by Peter Styles
“Can you have dogs at school?”
“I said you,” she emphasizes, although there’s a smile on her mouth. “You know…they’re good for your health. They can make people, um…happier. Give you something to do. Regularly.”
Oh. The realization hits him like a ton of bricks. She’s not trying to get something for herself. She’s trying to make him get better. It breaks his heart a little. He’d almost be happier if she were outright asking for a dog. Then he’d feel like he could do something. This, though…
“That’s nice, kiddo. But I work every day. Wouldn’t be nice to leave a poor dog home all alone,” he says gently, focusing on a spot on the window while trying not to break down.
It’s partly true. He is gone every day, working. He’s never really home unless he’s sleeping or pulling himself back from a night of bar hopping. The other thing is, though, he’s not confident in his ability to care for a living thing. He’s just lucky that Oriole is some sort of paradise on earth where the foliage takes care of itself; aside from mowing his tiny bit of lawn every other weekend, there’s no foliage he can kill through neglect.
A dog, though, would require attention. Like the attention his ex-wife keeps telling him he didn’t put into their relationship and family. God, I made myself sad again, he thinks, shaking his head at the window.
“Okay. I just…don’t want you to get lonely, Dad. I think you need to be around people more than you know.”
You need to have something to care about, she doesn’t say. They drive the rest of the way in comfortable silence—at least on Jordi’s part. He wallows the entire trip and through breakfast, thinking about how his daughter thinks he’s at the end of his rope at the ripe old age of thirty-something. He almost laughs when he realizes he doesn’t remember how old he is. It seems like ages have gone by since he was a kid at school, juggling an infant and a wife and a degree at the same time.
He sends Jordi off with Melissa, watching his daughter drive off into the sun, back to college. Melissa doesn’t say much, casting him a sidelong glance that feels more cursory than anything.
“Take care of yourself,” she says, and it’s not so much a plea as a direction. Do this and you will feel better.
Except he’s not really sure how to take care of himself, aside from making money to pay his bills. He doesn’t have a family anymore and every day, Jordi gets closer to becoming a full-fledged adult and taking off for good. She won’t have a reason to need to come back and visit him and Melissa won’t have a reason to keep checking up on him.
He gets home and opens a bottle, his only saving thought the fact that he has work the next day—which, technically, should stop him from drinking. But he’s alone at home and there’s nothing for him to divert his attention to, so he drinks and sits on his couch, wondering how long he can keep existing like this, just continuing to plod on as if he’s some sort of robot.
Jordi was right, he thinks, three-quarters of the way through the bottle, I need something to love. Something that won’t break under my weight. But he knows, with bitter regret, that there’s nothing and no one like that in the world.
4
“Get up!” A pause. Silence. Sweet, blessed silence. Rowan rolls over in bed, thinking it was all just some unhappy nightmare, and then it happens again. “…Ro. Rowan Marlowe Connor. Get up.”
He groans, barely lifting his eyelids, and sees Jen standing by the side of his bed with her hands on her hips. She’s already dressed and more put-together than he could ever claim to be. A glance at the clock tells him it’s six-thirty in the morning, which…is really only half an hour before his usual waking up time. But I’ve been off-schedule for three days now.
“I’m up,” Rowan mutters, rubbing at his eyes with a tired hand. Jen sighs through her nose.
“We’re leaving at seven. Get dressed and ready and meet me by the car. We can have coffee at the store,” she adds, talking over her shoulder as she leaves him in peace.
He is very tempted to go back to sleep. He doesn’t, though, because he has an idea of what Jen will do if he does. Plus, he’s supposed to be helping. If he doesn’t keep track of his schedule during this moonlighting stint, he’ll get back to his real job and be unable to work properly. With that in mind, he pulls himself out of bed, starting the shower while brushing his teeth and getting clothes ready. Jen left instructions for him under the schedule she’d printed—wear whatever you want, just avoid short sleeves and probably wear jeans, they’re more comfortable. He doesn’t have much in the way of casual clothes so he resolves to go shopping later, once he figures out what he needs.
