by Peter Styles
He pauses, considering.
“You know, I could stay. For today. I mean, you probably need a break and I have too much energy as it is. Why don’t you head back? You can swing by later if you really feel like you need to run me through closing procedures.”
She hesitates. He can tell she’s tired—he can only imagine, taking care of her father and the store at the same time. She’s probably been run down long before he got here to help out. He feels a little guilty for not keeping up with her more.
“Come on. I won’t burn it down,” Rowan jokes lightly.
“Okay,” she finally says, shaking her head as if she can’t believe herself, “Stephen knows the closing procedures. If you have any questions, ask him.” She sees the sour look on Rowan’s face. “I know you don’t like him, but he’s worked here for four years. He might as well be a manager. Okay? Just give him a break.”
As much as he doesn’t want to, he knows Jen needs the afternoon off. He agrees, sending her off with a wave and getting right back to work. Unfortunately, the two college kids have taken the registers, which means his only choice is to work in the back. With Stephen.
He tries not to look too put off by the prospect, making a beeline for the empty pans. He knows what to make next and he can tell Stephen is busy in the supply closet, pulling boxes from the back of the rows to the front. It only takes a second to lose himself in the baking process, a cold metal bowl on the table and a few supplies scattered around him. Vanilla, cinnamon, flour…he eventually forgets he’s even in the bakery. It’s almost like being at home, making some dessert for himself on a weekend. All that’s missing is his music, playing from a speaker in the corner by the kitchen. He starts humming, wondering if Jen would let him play music in the back.
“Look at you, all cheery like a little bird,” a voice says from behind him, low and gravelly. It sends a delicious shiver up his spine immediately. It takes him a second to realize who it is and snap out of his pleased haze.
“You’re done organizing?” Rowan asks, trying to redirect attention. Stephen looks amused, raising an eyebrow at him as he moves around the table.
“Doesn’t take long to pull stuff, kid.”
“I’m not a kid,” Rowan says evenly, trying not to sound like he’s angry. Or a kid. Stephen just smirks. Rowan’s good mood is dissipating quickly. He decides to ignore the other man as much as possible.
“So, you’re Jen’s cousin, then?”
Rowan grunts by way of answer. He knows he probably seems petty but he can’t bring himself to be nice to him. He’s just a drunk who manipulates people. All of his charm disappears once he walks into the back. He’s not sure what Stephen is playing at but he’s not about to go along with it. Especially not if he’s been hanging around for four years. I can’t believe they let him stay that long.
“You just gonna keep beating those eggs into a froth, or are you going to make cupcakes?”
Rowan feels a flush start to take over his face. He doesn’t respond to Stephen, ignoring the man to go about his work. He’s embarrassed that he could get so distracted. Just pretend he isn’t there.
The rest of the day goes by quickly. Eventually, the two kids at the front leave and Rowan gets a brief respite at the front. By the time eight o’clock rolls around, he turns the sign to closed and starts to wipe down tables. He doesn’t have to think much about closing, which he likes—it’s all cleaning up and readying for the next day. He can sweep and mop without interruption, finding comfort in the routine.
“Wow. That was fast,” Stephen says, leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. Rowan almost jumps.
“It’s not hard,” he responds curtly. Not if you make yourself useful. He walks past the man to check the back, expecting a mess, and he stops in his tracks when he sees everything. The tables are wiped down, no trace of streaking on their metallic surfaces. The floor is spotless and the pans are washed, a few drying and others set on racks for the next morning. Rowan is speechless, looking around the room.
“Nope. Not hard at all,” Stephen murmurs, smirking as he passes Rowan and hangs his apron up.
Rowan shoots Jen a text—I’m done—and waits for Stephen to walk out before locking the back door. The other man scrutinizes him, curious.
“You’re waiting?”
“Yeah. Jen’s my ride.”
Stephen nods, pondering. He seems to be considering something.
“I usually go to Arlin’s down the street. You wanna come along?”
