There Is No Devil (Sinners Duet, #2)(28)

The thought of Arthur coming to see my new series is too much to bear.

The more intimate and personal my work, the more it frightens me for other people to see it. Especially people who know me. Paradoxical as it seems, I’d rather strangers view it, because they won’t know how deeply self-referential my work has become. They won’t recognize how I’ve opened myself up, guts and all, laying myself bare across the canvas.

It feels good to work for money again, in a direct exchange, where a tray of food carried out equals a five-dollar tip. I’m puffing and sweating, but in a nice way. The way of good, honest labor.

Cole has never had to work for money at a menial job. That’s why money is only an abstract concept to him. He knows its power, of course, and wields it like a weapon. But he has no attachment to it. It comes easily to him, and he can always get more.

I don’t know if his way is better than mine.

In so many things, there is no better or worse. Just differences.

Cole will never feel the wild thrill of opening up a billfold and seeing a twenty-dollar tip on a fifty-dollar bill.

One thing I know for sure about myself: wherever I go in life, however rich I become, I’m always going to tip big. I know what it means to the server. How it can change their whole day, or even their week. How it gives hope far beyond any dollar amount.

Another useful thing about waitressing: you’re too busy to worry about anything else for long. I can’t stress over what Cole might be telling Arthur, or vice versa, when I have ten tables shouting requests.

The six-hour shift flies by in a moment.

Soon the tables are clearing out once more, and Cole has eaten the meal I ordered for him, and Arthur has drunk way too many cups of coffee. He interrupts me as I start my closing duties.

“You don’t need to bother with that.”

I keep rolling clean cutlery into napkins, saying, “What the fuck are you talking about? You used to chew a strip off me if I didn’t roll up every last fork in this place.”

Arthur taps a heavy finger on the newspaper article, still resting on the table next to me.

“I’m sure you’ve got better things to do with your time.”

My stomach squirms. I don’t want to hear whatever he’s trying to say. I keep rolling cutlery, stubbornly refusing to look at him or the newspaper article.

Arthur rests his hand on my shoulder instead.

I don’t know if he’s ever touched me before. His hand is heavy, calloused, and warm. It lays on my shoulder like a blessing.

“I’m proud of you, Mara,” he says.

I look up into his wrinkled face, at his faded brown eyes behind their thick, smudged lenses.

I want to say something back to him, but my throat is too tight.

Arthur murmurs, “You’re really doing it, Mara. And look, whether you want to date this guy or not, take his help. Take as much as you can get. Don’t be proud—be successful. You deserve it.”

I put my hand over his on my shoulder, holding it in place so he can’t let go.

My eyes burn, his wrinkled face swimming before my view.

“Why do I feel like you’re firing me?”

“You’ll always have a home here,” he says. “But I don’t want to hold you back. Not even for a Saturday morning. You don’t need this place anymore.”

I’ve worked at Sweet Maple for six years. Other jobs I quit or lost, but this one was always here. Arthur was always here.

“Come back to eat breakfast with everyone else who’s rich and famous and doesn’t have to carry a tray.”

“The best people carry trays,” I say ferociously. “You carry a tray.”

“I will if you come eat,” he says, squeezing my shoulder once more before letting go.

I leave quickly so Arthur won’t see me cry. Tears run down my face, hot and fluid, like there won’t be any end to them.

Cole chases after me, still stuffing his laptop back in his bag.

“Mara!” he cries. “What’s wrong?”

I wheel on him, furious.

“What did you say to him? What did you say to Arthur?”

Cole grabs me by the shoulders, forcing me to stop. I was running away from him down the tree-lined street, and I’m still torn between the impulse to shout at him or flee.

My life is hurtling down this new path, and I don’t know if I want it. It looks like a dream, but it’s mixed up with a nightmare.

Cole’s looking at me with his beautiful face set in an expression of concern, but I know what he is, I know what he’s done. Am I insane to think he cares about me?

Arthur does. But now Arthur is pushing me away because there’s no place for my new life in my old. I can’t be the Mara I always was, poor and desperate, and this new Mara, replete with money and success.

Cole forces me to look at him. Into those dark eyes that have always been the real window inside of him.

“Why do you hate when I talk to Arthur? Why are you worried what I’ll say to him? Or him to me?”

My face crumples up. I cover it with my hands, ashamed.

“I don’t know,” I sob. “I’m not used to people saying nice things about me.”

Cole wraps his arms around me, pulling me close against his chest. He’s warm and strong, his heart a metronome that never falters.