Jen is waiting in the car. He walks outside, blinking in the morning light, and sees his uncle sitting on the porch of the house. The man waves, smiling, and Rowan waves back. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be left behind like that, he thinks. Even if his uncle will go back to work after a while, he’s still stuck for now. I can’t even handle having no work for more than a weekend.
“He’ll be fine,” Jen says quietly as she turns away from the house, driving down the tiny country road and towards town. “He knows it’ll be there to come back to. He’s just not used to sitting around.”
“I get that,” Rowan murmurs.
The bakery is downtown, situated between two other tiny storefronts dedicated to a deli and an antique shop. The first things he notices are the new awning and the new lettering on the door and windows. The Sweet Spot is emblazoned in white script against a mint green circle. It looks clean and crisp. Modern but with a decidedly retro twist.
“You got him to replace that stuff?” Rowan asks, impressed.
“Yeah. We needed new things. I appreciated the vintage ones, so I tried to keep them similar—I just wanted to make sure we were visible.”
“And we’re a café now, too?”
“We’ve pretty much always been a café,” Jen laughs, turning into the tiny back parking lot. “It’s just that now, we have proper tables and a coffee menu. You’ll get used to it—people don’t usually stop in huge numbers for the café part. Most of our business is still catering and bulk orders.”
Jen gives him an extra key to the back door. When he steps through, a wave of nostalgia hits him like a brick wall. The smell of vanilla and confectioners sugar seems to lay over everything. The floor is textured tile in the back, easy to clean, and the front is old-fashioned wood. There’s a row of cases fronting the registers, cakes and cookies and a dozen other items on display. The back is still separated from the register aisle by louvered doors, the wooden slats obscuring the behind-the-scenes work.
“Okay. Opening procedures,” Jen starts, walking towards the far end of the register area. He follows quickly. “Number one: coffee.”
He snorts but pulls two mugs from the cabinet by the machine, examining them. They’re striped minty blue and white. Perfect for a café and bakery. Jen shows him how to work the coffee machine—which is really simple—and points out the cabinets below it, which are stocked with chocolate chips and whipped cream and caramel sauce. There’s even a small freezer box for ice, which she says is popular in the warmer months.
It doesn’t take long for him to get into the swing of things. He’s really always known how to do this—he grew up around his uncle and aunt, both of whom had worked the bakery from the beginning. He ran to the bakery after school with Jen, each boasting about who would make the better cake that day. They both absorbed everything around them—how his aunt would use the register, how his uncle would time different pastries so that nothing would burn and refreshing the cases was like clockwork. If Rowan is honest, being here is like slipping into an old suit. Everything is second nature.
“We open at eight,” Jen reminds him at seven-forty, “and we usually only have four people at any given time. Mornings, it’s three—one for the register, one for the back, another to float. At around lunch, we get the fourth person, so we always have two at the registers.”
“You said most of the workers
are college kids, right?”
“Pretty much all of them, yes. They’re good kids, too. You’ll be working morning to afternoon three days and afternoon to close three days. You’re basically taking my shift, really—I picked up Dad’s.”
Rowan hums an affirmative. The place is ready by now—tables and chairs situated, registers unlocked, the first round of pastries in the oven. All that’s left is their third person, he realizes.
“Hey, who’s—”
“Do me a favor and take the empty delivery boxes to the back,” she says, half-listening as she runs down a list of supplies. “I’ll have to get those recycled tonight.”
“Sure.”
He finds the boxes easily enough—they’re all neatly stacked by the back door, brands and weight information printed on the sides. He tries to balance the haul with one arm, reaching with the other to open the door.
As soon as the door swings open, there’s a grunt and a man practically falls into Rowan. Rowan makes a very unmanly yelp, backing away and trying to help the guy at the same time. He hits his lower back on the work table behind him, and hisses in pain. The boxes fall to the floor like Jenga blocks. Rowan blinks, ready to apologize, and looks at the stranger.
