The Last Wingman (Wingmen Book 6), page 7
“I remember.”
“The Outsiders by SE Hinton,” June says softly. “That was one of my favorites, too.”
I twist my lips to the side and fiddle with the ring in my ear. “You don’t say.”
Yes, I’m flirting. Yes, I’m pleased she realizes we have another thing in common.
Diane breaks the silent tension between June and me. “There’s always next week. I’m sure we’re all looking forward to seeing each other again … for another fun night of trivia.”
She’s more perceptive than I’m comfortable with. Maybe Ashley’s right—maybe I do have an obvious tell.
Ten
Two weeks after opening, we hold an anti-Valentine’s party at The Place, complete with a playlist competition for the best songs for the bitter, lonely, heartbroken, disinterested, and resigned. Layla came up with the idea, but I’m all in.
Halsey’s “Bad at Love” has been played at least five times on as many different playlists. One more and I’m going to have to step in and put a moratorium on the song. TLC’s “No Scrubs” has already been banned.
CeeLo Green’s “Fuck You” has inspired an impromptu dance party. Probably not parentally approved, but I’m not about censoring what music the teens listen to because of some cursing. A few f-bombs aren’t going to damn anyone to hell or a life of crime.
On the other hand, me losing my shit over “No Scrubs” might accomplish both of those. Apparently, all things ’90s are back to being cool.
The kids hung up a dartboard with a picture of Cupid over the bullseye. Amber and Layla baked heart-shaped cookies and then cut them all in half. Some resemble broken hearts and they decorated others with Be Fri and St Ends, which they explained to me are BFF heart charms. The things I don’t know.
No flowers or hearts allowed. Chocolate, however, is still acceptable. We’re not heathens. I glance out the window, down the street at June’s store. Unlike our black crepe streamers and hearts, the windows of In the Loop are decorated in the more traditional style appropriate for a holiday celebrating all things love. We’re the Nightmare Before Valentine’s Day versus the delicate, handmade, paper heart garlands sweetly adorning June’s windows.
That’s the two of us perfectly summed up. We’re opposite ends of the spectrum, parallel lines that will never meet.
Which is probably for the best.
Any more pink and In the Loop would rival Dolores Umbridge’s office at Hogwarts. With all the dark decorations in here, we could be hosting a Victorian funeral or a gathering of Death Eaters.
“You’ve turned all the little Whos of Whoville into emo goths,” Amber says in awe. She fits right in with her black jeans, black Whidbey Joe’s hoodie, and a striped black and white top.
“This wasn’t even my idea,” I remind her. “Layla suggested it and the group voted. I had nothing to do with it.”
Amber grins. “It’s brilliant and you should take credit. We should make it an annual event.”
“I admit Valentine’s isn’t my favorite holiday, if it even qualifies as one, but I’m enjoying today.” My goal was to create a safe, welcoming space for the weirdos and misfits, the oddballs and nonconformists. “I’d say our first party is a success.”
“Gold Digger” blasts through the speakers, inspiring another dance party.
“Okay, who played this?” I use the remote to turn down the volume and stop the windows from rattling.
One of the teens, Theo, sheepishly lifts a finger.
“How old were you when this came out? Two?”
This earns me a laugh from the group.
“What do you know about gold diggers?” I’m only a few steps away from talking about that one time in Nam like Olaf or one of the older guys at the VFW clubhouse in Freeland.
Crossing his arms, Theo widens his stance in challenge. “FTR, some girl used to hang out with me during lunch in middle school because she knew I’d give her my fries and cookies. What do you call that?”
“Total gold digger. Was that Tasha? She borrowed a pen from me and never returned it.” Lara jumps in to take his side. “Didn’t she move away?”
Not interested in getting involved in their gossip or weird attempts at flirting, I stroll to the other side of the service counter to give them some space.
In the back near the commercial triple sink, Layla’s pulling a rack of clean glasses from the dishwasher, and I offer to help. With her overalls and her blonde hair in braids, she doesn’t look much older than the kids. She’s cute and nice, but I don’t date employees.
We stack glasses and mugs on their shelves, the sound blocking out the teens’ conversations and Kanye’s voice.
“You think there’s something going on between them?” she whispers to me, tilting her head in the direction of Lara and Theo.
“I’m no expert in the mating dance of teenagers, but I think Lara would like there to be. If Theo’s anything like I was in high school, he’s clueless and oblivious.”
She sighs. “It’s sweet.”
“You’ve worked for me for this long and I never knew you were a romantic?” I ask, returning an empty rack to the machine.
“I can’t help myself—it’s Valentine’s Day.” With an embarrassed lift of her shoulders, she says, “Have any plans? Or are you firmly in the anti-Valentine’s camp?”
“I am and these are my plans. You?”
“I’m meeting Daryl for pizza when we finish here.”
“Daryl? Do I know him?” I feel protective of my employees and am fine sounding like a dad.
“He works at Donnely Boats.” A faint blush tinges her cheeks. “It isn’t serious.”
