by Sarina Bowen
“Excellent!” I say with a bright smile. “Sounds great.”
I sleep like shit that night in my car. You’d think being halfway to getting a job would’ve relaxed me, but instead, I lie there in the cold car and think of all the ways I could still screw it up.
If they run a credit check on me, will the bank say that my credit cards have just been canceled? Is that how credit checks work?
My bigger fear is that they’ll ask Kieran whether or not they should hire me, and he’ll talk them out of it. Kieran is one of those people who listens more than he talks. He can probably smell my desperation.
And he’s family. Audrey is married to Kieran’s cousin. “They’re a big, close-knit family,” she’d said as we chatted.
I’m doomed. And doomed people sleep poorly.
The result is that I’m bleary the next morning when I report for duty with Zara. The bagels and pretzels turn out great, but I’m sluggish behind the counter. I need more calories, too, but I don’t want to stop to take a break.
When Kieran shows up for work after the breakfast rush, Zara declares that she’s taking a break to check in on her daughter. “Can you bake another batch of muffins and some cookies for this afternoon?”
“Of course!” I say brightly, relieved to give up counter duty.
I can almost feel Kieran rolling his eyes. He’s not buying what I have to sell. He steps up to the counter, and I go into the kitchen, retreating to our separate corners like fighters between rounds. I put the muffins into the oven and wait.
I’m having a happy dream. The best kind of dream.
I’m in a gleaming restaurant kitchen, cooking a meal for the actor Henry Cavill. And he’s flirting with me. But I can’t tell if he’s flirting for real or just being friendly. As I set a plate down in front of him, I’m trying to decide whether or not to slip him my phone number.
“You’re really cute,” he says. “But it’s too bad we knew each other in high school. That ruins everything.”
“Why?” I ask Dream Cavill. But he can’t answer me, because the oven timer starts ringing loudly. I look around but can’t find it.
A few seconds into its persistent beeping, I startle awake and realize that pesty sound is not part of the dream, but real. With a gasp, I yank my head from my hands and rise from my stool so quickly that I sway on my feet.
I lurch over to the oven and check the pumpkin muffins. They’ll need another two minutes, so I close the oven door and shake my bleary head. Finally, I stop the timer’s infernal noise. I spot Kieran in the doorway, frowning at me. He’s the only witness to this shit show.
I haven’t even been offered the job yet, but I’ve already fallen asleep on it. This is not good.
“Sorry,” I try to say, but it comes out as a croak. I clear my throat and try again. “I was just…” The sentence peters out, because there’s no excuse that I can offer. Sleeping in my car is killing me. I look like death this morning and am now capable of slipping into REM sleep while the muffins bake. It’s unprofessional, and I really hope Kieran doesn’t mention it to Zara and Audrey.
He probably will, though.
Kieran disappears without a word, which is just as well, I guess. Zara will be back any moment. I take out the muffins and set them on a rack to cool. Then I stir up a batch of oatmeal cookies with raisins.
Ten minutes later, as I’m dropping cookie dough onto a tray, Kieran enters the kitchen. He places a mug of steaming coffee on the worktable beside me and disappears before I can say anything.
It’s a pretty helpful gesture considering that Kieran hates me. Every friendly thing I say to him goes wrong somehow, and when we worked the counter together yesterday, it had seemed like I couldn’t stop bumping into him. Maybe he’s just clumsy, but it was probably my fault.
And although he likely brought me the coffee so I wouldn’t burn the place down by accident, I should still thank him.
I don’t get my chance until that afternoon. Zara retreats into the little office to order some supplies. The shop is in a rare lull, the only customers outside on the patio, wearing their coats in the weak October sunshine.
“Can I talk to you for a sec?” I ask Kieran.
“Why.” His forehead wrinkles. The dude does not want to talk.
But I plow ahead. “Just thought I’d introduce myself properly, because I hope we’re going to be working together.”
“Nice to meet you,” he grits out.
