Page 79 of The Last to Let Go
I turn away, pretend to count the number of blueberry muffins that must be rationed throughout the night, while I slip the five into my apron pocket.
Turning around, I grab a rag from the bucket under the sink and start wiping down the counter in slow, circular movements. Then all the surfaces on my side—the sugar canister, the cream dispenser, the coffeepots, the register—for the hundredth time tonight.
I’m despicable, I know.
The first time was an accident, a mistake, but it’s become easier and easier. The trick is not ringing up the order at all. No one will notice money missing that was never supposed to be there in the first place. The trick is to spread it out across a bunch of small orders. It’s not like I don’t feel bad about it—I feelhorrible. But rent is due again, and I’m already late, and I honestly don’t know how I’m going to pull it all together before getting another one of those scarlet-letter notices taped to my door.
“Behind you,” Owen says as he brushes past me with a fresh tray of chocolate-glazed something. The thick, sugary scent wafts up through my nostrils and sticks in the back of my throat.
“Slow tonight,” I muse halfheartedly, my usual Owen small talk.
He casts a sideways glance at me over his shoulder and grins. He shakes his head slowly, then he turns his back to me. “You’re slick. You know that? Very slick.”
I swallow hard, watching him fill in the pastries, the word sinking into my brain, slow like honey. “What?” I utter, pretending I didn’t hear him, pretending I’m not completely taken off guard, pretending those aren’t dangerous words he’s speaking. But Owen is quiet as he finishes arranging the new pastries. And then he leans up against the wall and stares at me as ifheaskedmethe question instead of the other way around. “What?” I repeat, louder.
He gives me another one of his noncommittal headshake gestures and walks back into the kitchen, wordless. I brace myself with both hands on the counter. Inhale one-two-three-four, and exhale one-two-three-four. Inhale. And exhale. I try to count slowly, by Mississippis, like Dr. Greenberg taught me, but I can’t even get past two Mississippi. I try to rehearse in my head what I can say, how I can explain, or even better, lie. But I can’t do that, either. So my feet begin to move in spite of my brain, taking one step, too fast, into the kitchen; they slide across the wet floor.
“Careful!” he shouts, looking up at me for only a moment, his eyes wide. “Floor’s wet.”
I grab hold of the counter and regain my balance. He dunks the mop into the dirty gray water, the muscles in his forearms contracting as he squeezes the excess water out. Then he slaps the mop down against the floor, pushes it back and forth, slopping left to right and left to right.
“Owen, what did you say?” I ask as calmly as I can.
“Isaid”—he enunciates precisely—“becareful. Floor’s wet.”
“No, I mean before.”
“Oh.” He stops, and stands the mop up straight, crosses his arms over the top of the handle, and squints hard at the air above my head with this puzzled expression on his face. “You have to be more specific. I’ve said lots of things before.”
I’m not amused. I cross my arms.
“Look, I know what you’ve been doing,” he finally says, returning to his mopping.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Owen,” I lie.
“Well, how ’bout that? I’m guessingIdon’t know what I’m talking about either, huh?” he says, staking the mop into the floor with a splat.
“Owen, I need this job, so whatever youthinkyou saw—never mind, fine!” I scoff, reaching down into my apron pocket. “Here, take it! Happy?” I yell, throwing the five-dollar bill onto the floor in the space between us.
He looks down at it and shakes his head, then looks up me accusingly. “You have Jackie wrapped around your little finger. She thinks you’re a friggin’ angel.”
“It was a couple dollars, okay?” I lie. “It’s not like I’m some mastermind. And I’m going to pay it back.”
The bell dings out in the shop. A woman’s voice shouts, “Hell-ooo?” But I can’t move, can’t end this conversation. Not without some kind of resolution.
“You have a customer,” he says.
I finish up her order without any pleasantries; no fake-outs with the register, no extra “Have a nice night.” When I go back into the kitchen, he’s not there. But the five-dollar bill is sitting on the counter next to the giant tubs of frosting and doughnut fillings, pressed straight, wrinkles flattened, waiting for me either to take it or to return it to the register, where it belongs.
Movement in the periphery catches my eye. Owen stands at the back door of the kitchen kicking at the triangular wooden doorstop. He wedges it under the bottom to prop it open, even though he knows that’s not allowed—Jackie says it’s a violation of the health code or something. But a cool breeze rushes in, and I suddenly feel like I could lie right down on this dirty floor and fall asleep for a million years. He stands there with his back to me, looking out, a silhouette against the early-evening sky, craning his neck left and right, stretching his arms one at a time across his chest.
I walk toward him, my insides tightening with every breath. I take a gulp of air, but my lungs turn to steel. I open my mouth to speak, but my tongue is just a soggy clump of paper. My eyes begin to fill with water as I watch him. Feeling my entire universe unraveling before me, I pull my sleeves down over my hands and dab at the tears before they can spill over.
He takes exactly two steps toward the dumpster out back, drawn to a defunct, formerly yellow mop bucket that’s sitting next to the dumpster, destined for a landfill somewhere. He maneuvers the dirty old thing with his feet like a ball, gliding it gently back to the door, and me. He stops the bucket and steadies it with his foot, just on the edge. In one sharp movement he presses his foot down quickly, flipping it over—gracefully somehow. Then he sits down on the top of the dingy bucket and stretches his legs out in front of him. But he still doesn’t say anything—if he’s trying to make me squirm, it’s working.
“So?” I ask.
He inhales the fresh air, closes his eyes, then exhales.
