Undecided(6)

“They’re coming,” I say. “I was in residence last year, so I don’t own any furniture. It’s supposed to arrive on Tuesday.” Today’s Sunday and tomorrow’s Labor Day, so that’s the earliest it could get here. I don’t mention that it’s coming from Ikea, so odds are I won’t figure out how to get everything built until the following weekend, if ever.

I wave off their offers to help bring the stuff in, but they insist, and after one short trip, my bedroom is fully equipped with two milk crates of books, and two duffel bags of clothes and toiletries.

“Home sweet home,” I say when they linger.

“You, uh, want to come for a run?” Kellan asks. “We were just leaving.”

I definitely do not. Athletics are not my forte. “Thanks,” I say, “but I have to be at work in an hour. I’m just going to hang some stuff in the closet and head out.”

“Oh yeah?” Crosbie asks. “Where do you work?”

Though Kellan already knows this from our email exchange, I tell them about Beans, located in the center of Burnham’s tiny downtown.

“I’ve been in there a bunch of times,” Kellan says. “I don’t think I saw you.”

I do my best not to roll my eyes. I’m invisible. I get it. “I must not have been working.”

“They have open mic nights, right?” Crosbie asks, looking interested. “Like, for any type of talent?”

Kellan makes no effort to hide his eye roll. “Dude. No.”

I’m expecting him to make a joke about his lap dance talent or something, so it’s a total surprise when Crosbie says, “Do you ever have magicians perform?”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Magicians? Er, no, not that I’ve seen.”

“Huh.”

“No one has time for your tricks,” Kellan mutters, clearly embarrassed for his friend. But Crosbie doesn’t appear to care. “Illusions,” he says. “You don’t have time for my illusions.”

I’m too surprised to laugh, but I do make a strange sound that’s half snort-half snicker. Kellan looks at me in confusion, but Crosbie grins and I feel my mouth twitch. Anyone who can quote Arrested Development can’t be all bad.

“There’s a sign up book at the register,” I tell him. “Come in any time and put your name down.”

“Maybe I will.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Kellan pleads, dragging Crosbie from the room.

“No encouragement necessary,” Crosbie says. Just before he lets Kellan win the tug of war he adds, “We’ll see you.”

That would be a first, I think, watching them go.



*



Speaking of invisible, I wish that were the case at Beans. Because almost everyone who works here is a student, we have pretty set schedules and I normally work alongside Marcela and our boss, Nate.

Nate and Marcela are polar opposites. Nate is the tall, blond, hipster-type with skinny jeans and dark-rimmed glasses, and Marcela is the kind of girl who beats up hipsters. She favors thigh high boots, short skirts, and too-tight tops. Paired with her bleached hair and signature red lipstick, she looks like a cross between a fifties movie star and a naughty schoolgirl who hates me. I’d ended things right after my arrest in May, and I’d sort of hoped that her summer away from Burnham would help calm her vitriol, but it didn’t. She returned two weeks ago with the same amount of burning resentment she’d left with.

“Hey,” Nate calls when I rush in through the kitchen, tying my apron around my waist. I’d parked my bike in the alley and now I wash my hands and pretend not to notice Marcela ignoring me as she takes a tray of muffins out of the oven. “You’re late,” he adds, propping himself up against the counter.

“It’s three minutes,” I point out, drying my hands. “I didn’t account for the travel time.”

“You’ve been making the same trip for a year.”

“Not today. I mov—” I try to stop myself, but it’s too late. Not that it’s a problem if Nate knows where I live, but it’s obvious I can’t afford one of those apartments by myself, so the next obvious question is to ask about roommates, and I don’t want to have this conversation now.

Or ever.

Especially when Nate might not know about the Kellan McVey thing, but Marcela does.

“Wait,” he says when I try to hustle up front. “You moved?”

“Yeah,” I call over my shoulder. “I think I heard the bell. Time to work!”

I elbow my way through the swinging doors to the front of the shop, inhaling the familiar smells of coffee, vanilla, and pastry. The owner of Beans is a huge patron of the arts and every square inch of the shop that isn’t devoted to coffee, snacks, and seating is committed to displaying artwork. We’ve got everything from paintings on the walls to handmade furniture, sculpture, jewelry, and a very popular set of Russian nesting dolls painted to look like famous movie characters.

I recognize the woman waiting at the counter. She comes in often and is nice enough, but she’s got increasingly complicated drink orders and despite the fact that she looks only a couple of years older than me, insists on wearing fur coats year-round. Marcela nicknamed her Mink Coat and the name stuck.

“Ready to order?” I ask.