What? The bar? Rowan fumbles for words, feeling suddenly guilty. He’s not sure why—he doesn’t owe anything to the man.
“Um—I’m not a big fan of crowds.”
“Well. We could just go to my place, then.”
Rowan blinks, shocked. Is he—did he just—he grasps for some sort of answer. Anything. A way to get out of whatever the hell this is. It occurs to him that he doesn’t even know if the man is single. For all he knows, Stephen is taking advantage of his cluelessness. Stephen rolls his eyes.
“Okay, I’m asking you over to my place f—”
“No,” Rowan says emphatically, his disbelief bleeding into the word. “No, I’m not—no.”
Jen’s car pulls up and he’s immensely thankful, turning away to get in. Stephen doesn’t say anything or follow, his only move to wave back at Jen when she waves to him. Rowan stares at the figure as Jen pulls away from the building.
“So, how was work?” Jen asks, smiling.
You have no idea, Rowan thinks, still hearing Stephen’s proposition playing on loop in his mind. No idea.
5
Tuesday is only his second day working at the shop but he already feels like it’s routine. He wakes up at six-thirty sharp, rolling out of bed to shower and get ready for the day. The guest house feels more comfortable now that he has his clothes hanging in the closet, pajamas stuffed in a dresser. He doesn’t have much with him but there are a few little things to make it feel more like home...his laptop on the nightstand, a tablet in the kitchen, a few pints of ice cream in the fridge and fruit on the counter. His aunt and uncle insist on getting him anything he might need—You don’t have to eat with us every night, honey, his aunt said, especially if you have friends over.
He'd been tempted to say what friends? He decided against it, knowing what their reaction would be. It’s not like he was a social butterfly when he was in school—he had maybe two friends in his entire high school career. He wasn’t lonely, though. He just liked to concentrate his attention on specific things. He didn’t need several circles of friends and best friends and acquaintances, unlike Jen. His cousin was the one that everyone liked; she had three Sams, four Ericas, at least two Roberts, a handful of Chrises—anyone she ever met inevitably ended up being her friend.
As an adult, Rowan’s only true friends are probably Lina and Leo—and by extension, Leo’s boyfriend, Austin. He works with the three of them the most, usually tackling projects at the company in a small group. Austin doesn’t intrude on Rowan too much, Lina knows when to draw him out of his mind, and Leo is always good for a joke that shouldn’t be funny but is. He rarely sees any of them outside of work, though. He’s not sure if it’s by choice or not; he goes along on bar nights, happy enough to simply be around them—they let him be the observer he is, listening but not needing to join the conversation. He doesn’t usually feel the need to help move things along; his role is passive. There’s no reason for him to get involved in anything.
“You’re awfully quiet. Still asleep?” Jen asks, rolling her curls into a messy bun when they hit a red light.
“I’m fine,” Rowan replies, not willing to talk about it. There’s nothing wrong with me, he thinks. Or how I make friends.
“Okay. Well, we have three different catering events today, so I’m going to be running around for most of the morning. You’ll be at the shop with a cashier; Stephen will be working in the back with you.”
He resists the urge to groan at the man’s name. I
s he working every day? He wonders if Jen will let him check the full schedule. Something tells him she won’t. She’s smart that way. It’s probably why she only gave him his schedule, without any of the other workers on it. Did she know I’d hate Stephen? He thinks she probably did, considering the man is his polar opposite.
Stephen shows up barely earlier than the last time; he’s there fifteen minutes before opening, still smelling like he bathed in alcohol. He seems to do his work well, which Rowan grudgingly admits to himself. The man may be alcoholic and devil-may-care but he at least knows how to mop the floors properly. If only he didn’t smell so bad.
“Hey, Ro—did you clean out the coffee machine last night?” Jen calls from the walk-in, where she’s pulling premade pastries for her catering events.
His heart sinks. He hadn’t even thought about the stupid machine—both because it’s new and because he just…hadn’t. It’s in the front, though, so he knows it was his responsibility. He opens his mouth to apologize and then Stephen pipes up from his place over a mixing bowl.
