The Way You Make Me Feel(28)

“Hey! You’re doing it!” I said, pointing at her flat feet and balanced butt.

She twirled her arms up in the air, like a squatting showgirl.

“I practiced. Did you think I was gonna let you be able to do something that I couldn’t?”

I pushed her over.

*

We got to the office park, and I honked in greeting to Hamlet, who saluted us, tucking his sign neatly under his arm.

As had become ritual, once we parked, Hamlet jogged over to us carrying a couple of iced drinks—a mocha for me and an iced coffee for Rose. “Thanks!” I said, taking mine with a wink. He blushed slightly. In return for our usual drinks, we gave him a plate of whatever he wanted.

“So, when are you going to throw Hamlet a bone?” Rose asked as we prepped.

My nose scrunched. “How did you know?”

She looked at me with a hand on her hip. “What? That he likes you?”

“What? No,” I sputtered. “You said, throw him a bone. I mean, how did you know he’s a Lab … ah, never mind.” I fumbled with the cashbox, trying to remember the padlock code and messing up twice. I cursed and smacked the box with the palm of my hand.

She took it from me slowly, as if taking a bomb away from an unstable person. “Well, what I mean is that it’s obvious he likes you. Are you into him at all?”

I squinted out the window into the sunny courtyard, watching him make a drink with gusto. Tossing cups into the air, whistling, grinning. Eyes sparkling, charming everyone’s pants off.

Except mine. No, my pants were firmly on.

“He’s not my type.” I brushed by Rose and turned on the grill.

She laughed this smug little laugh that ended with a condescending shaking of the head. A specially patented Rose Carver kind of laugh.

“What?”

“So your type is not that?” She pointed out the window. Where Hamlet’s thick black hair shone in the sun, arms tanned and flexing as he reached for a gallon of milk. And when he glanced up at us, his eyes crinkled into a smile before his toothy, white grin broke out. He waved.

Rose and I looked at each other and started cracking up. He cocked his head to the side, curious but smiling.

Labrador.

“He’s adorable, and you know it,” Rose said as she organized the cash—large bills under the tray, change and small bills sorted on top.

I leaned against the counter and pulled my hair up into a sloppy ponytail, a few strands escaping and falling loose around my face. “Like I said, adorable is not my type.”

“Let me guess—you like ’em naughty.”

“Ew. Who even says ‘naughty’?”

Rose waved a hand in front of herself, lips pursed. “You know what I mean, bad boys. Like, high school Mr. Rochesters.”

“Who?”

“Don’t act obtuse.”

I pulled the container of vinaigrette out of the refrigerator. “Oh, but actually I am obtuse.”

“Clara!”

Something about Rose’s exasperation delighted me. Always. I stirred the sauce with a wooden spoon, breaking apart bits of parsley, the scent of vinegar filling the truck. “And no, I’m not into Mr. Rochesters. One, I like men who aren’t controlling-old-uncle types. Two, I’m not into brooding, either.”

“So, what then? What’s your issue with Hamlet?”

I placed the bowl of vinaigrette in the small fridge under the counter. “I don’t have an issue. He’s just—I mean, he’s your type. Eager beaver overachiever.”

She was quiet long enough for me to get nervous. Did she like him? A little bit of dread pooled in my stomach because even though I didn’t take flirting with Hamlet seriously, the thought of not having him as an option bummed me out. Not to mention the fact that I actually liked being on nonhating terms with Rose. And I didn’t know if I had the energy to be mortal enemies again. Especially over a dude.

But after a few seconds, Rose shrugged and smiled. “He’s cute, for sure. But he’s made it so clear that he likes you. I’ve got some pride, okay?”

I smiled tentatively. “Are you sure? Because, you should go for him if you want.”

“Thanks for the permission,” she said with an eye roll.

“It’s not permission! Jesus, I’m just saying—”

She threw a dish towel at me. “I said no! He likes you! And honestly, the lady doth protest too much…”

I snatched the towel off the floor and waved it at her. “Can you not talk like that? I’m embarrassed for you.”

Rose spent the rest of the afternoon speaking like a Shakespearean reject to every customer. Touché, humorless one.

*

Later that evening, we were closing up the truck when Rose’s phone rang. “Hey, Mom,” she said when she picked up.

A few seconds passed before she exclaimed, “What? Tonight? But I’m not ready!” I heard her mom’s muffled voice. “It is a big deal! I’m not ready.” They spoke for a few more seconds, with Rose’s voice so quiet I couldn’t catch the rest of the conversation.

After she ended the call, Rose pressed her forehead against the wall and started taking those shallow breaths again. I approached her tentatively, “Hey, are you okay?”

She nodded. “Yup.” But then she kept her eyes closed.