He seems to be just a few years older than Rowan. He has the gruff appearance of someone who doesn’t bother shaving much and his dark hair is in desperate need of some sort of styling or cut. He’s broad-shouldered, wearing a black t-shirt that looks like it might be just a bit too small over his muscles, the edges of a tattoo peeking out of one sleeve.
“Uh, I’m so sorry, sir, are you—”
“Sir?” the man’s green eyes appraise him warily, some hint of sardonic amusement in their depths. He sighs, and begins to pick up boxes from the floor. “Take it down a notch, kid.”
He must think I’m one of the college kids, Rowan thinks, pushing himself back up to his feet. He gathers the boxes again, trying to be patient.
“I’m not one of the college students,” he explains, “I’m—”
“Doesn’t matter to me,” the man interrupts, eyes grazing the room, “Where’s the lady?”
Something about the way the man says it—brief, drawled, with no hint of care in his tone—makes Rowan’s hackles rise. The lady? His initial curiosity is rapidly boiling down to annoyance. Who is this guy, anyway? He starts to guide the man by one arm—which is shockingly dense, for not being bodybuilder-sized—and the stranger blinks, too caught off-guard to react.
“I’m not sure why you were loitering at the back door, but we’re not open yet,” Rowan says curtly, depositing his boxes and the man by the sidewalk at the back door. “You—”
The man leans in, mouth a straight line of displeasure, and then Rowan smells it.
Is he…drunk? No, he thinks, not possible. The man is completely clear-eyed and upright. Not drunk, then. Hungover. He wonders if the stranger is just another factory worker or a trucker from somewhere out of town, trying to make trouble. Not that Rowan cares where he works; it doesn’t make much of a difference—it’s just that this guy is probably bad news and Rowan needs to know just how bad it is.
“Stephen,” Jen says, suddenly behind Rowan. Thank God. Rowan’s about to say something—maybe promise to call the police or scare the guy off; he doesn’t know—and then the man smirks, shouldering past Rowan.
“Morning, lovely.”
What?
“You’re late. We already finished prepping. You know what that means,” Jen says patiently, reaching up to fix his unruly hair as much as possible. Rowan is still reeling.
“Right, I got it. Pull duty. Don’t worry,” Stephen says, clapping her on the shoulder before he starts to go inside. His hands reach for an apron on the hooks by the back door.
Rowan gapes, turning towards Jen.
“Don’t tell me—”
“He works here,” Jen says. “He’s our third for today. Stephen, this is my cousin, Rowan.”
“Jen, he’s—”
She shoots him a look and he somehow loses his will to speak, the words dying in his throat. He’s hungover. Unprofessionally so. He still smells faintly of something hard, like whiskey. It’s probably seeping through his pores, for all Rowan knows. Jen goes back to the front and Rowan follows closely on her heels, casting one last look at Stephen.
The bastard winks at him.
“Jen,” he says, once they get to the front, “I’m not sure what you know, but that guy is hungover. Like, really bad.”
“I know,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “I’ve seen hungover before.”
“What—you mean with him? This is a regular occurrence?”
“He’s having a hard time,” Jen says quietly, moving to cross the counters and turn the open sign around. “He never comes in drunk. Just…”
“Hungover. Why do you keep him around? If he’s like that?”
“He’s never an issue with customers. Hell, most of the moms in town like coming in just to flirt with him.”
“Flirt?”
“Yes, Ro. That’s something normal people do around people they’re attracted to,” Jen says drily. “Anyway, he’s one of our own. What kind of person would I be if I turned him out?”
“A sane one,” Rowan mutters, yanking the strings on his apron tighter. Jen stifles a smile, shaking her head.
“Listen, Ro. I know you’re all about high standards, but Stephen needs help. If I can offer him a regular job—if Dad could offer him a regular job—why not? All he needs is a little direction.”
