when he opens his mouth to reply. “We’re all out of oat milk,” I announce, arranging my face into a semblance of regret. “I’m so sorry!”
She raises an eyebrow, eyes darting to the mini fridge behind me that holds our gallons of milk, oat included. “There’s some in there,” she says.
“Again,sosorry we can’t accommodate you today,” I reply. “If that’s all…” I trail off, grab Roman by the wrist, and disappear us both into the kitchen.