We settle into a rhythm at The Place. Layla and Amber take turns training Lara, Dax, and Theo on the espresso machine. Our plan is for them to be up to speed and working a few hours a week during the spring so they’re ready to work the busy summer season. Best way for them to feel a sense of pride and ownership in this place is to give them some responsibility for its success.
On a dark and rainy afternoon with zero foot traffic, we play a random game of ad-libs. Layla writes answers on a pad of paper while a group of four teens yell random words.
“Keep it PG,” I shout after one of the guys suggests eggplant. “I’m onto you and your emoji codes.”
Jesus, I’m a hot minute away from hoisting my pants to my ribs and handing out Werther’s Originals.
What fool thought working with teens would keep me young and hip? All I want to do is go home, eat a cold can of soup and go to sleep by nine. This exhaustion reminds me of being camping tired, rising with the sun and crashing a few hours past sunset. Since we’re still technically in winter for another week, that means going to bed by six. I should get an award for making it until late evening.
Running both the Fellowship of the Bean and Whidbey Joe’s with Erik has never been as exhausting as this project. I should apologize to Erik for all the times I called him immature.
Then again, his naked ass went viral, so I’m not sure if he’s ready for the adulting award.
“After this round, we’re closing. Given the weather, I doubt we’ll get any more customers. Let’s start cleaning up,” I tell the crew. “It’s five o’clock. You don’t have to go home, but you’re not staying here.”
“Man,” Dax moans. “What happened to having evening hours? You know five o’clock is still technically the afternoon.”
He makes a good argument. “Add it to the list, along with open mic night, the co-ed sleepover Theo suggested, movie night, and the DJ competition. We’ll discuss everything at the monthly meeting—except the sleepover, because that’s not happening.”
“You’re so old fashioned. Even church camp is co-ed and we sleep over,” Theo mutters.
“Theo, you’re going to make a fantastic lawyer someday. Today, though, is not that day.”
“Fine.” He grabs a broom and starts sweeping in the corner near the front windows.
While we don’t turn away anyone who wants a coffee, the general vibe here is definitely geared toward teens. This is their place. The few tourists and local adults who wander in grab their drinks and leave. In fact, I’ve been thinking about adding a walkup to-go window on the side of the building.
“You don’t have to stay and babysit us, Jonah. We’re perfectly capable of closing up on our own,” Dax suggests. “Isn’t that the whole point of this place? Teaching us responsibility? Layla’s an adult, but like a cool adult.”
“I agree with all of that, but today, I’ve decided to close early. End of discussion.” It’s no secret that I might need to work on my control issues. “Is there a reason you don’t want to go home, Dax?”
He blusters and postures. “No, not at all.”
I’m not sure if I believe him, but I won’t press him on it in front of the others.
The front door swings open and a chorus of “We’re closed” greets June.
She hasn’t been here since the grand opening party and I’m surprised but happy to see her in the doorway.
“Ignore them. Come inside.” I smile and motion her in. “We’re cleaning up for the day, but I can make you something.”
Aware of four pairs of eyes watching my every move, I act like she’s any other customer.
“No coffee for me, but I have a favor to ask.” June toys with the end of her pink scarf.
“Shoot.” I keep my tone casual when I already know the answer will be yes to whatever she needs.
“Can you give me a ride home? My car was acting weird yesterday so I took it to the shop this morning, and they need to keep it another day for a part to come in. I would’ve asked Alexis, but she’s already gone.”
This is huge. June’s asking me for a favor. I want to pump my fist over my head in triumph. She’s obviously moved on from thinking I’m an evil troll who lives under a bridge if she’s willingly asking to be trapped in a small space with me. Hello, hope, my old friend. We meet again.
Instead, I play it cool and ignore the soft “Oooh” from one of the kids—Theo probably.
“Uh, sure. Mind waiting while we finish? Or I can swing by the shop when I’m done in about twenty minutes.” I’m giving her an escape.
“That sounds good. Just honk and I’ll come out. Thanks so much.” She pauses for a second, seeming on the verge of saying more, before she changes her mind and leaves.
“Look at old man Jonah getting a date. You’ve still got it, you dog.” Theo gives me an exaggerated thumbs-up.
“Theo.” I glower at him. The kid is a walking hormone.
Dax joins in on the teasing. “That was totally a date setup. You shouldn’t honk though. That’s rude. Show some respect and walk up to her door.”
The two of them are practically twins in their retro grunge flannel shirts, droopy jeans and boots—hip, teenage versions of Tweedledee and Tweedledum.
“Trust me, it isn’t a date. In case any of you would like to know, for it to be a date, one person has to ask the other person to go out and do something, like see a movie or have dinner, maybe go to a concert. This is a friendly favor. Big difference.”
I could explain how June and I aren’t really friends. We’ve barely waived the white flag to call a truce in the war I never understood.
