“Whatever it is, it’s not my problem.”
“But it is.”
Groaning, I run my hands down my face. “Don’t do this to me, Marcus.”
“Bethany’s feeling sick, so I’m going to send her home.”
“I’m begging you,” I grumble. “Don’t do it.”
“I need you to stay and run her register.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“I opened this morning. I’ve been here since eight o’clock.”
“You got off at three,” he points out.
“And I was back here by five,” I say. “I’ll be back again at eight in the morning. Now you want me to stay until midnight?”
“I wouldn’t ask you if I had another choice,” he says before walking away, just like that, not waiting on a response. He didn’t even actually ask. He assumed I’d stay, because that’s who I am. It’s what I always do.
“Look at me, woo-hoo, assistant manager of the Piggly Q,” I grumble to myself, shoving more crates around before locking up the stockroom. “Doing amazing things with my life.”
I head to the front of the store in just enough time to see Bethany scurry out, looking quite the opposite of sick, but hey, what do I know? The little dance she does, though, as she meets her friends out in the parking lot, is a pretty good indicator that I’m being screwed over.
Awesome.
I’m in a bad mood. I’ve been in one all day. I’m not sure what started it, but I’m on edge. My little quiet life of monotony is feeling more and more like some prank the universe is playing. The fact that LeAnne Rimes' How Do I Live is playing on the store radio pretty much proves that point, I think.
I run the register until the store closes, which means I stand around all night long, my feet angrily screaming from me being on them.
It’s a quarter after midnight when I get to the apartment, slipping inside and locking up.
The lights are off, but the TV is on, playing quietly, the glow of it illuminating the couch, where Jonathan lays with Maddie snuggled up against him. He’s fast asleep, while she’s barely dozing, eyes open but zoned out so much that she hasn’t even noticed me. She was supposed to be in bed hours ago, but I’m too exhausted to be upset about it. Colorful marker covers the white plaster on Jonathan’s wrist. He let her draw on his cast.
Strolling over, I scoop her up in my arms, and she doesn’t resist, already snoring by the time I tuck her in bed.
When I make it back to the living room, Jonathan is sitting up. He runs a hand over his face, groggy, as he asks, “What time is it?”
“After midnight.”
“Jesus Christ,” he grumbles, looking me over as I plop down on the couch beside him and kick off my shoes. “Did you just get home?”
“A minute ago,” I say. “Cashier was sick, left early, so I had to close. Got home in just enough time to get some sleep so I can get up tomorrow and do it all over again.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Yeah, well, that’s what it’s like in the real world.”
“You don’t think I live in the real world?”
“I think you live in your own world, Jonathan.”
“You could quit,” he suggests.
“And do what? Get a job somewhere else, making minimum wage again?”
“You could stay home,” he says. “Maybe even write, whatever you want to do.”
“That’s not going to pay the bills.”
“But I can.”
I glare at him when he says that.
He stares back at me defiantly.
He looks like he doesn’t even understand what’s wrong with what he’s suggesting.
“I’m not going down this road with you,” I tell him. “Not again.”
“But I should be supporting my daughter. I should be contributing.”
“You should be doing a lot of things.”
“Yeah, so, let me.”
I shake my head. “What happens when I quit my job and you decide to stop contributing?”
He laughs at that question. He laughs, like I’m being funny, the sound getting under my skin. Ugh. I go to stand up, to walk away, but he stops me, pulling me back onto the couch. “Look, I get it. I’ve let you down, but just give it some thought.”
“There’s nothing to think about. I don’t need you. I never did.”
As soon as those words come from my lips, I almost choke on the flood of regret that flows through me. It might be true. I might mean it. I might not need him. But there’s cruelty in every word of that, and that’s not who I am. No matter what happened to us, I never wanted to be just another person who did things to hurt him.
“I’m sorry,” I say, putting my head down as I rest my elbows on my knees. “I don’t know why I said that. I’m all over the place right now. My emotions are a mess.”
Before he has the chance to respond, there’s a knock on the apartment door. I force myself to my feet to see who it is, brow furrowing when I look through the peephole and see Bethany. Weird. Jonathan mumbles something about saying goodnight to Maddie as he gets up, disappearing down the hallway.
Sighing, I unlock the door when there's another knock. Bethany tenses, her wide-eyes meeting mine when I open it.
“Kennedy?” Her voice is laced with confusion. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here,” I say, brow furrowing as I glance around. She’s with some friends, the girl who picked her up from work and a guy, maybe mid-twenties. “Did you need something?”
“Oh, uh, no,” Bethany says, forcing a smile as her cheeks flush. “Sorry. We just thought, I mean… we were looking for someone else. Must’ve gotten the wrong apartment.”
She elbows the guy beside her pretty hard, making him wince as he mutters under his breath, “I swear, this is where he was.”
Those words make my stomach drop.
“Who are you looking for?” I ask. “Maybe I can help you find him.”
“It’s nobody,” Bethany says. “It’s stupid, forget about it.”
She bolts away from the apartment, dragging her friends along, berating the guy as they walk. I make out a bit of their conversation as they flee, hearing that dreaded name.
Johnny Cunning.
Carefully, I close the door, making sure to lock it again, and turn off the TV in the living room before making my way down the hall. Jonathan stalls when I stop in front of him.
“You, uh… you might wanna consider staying,” I tell him.
He raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“Yep.” I step toward him, flush against him, and rise up on my tiptoes as I whisper, “I think you’ve been made.”
I head to my bedroom, and he hesitates before following, stopping in the doorway. “What are you talking about?”
“The knock on the door,” I tell him as I strip, getting out of this uniform. “Seems they were looking for a certain someone they heard might be around here somewhere.”
“Fuck.”
“I didn’t tell them anything,” I say, tossing my clothes in the hamper. “It was the cashier from the store—you know, the one that went home sick tonight—and her friends. Guess someone thought they spotted you and word got back to her at work that you were in town for some reason.”
I turn to him, expecting a reaction, maybe an explanation, but he doesn’t even look at my face. No, his eyes are drifting, scanning my body, as I stand in front of him in plain white cotton, a simple bra and underwear.
I wave my hand in the direction of his face. “Are you even listening to me?”
He meets my gaze, eyebrows raised. “What?”
I shake my head, walking over to the closet to pull out a t-shirt, putting it on. When I turn back to him, he’s not looking at me again. No, this time his attention is on the top of the dresser right beside him, on the old notebook sitting there.
After a moment, he attempts to focus. “So I’ve been made, huh?”
“Seems so.”
“Pity,” he says, strolling over and sitting down on the edge of my bed. “I was enjoying anonymity.”