Rowan doesn’t believe her but he can tell he isn’t going to get anywhere with the argument. He just sighs and stands behind the counter, staring at the tiny barstool-like chair by the register. Jen had installed them after reading a few things about leg pain and fatigue, apparently. They’re bolted to the floor for safety and they’re just far enough from the register to give people room. That’s the kind of person she is, he thinks. So invested in other people.
It’s not like he doesn’t care about other people. He can. He does. When friends are in need, he’s the first one to help out. But he knows when someone is worth his time and when someone isn’t. Rowan isn’t a psychiatrist or a social worker; he’s not going to befriend somebody to help fix them. That’s up to them, he thinks. Just like Stephen, whoever he is, should be working through his issues in rehab—not his family’s bakery.
The first customer of the day is a harried young woman. She looks twenty-something, with a pixie cut and a trench coat that’s ruffled at the bottom. Jen perks up, casting an excited glance at Rowan. He simply waits, making sure he’s relaxed and not too smiley, and greets her at the register.
“Hi. How may I help you?”
“Uh...a dozen donuts, please. Plain.”
“Of course. Do you want a bag for them?”
“Just the box is fine.”
It’s quick work to get the dozen into the box and he folds it closed easily, sliding it over the counter. The girl is already ready to pay, passing her card over. Somewhere in the middle of him running it, she seems to snap out of her occupied mind and notice something.
“Hey, where’s Stephen today?” she asks with a tiny frown.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Jen smiles, walking over from her spot.
“Hey, Lucy. Stephen’s in the back. This is Rowan, my cousin—he’s helping out until Dad gets better.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Lucy realizes, accepting her card back from a mute Rowan. “I hope he gets better soon. Tell Stephen—”
And then, as if on cue—probably on cue, Rowan thinks bitterly—the man appears from the back. He beams, the motion transforming his face, and Rowan just stares. Smiling, the man appears less like a felon and more like…just some guy.
“Lucy girl! How’s the internship?”
The change in the young woman is immediate. She grins, all semblance of distraction evaporating. Suddenly, all of her focus is directed towards the man before her.
“Hell,
Stephen. They’ve got me on coffee duty the whole time.”
“Those bastards. What a waste of your potential. Hey, don’t worry, kid. Just keep working on that book of yours and you’ll be bossin’ ‘em around soon enough. Okay?”
This elicits a laugh from Lucy, and a few moments later, she leaves with a huge smile on her face.
Rowan stares at the man. He’s not quite sure how to reconcile what he just saw with the fact that this Stephen is clearly a mess. When Lucy leaves, though, Stephen seems to draw back into himself. His cheer evaporates, replaced by a level expression. It’s like his outburst of joy was just an act. How does Jen not see it? He’s just playing everyone around him.
Rowan can’t entirely enjoy his day. Stephen is always there, hanging around, and when a cashier kid gets in at noon, it’s even worse. There are more people during lunch, pre-ordering birthday cakes and treats for office parties. A few people order dessert for their families and everything passes over the counter, bags and boxes and receipts for bulk orders. Rowan eventually manages to forget about Stephen, for the most part, but he’s still hyper-aware any time the man appears to restock the cases.
Every time Stephen appears, without fail, someone talks to him. Usually there are several people clamoring for his attention—moms gushing over his haircut, which Rowan finds absurd, considering it looks like he needs one. Teenage boys excitedly showing off their tattoos to him, older couples asking about his house and whether he needed repairs after a recent storm. It’s like everyone in the town knows Stephen and talks to him regularly. Rowan wonders if any of them really know him—if they’ve ever been close enough to smell the bad decisions on the man.
It’s not until later that afternoon that Rowan realizes that his shift has been over for half an hour. He realizes that Stephen is still around too. Which means he’s probably full-time.
“Hey, Jen. I just realized I’ve kind of gone over—sorry. I can—”
“Don’t worry about it.” She waves him off. “You can go home. We’ll figure it out later.”