“Yeah. I can tell you’re thrilled.” I chuckle. “Look, we obviously went to the same high school—”
“It was a long time ago. I don’t even remember.” He shuts me down with a few quick words. Then he swallows hard, betraying his discomfort.
And that’s when I get angry. Can we really not get past my teenage stupidity?
“Yeah, okay,” I say slowly. I cross my arms in front of my chest to show him that his brusque tone doesn’t scare me. Although I have to lift my chin to look him in the eye. He’s probably got four inches on me, as well as bulging biceps that I can’t help but admire. It’s too bad Kieran Shipley wants nothing to do with me, because the man is as hot as he is grumpy.
And now I’m staring.
“I guess I must be thinking of somebody else,” I say so slowly that it sounds like a tease. “Pity, though. Because once upon a time I really enjoyed putting on a show for that other guy. Whoever he was. And I’m pretty sure he enjoyed it, too.”
And then—because self-preservation was never my strong suit—I give him a sleazy wink, turn on my heel, and disappear into the kitchen. But not before I glimpse a flash of red on his face.
I just made him angry. Awesome. I must not want to buy decent food or sleep in a real bed after all.
Nice going, Roddy. You’re fucking everything up again.
But if Kieran Shipley can’t deal with me, maybe this job was never meant to be.
Kieran
Longest. Week. Ever.
Every time I turn around, Roderick is there. I’m in hell, and I’m behaving like a teenage prick. And I feel like one, too. But I cannot have a casual chat about high school with Roderick. Not within earshot of customers or Zara. That’d be like turning my soul inside out.
He’s Mr. Charming, with that easy smile. Hey, about high school… Like that’s an easy conversation.
I’m in knots over it. And every time I catch a glimpse of his smile, I can picture him putting his mouth to other uses. He knows something about me that nobody else suspects—I watched him because I liked it. He knows something about me that I haven’t managed to tell a soul.
Including myself.
When Zara gets off the phone, my torture ends. “You can call it a day, Roddy,” she says.
He has a nickname already? That can’t be good.
“Audrey and I are going to have a chat about what we need in terms of hours. And we’ll be in touch. Here—I’m going to pay you in cash for these two days of work.”
Paying him in cash is good, right? It means he’s not actually on the payroll. Maybe they aren’t hiring him. Maybe I don’t have to feel exposed every time I set foot in this place.
My relief is short-lived. Audrey buzzes through the door a little later, and the two of them go into the kitchen to talk, while I serve the afternoon crowd.
As I’m cleaning up the coffee bar, I overhear them.
“So… Who’s going to tell Kieran?” Zara says. “I’ll flip you for it.”
My heart dives into my stomach as Audrey says, “You tell him. I’ll watch.”
“Tell me what?” I ask, sticking my head into the kitchen.
They both startle. “Um…” Audrey smiles.
“We hired Roderick,” Zara says.
“What?” I shouldn’t be surprised, but I’m still miserable. “He couldn’t possibly be the best choice.” There’s no way I can see his face every day and not think about the way I shamelessly and repeatedly invaded his privacy when I was a teenager. Or why.
Audrey and Zara excha
nge a glance.
“Buddy,” Audrey says slowly. “Why don’t you like this guy?”
“He’s a dick,” I say immediately. And then I feel a new crushing wave of shame. Because what I mean to say is, I saw his dick. And I liked it.
“Based on what, though? How do you know him?”
Shit.
“High school, right?” Zara offers.
“Yeah,” I grumble.
“So…” Audrey offers me the plate of muffins that they’ve been chowing. But I shake my head. “Is he still a dick? I mean, I don’t want to hire a dick. But is he presently a dick, or might he have outgrown it?”
I grind my teeth. “I dunno. I have to wipe down the machines and get going.”
It’s a chickenshit move, but I need a minute to wrap my head around this new development. The only person who ever glimpsed my hidden truths has invaded my life. It’s not his fault, but I want him gone.
I clock out. As I climb into my truck and head for Burlington and my second job, I’m as stressed out as I’ve ever been. He’s a dick, I’d told Audrey and Zara. I don’t even know the guy. And Zara and Audrey need a new employee.
