Junkyard Dog(47)

Both of Hayes’s hands grip bouquets. I admire how he covers his bases by buying two different colors, but I don’t want flowers. I need him to understand I come from a long line of people who take shit from people and ask for more. I refuse to be one of them. My kids need to know they can say no too. So I told Hayes no and walked away even if it broke my heart. Flowers won’t fix our situation.

“I am sorry,” he says like someone has rammed their hand up his ass and turned him into a dummy.

“For what?”

Hayes frowns, and I realize he thought the words would be enough. He’s so arrogant and stubborn. Two qualities I normally find quite attractive in the giant *.

“For upsetting you,” he finally says.

Narrowing my eyes, I take one of the bouquets. “Are you sorry for what you did to upset me or just sorry that I got upset about what you did?”

“Whichever answer that makes you happy.”

Hayes stares at me with his dark eyes, and I know he doesn’t feel a bit sorry for what happened. He just wants things fixed. I’d slam the door in his face if he didn’t look a little like a sad puppy.

“You can come inside and plead your case,” I say, stepping back.

Hayes fills the hallway with his size, and I’m relieved he doesn’t bang his head on the doorway. The kids look up from the TV and stare at him. He stares back at them. I don’t know who would win the contest if I didn’t break it up by gesturing for Hayes to follow me into the kitchen.

I have nothing to put the flowers inside, so I use two large cups. Studying the flowers now sitting on the counter, I think about the man behind me.

“So you liked the pink ones more,” he says.

“How do you figure?”

“You took them first.”

“Only because you looked ready to break them in half.”

Hayes’s expression shifts from sad puppy to junkyard dog. “So I’m the bad guy with the flowers too?”

“Yes. You are always the bad guy.”

Hayes glares at me. “I apologized.”

“Yes, you did, but you didn’t mean it.”

“Exactly. That’s why it means so much.”

I nearly laugh at his exasperated expression. Instead, I gesture for him to continue. “Explain.”

“If I were sorry, it’d be easy to apologize. I did something wrong, and I should apologize. Simple. Except I don’t think I was wrong, yet I’m still apologizing. I’m doing it anyway because your feelings matter more than mine. Doesn’t that make me the f*cking nice guy here?”

I consider his words and shrug. “I hadn’t thought about it like that.”

Hayes takes my words as a sign of agreement and moves closer. “So we’re good?”

“Good for what?”

Hayes stops and frowns at me. “Do you want your job back?”

“Sure.”

“Do you want anything else?”

“I don’t want to be Honey, so where does that leave us?”

“I said I was sorry. Does Asshole Andrew apologize when he isn’t wrong?”

“You were wrong, though.”

“I yelled at you. How is that wrong? I yell at everyone. I’ve been yelling at you since before you started. Why are you suddenly changing the rules?” he asks, sounding genuinely confused.

“Sometimes I can’t deal with you yelling at me.”

“It’s harmless shit. I yelled at birds the other night. They survived and so will you.”

“What about them?” I ask, pointing at where the kids watch TV. “Think they can handle having you yell at them?”

“I didn’t yell at them, did I?”

“Not yet.”

Hayes waves his hand dismissively. “I won’t yell at them. They’re good kids.”

“And I’m a good assistant and don’t deserve to be yelled at.”

“First of all, you suck at your job half of the time, and you know that. No one should spend that much time on Amazon while at work.”

“I like to window shop,” I say, shrugging.

“You are a great assistant the other half of the time. One thing you’re great at is knowing I’m full of hot air when I yell at you.”

I shrug again, not budging. Frustrated, Hayes glares at me for nearly a minute and then he has a light bulb moment. I see in his eyes how he’s figured something out.

“You weren’t thinking like my assistant when you threw your fit.”

“I did not throw a fit.”

“You were thinking like my… girlfriend or woman or whatever. You weren’t thinking about your boss yelling at you, but your man and that’s why you got your panties in a bunch.”

“I don’t want to end up like Honey. She got beaten down by Douche’s crap until she couldn’t tell him no,” I say, crossing my arms defensively.

“That’ll never happen to you. I’m not him, and I don’t want you beaten down. I want you to be you. I just don’t want you making me change either.”

“You can’t yell at my kids,” I say, uncrossing my arms and stepping closer. “I don’t want them learning to eat shit when they’re young. It’s in their blood to make a habit of getting stepped on. I want them to grow up expecting to be treated well.”