“It’s clean!”
Rowan shoots the man a glare.
“I don’t need you covering for me,” he mutters, grabbing a tray for cookies. Stephen just smirks, leaning over the counter. The move makes his arms seem even bigger.
“I’m not. It is clean. It needed to be done, so I cleaned it.”
Shit. Rowan turns away, pretending to look for something, feeling a hot flush spread over his cheeks. When did he even get the chance? He can’t remember seeing Stephen clean it or even hearing the other man emerge from the back during Rowan’s cleaning routine in the front. He feels like an idiot.
Jen emerges from the walk-in, arms loaded with boxes, and she sighs as she sets them down on the metal table for a moment.
“Okay. Three gigs—an office party, a birthday, and some sort of college club meeting. I’ll be out until one o’clock, so you’ll be facing the lunch rush alone. Think you can handle it?”
She doesn’t address either of them specifically but Rowan knows who she’s talking to. He’s the newbie here.
“Don’t worry. You know I’ve been training for this since we were kids,” he reminds her, unable to help the little jab at Stephen. I’m acting like a middle schooler, he thinks. As if he’s playing a game of trying to one-up the other man.
“You have fun.” Stephen smiles, already rolling out cookie dough. “I know where the fire extinguisher is.”
Jen laughs and says goodbye—Stephen holds the door for her as she goes to load her car and Rowan is both frustrated and envious.
Soon, it’s like everything he thought he was amazing at doing has been thrown out the window. Stephen finishes prepping his batch of cookies within five minutes; it takes Rowan six. Stephen has the cash registers unlocked for the cashier that gets in; Rowan had completely forgotten about them. All of his confidence is being put to the test and he feels like Stephen is loving it.
Rowan eventually relocates to the front, since there’s more of a need for him there and less of Stephen. He finds himself relaxing just the tiniest bit, able to do his work without worrying about the other man being around to show him up. He sees a familiar face at around ten in the morning—the girl with the pixie cut that had been so distracted the other day.
“Hi. Um—Leslie, right?”
“Lucy, kid,” Stephen laughs, somehow right at Rowan’s elbow, nudging him. The push—which is probably not meant to be threatening—is backed by so much muscle that Rowan feels like he’s going to bruise.
His immediate reaction is anger. He almost shoves Stephen back instinctually before he realizes what he’s doing.
“Lucy. What can I do for you?” His voice is strained. He’s barely containing himself from exploding at Stephen. What is it about this guy? He just pisses me off.
“Um…j-just a small box of macaroons, please. Regular assorted.” She looks uncertain and worried.
Great. Now I’m alienating the customers. He puts on his best customer service smile, filling the order as Stephen leans against the counter and chats with Lucy. He almost overfills the box, he’s so distracted. All he can wonder is how the hell Stephen manages to be so quiet and sneaky when he’s such a big man. And how the guy knows exactly what to do around the shop, despite always seeming to be talking instead of working. And how—
“You okay over there, Ro?” Stephen calls.
He’s not allowed to use that nickname, Rowan thinks, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. He doesn’t like the sound of it coming out of his mouth, even if it sounds friendly and casual. He knows the intent behind it. He’s trying to make Rowan look bad.
“Here you are,” Rowan says, forcing another smile and sliding the box towards Lucy, and Stephen thankfully leaves while Rowan rings her up.
The day goes that way. Any time Rowan seems to make a slip, Stephen is there, correcting him with a smile and stealing the customer’s attention away. It’s infuriating. It’s like he doesn’t think Rowan can handle himself. By eleven-thirty, with lunch traffic nearing, Rowan is practically boiling. All the little mistakes are piling on top of one another, stacking up like a mountain. He feels like he can barely breathe without Stephen polluting his space. He escapes the front when another cashier arrives, unfortunately drawn into the back by necessity.