I’d slandered him for no reason. Shame burns hotly inside me. I’d talked smack about a person I didn’t even know, only because I didn’t want to confront myself. That’s not the guy I am—is it?
Also, I have this nagging feeling that Roderick really needs the job. If that’s the case, then I’ve done something incredibly evil.
I park behind the advertising agency and go inside, heading straight to my desk, even before saying hello to Mr. Pratt, the owner. I sit down in my fancy ergonomic chair and dial my cousin’s wife’s phone.
“Hey!” Audrey says when she picks up. “Everything okay?” It’s unusual for me to call her after hours.
“Yeah,” I say slowly. “Look. What I said earlier?”
“You mean about Roderick?”
“Right.” Jesus, I don’t even like saying his name aloud. “It was just a stupid thing in high school. Nothing to worry about.”
She’s silent for a moment. “Are you sure? I trust your opinion.”
“I’m sure.” My voice is gravel. “It’s nothing. Just high school crap. Ancient history. I mean—I wouldn’t want to hire the high school version of me, even.”
“Oh, I would,” Audrey says easily. “You’re a little too serious, maybe, but you’re a solid guy. I’ll bet you were always like that. From birth.” She laughs.
“Um, thanks?” She’s right. I am too serious. People say that all the time. It’s just that I don’t know how to be anything else.
“Thanks for telling me,” Audrey says. “I feel better about him now.”
“Yeah…” I sigh. “Forget I even said anything.”
“All right. Will I see you at Thursday Dinner?”
“I don’t think so,” I admit. “My dad’s surgery is that day.”
“Oh! Of course. Let me know if you need me to adjust the schedule.”
“No, it’s fine. And he’ll be okay.” There’s really no reason why she should be stressed out over the old grump. Enough people are busy worrying about him already. “See you tomorrow?”
“Of course! Be well!”
I hang up the phone feeling slightly better about myself.
Just slightly.
Mr. Pratt ambles over. “Top of the morning to you!”
“Likewise.” That’s our little joke. He lets me work from two or three in the afternoon until I’m done, which is always somewhere between six and nine at night.
It’s a strange arrangement, but Pratt needs me. He isn’t an artist. His specialty is writing snappy copy. He used to have a business partner who did all the art, but that guy retired to Florida.
These days, Mr. Pratt has his lazy son Deacon working here during the day. And he has me here, from late afternoon into the evening, to do all the art that Deacon can’t manage and to fix all the messes that Deacon makes.
It’s not a terrific situation. But the pay isn’t too bad, the hours are flexible, and I’m getting paid to make art. Most weeknights I do my thing and leave the Photoshop files for Mr. Pratt to inspect in the morning.
“So, I love what you did with the vinyl records.” Pratt holds up a printout of some work I did last night. “Very slick placement of the text on version three.”
“Thank you.” I always create several versions of each draft, which is easy enough to do digitally.
“I’m not sold on version one, though.” He holds up another printout. The design looks horrible, because someone has completely fucked up my lettering. And by “someone” I mean Deacon Pratt.
“Yeah,” I say slowly. “I wanted that text in charcoal. And that typeface is too vintage for this brand, I think. That’s not the one I used.”
He frowns. “Switch it back, would you?”
“Sure,” I say, holding back a sigh. “What else do you have for me?”
“A few logo ideas for Winooski River Savings. Let me grab ’em.” He goes back to his desk while I fire up Photoshop on the computer.
In spite of the Pratt family dynamic, I do love this job. I’ve been taking online design courses, and I hope to take a real class at Moo U next year. If I could make a real living in graphic design someday, that would be amazing. My family doesn’t know any of this, though. They think I’m selling advertising, and I haven’t bothered to correct them.
Keeping my work a secret isn’t a normal thing to do. I realize this. But I started keeping secrets when I was a teenager, and I’ve never learned how to stop. And I also don’t see the point of telling everyone what’s in my heart. I don’t want to listen to their opinions about it.