He asked Jen about that on the way in that morning, whether all of the cashiers could work in the back, too. She’d just told him, Cashiers are cashiers. And they’re college kids. Most of them barely have time to make ramen, let alone learn how to whip up custard tarts. He accepted her point and the fact that he will, without fail, be forced to work around Stephen any time the man shares his schedule. Which seems like it will be every day of the week for the next month or so. Rowan feels his shoulders tense at the thought.
“What are you doing?”
“Making eclairs,” Rowan says slowly, as if it’s obvious. It is to him. Stephen frowns a little, hands paused over a mixed bowl.
“That’s not—”
“We’re going to run out,” Rowan says brusquely, measuring flour, “and the lunch rush is coming.”
“People don’t buy them for lunch,” Stephen snorts. “They usually buy the donuts, if they’re college kids, or they buy croissants for sandwiches—”
“Listen, I’m not going to argue about—”
“But you’re wrong,” Stephen says, glaring for the first time since they’ve met. Somehow, the tiny show of aggression just riles Rowan even further. It’s like some sort of chemical signal for him to dial up the conflict. He isn’t even thinking about his words when he talks, now.
“I’m not wrong. I’m making sense. We’re running out and I’m making more.”
“If you do that, you’ll take up space for the wrong thing and then we’ll just be telling people we don’t have what they’re trying to order.”
“What—how do you even know that? Do you have actual numbers or are you just saying I’m wrong to start shit?”
“Start shit?” Stephen says, incredulous. He leans over the table, jaw tight. His eyes are dark. “Who the hell has been acting like a child, here? You’ve been an asshole from day one—”
“I’ve been an asshole? I didn’t show up to work hungover.”
He can almost hear the insult hit its mark. Stephen shifts back, white-knuckled hands gripping the table. Rowan feels a rush of triumph flooding his veins. He almost doesn’t care about how the argument started—it’s stupid anyway—because all he knows is that he got his point across. He’s laid out the facts. He’s a good for nothing drunk, Rowan thinks, taking up space in my family’s shop and wasting his pay at the bar. There are so many other people who deserve this more than him.
He knows, suddenly, why he’s been so angry. Aside from the way Stephen always seems to appear when he’s failing, it’s the fact that this is his family’s business. Their livelihood. He knows they do as well as they can, always giving back to the community whenever possible. They even try to
hire college kids exclusively for cashier positions, knowing the shop isn’t far from the campus and wanting to help out as much as possible. So the fact that a forty-something-year-old man is taking up the job, earning money just to spend drinking and making a mess of himself, makes Rowan angrier than anything else possibly could.
“That’s it,” Stephen says shortly, grabbing Rowan’s bowl. The move takes him by surprise and he doesn’t even immediately react, instead blinking as the item disappears before his eyes. He stands agape for a moment before lunging for it.
“What are you—”
“If you’re not going to stop, I’ll have to make you,” Stephen says, turning towards the sink.
“That’s a waste!” Rowan yells at him, furious. He’s running across the tiled floor, an arm outstretched to snatch it back.
Stephen turns to look at him, unimpressed, and then Rowan slips. His hand slams onto the table, barely catching his weight. Stephen stops, looking as if he’s ready to help him up, but Rowan can’t stop thinking about the stupid bowl. He has no right. He tries to grab it from his position but his fingers slip and the bowl clangs against the floor, ringing in the small space. It bounces and rolls in a tight circle, flour and sugar diffusing over the kitchen. Stephen stares down at Rowan, shocked, the powder clinging to both of them. They’re both breathing hard.
Stephen’s eyes narrow, aggravation still clear on his features, and one of his wide hands hoists Rowan up by his upper arm. The man is leaning close and Rowan can smell whiskey, vanilla and spice covering him with a sweet sheen. He can see the bare lines at the corners of Stephen’s eyes, branching out like rivers. He wonders if the man used to laugh more or if he’s always been a drunk.
“You could have—”
“Let go. I don’t need your help,” Rowan hisses, pulling back his arm. Stephen’s mouth flattens into a line, displeased—but there’s something else in his expression. Rowan can barely identify it hidden beneath layers of aggravation and dislike—worry?