Who’s got time for that?
“Let’s see,” Mr. Pratt says, flipping through his notebook. “Their old logo was circular, see?” He holds up a page with a familiar image on it. “I’d like you to keep the paddles and the canoe from their old logo. But I think it should be brighter somehow. Bolder.”
I consider the old logo for a moment. “I’m glad they’re updating this. Sketch art doesn’t really say bank to me. But neither does a canoe…”
This is a tricky design problem. My favorite kind.
“What do you think we should try?”
He says we. But he means me. “Let me play with the shape of the boat and the paddle, and see what I can do. I think if we put a wave form under it—like river rapids—it could be splashier.”
“Good, good!” he says, passing me the page. “Try that.”
And I get to work.
Four hours later, I lock the place up and stagger out to my car. Working two jobs is no picnic, but it’s very good for my bank account. At least I’d told Kyle that all the farming work was his tonight. No exceptions.
It’s a long drive home. On the way, I stop in Colebury to buy a burrito and wolf it down. It’s dark when I hit the two-lane highway toward Hardwick. The shops are all shuttered, and there’s no traffic, but I go slow, because the cops love to use this stretch as a speed trap.
That’s how I happen to spot the blue Volkswagen parked behind the pet-grooming place. I notice it because of the blue glow coming from somebody’s phone on the passenger side of the car.
Roderick. What’s he doing in there?
I look away, because I can’t afford to think about blue Volkswagens or the people who drive them.
Roderick
I got the job! Full time, too.
But it’s too soon to celebrate, because I’m curled up on the backseat of my car, uncomfortable as hell. My hip fell asleep about seven seconds after I lay down. It’s already numb, and the pins and needles sure to be next.
I’ll try to sleep for an hour or two here, before giving up to sit in the passenger seat. Up there I’ll be uncomfortable in fresh and interesting ways—my feet will fall asleep and my ass will go numb.
But everything is going to be fine, because Audrey and Zara hired me, and I’m earning a living wage. Zara paid me in cash f
or my two trial days, so I can keep eating while I wait for the payroll to kick in. I’ll need to pay for a gym membership, too. There are only three days left of my trial period. I’ve quickly become their best customer, thanks to the hot showers, the complimentary shampoo, and fresh towels.
It’s cold in the car tonight. I have one of my ex’s sleeping bags piled on top of my body. It’s the only thing of his that I swiped. Brian liked camping, and I went along with it because I liked keeping Brian happy. But after my homeless stint at eighteen, sleeping outside won’t ever seem fun to me again.
Tomorrow night it’s supposed to dip below freezing. It’s not clear how long it will take until I can find somewhere to live. Most businesses run their payroll at least a week in arrears. That means a paycheck next Friday at the earliest. And I still won’t have enough money to rent an apartment.
I need to find somebody who’s looking for a roommate. I peeked at Craigslist, but the offerings were thin. The cheapest rental apartments I found on the web start at eight hundred dollars. Theoretically I could afford that, except I don’t know if I could pass a landlord’s credit check. Before I lived with Brian, I had some hard years. And also, landlords sometimes ask for first and last month’s rent and a security deposit. Under those conditions, I’d be sleeping in my car for weeks.
So I need a room someplace where they aren’t too concerned with the rules. A house shared with college students, maybe. I’d be a good roommate. Neat freak will make you sourdough waffles once a week on his day off. Gay AF. Quiet because he has no friends.
These are the things I think about while I slowly fall asleep in the refrigerator chill of my tiny German car.
The next few days are exhausting but glorious.
At first, Zara and Audrey don’t change their schedules. One of them is always present when I show up at six to help them start the day.
My bones ache from sleeping in the cold car, but I always feel better after the first hour in the kitchen. My new bosses like to play music while we bake muffins and start the coffee. The smell of pastries in the oven is like therapy to me. And since Zara and Audrey have given me free rein to test my own recipes, I’m up to my elbows in bread dough at least once each morning.