“You should ask her out on the drive home. Then you can go to dinner and it’ll be a date.” Lara suggests. Her eyes cut to Theo as she speaks. “A date doesn’t have to be a big deal.”
Ignoring the tension between them, I declare, “New rule: my social life is not up for discussion.”
Theo smirks. “From the sound of it, you don’t really have one.”
The others snicker at his comment, including Layla, who tries to cover her amusement with a hand over her mouth.
My temper flares for a second before dissolving. He’s right. All work and no play.
I should check the calendar for concerts this weekend in Seattle, go to a few shows, see some friends. I need to have conversations about music and art and life that don’t involve work, family, or teenaged nuisances.
Eleven
“So?”
June buckles her seat belt and twists to face me. “Yes?”
“I need to know where you live if I’m going to drive you home.”
“Oh, right. Of course.” She sounds embarrassed. “You can just drive me to Ken’s Corner. It isn’t a far walk from there.”
“That’s silly. It’s pouring and you don’t have a hood or an umbrella. You’ll be soaked, catch a cold, die from pneumonia, and I’ll live out my days in guilt and shame. Besides, if you’re close to Ken’s, you’re on my way.”
“Really, I don’t want to put you out.” Her fingers worry the edge of her sleeve.
“You’re not, unless you insist on walking in the rain.” I tease.
We ride in awkward silence while the defroster blasts warm air, the wipers squeaking when they begin their return arc across the windows.
On the shoulder of the road near the fairgrounds, June spots a group of rabbits hanging out in the grass. “Poor, sweet bunnies.”
“Clearly, you’ve never read Watership Down.” I tease.
“Apples and oranges. That’s like saying all pigs are evil because of Snowball in Animal Farm.” She crosses her arms, releases them a second later to straighten out her skirt before crossing them again.
I like that we’re bickering over literary references. I’ve hit a nerve, but why? “They’re fine. If they weren’t, they’d find a place out of the rain.”
“Do you think they’re happy?” she asks, sincerely.
The idea never occurred to me. “You know they aren’t pets, right? Completely feral by this point.”
“I know.” She frowns. “But they’re from genetically domesticated rabbits. You can’t just release domestic animals into the wild and think they’ll know how to survive.”
“I’m not sure how to count rabbit generations, but those are the descendants of the rabbits that figured out how to live in the wild and if they’re sitting in a field in the rain, so be it.” Briefly, I glance at her, and she’s glaring out the front window with her arms crossed. “Yes?”
“I didn’t figure you to be so cold-hearted, Jonah.”
“Was it the tattoos and piercings that gave it away? The all black wardrobe?” My tone is sarcastic. “Or because I’m not going to let my heart break for wild animals doing their thing?”
“Hmm …” She dramatically taps her chin. “Your cold, black heart?”
“Excuse me?” I choke out a laugh. “Why do you say that?”
If anything, my heart is more tender than ever.
“From Valentine’s Day? Your place only had black decorations. What was up with that?”
I’m curious as to why she’s shifted the conversation from bunnies to my beliefs on Hallmark holidays. “We had an anti-Valentine’s party.”
“Why? Are you anti-love?” She twists to face me, resting her shoulder on the seat back.
“No, of course not. The party was the kids’ idea. I have a heart and I believe in love, but I don’t need a holiday to tell me how I should express my emotions or make me feel un-loveable if I’m single. I don’t need corporations making me feel less because I don’t have a date on a random Monday.”
Behind her glasses, her eyes widen before she blinks rapidly. “I, uh …”
“Yes?” I wait for her to say more.
“Never mind.” She pats the dashboard. “What year is this thing anyway?”
“The bus?” I stroke the smooth texture of the oversized steering wheel. “1978, but the engine’s been rebuilt and the interior reupholstered within the last three years.”
“I like it.” She glances over her shoulder at the mini kitchen and bench seat in the back. “Although, you do need better curtains.”
“These work fine.” I had them made from canvas drop cloth material. “They block the light when I camp. That’s all I need.”
“They’re functional, but they’re boring.” She catches my eye and slyly says, “You’re not boring.”
“Was that a compliment?” I fight the upward curve of my lips.
“Don’t let it go to your head.” She straightens and faces forward, smoothing out her skirt.
A quiet settles over us. I’m not sure if it’s a natural pause in the conversation or another awkward moment.
“For the record,” I say, breaking the silence, “those adorable bunnies eat people’s kitchen gardens and dig warrens that cause people to trip. Someone could sprain or snap an ankle. I guess I’m more of a pragmatist.”
“What does that make me?”
Glancing away from the road for a second, I meet her eyes. “You, June Moxee, are a romantic.”
“Because I want to protect the rabbits?”
“No, because you have a tender heart.”
“And that’s a bad thing in your eyes?”
“Never said that. Protect it. It’s more precious than all the wild bunnies in Langley.”
“Ugh, please stop.” She giggles and rolls her eyes. “You sound like my mother talking about my virginity.”
Full-out staring at her, I forget I’m driving for a few seconds. We’ve drifted over the center line on a curve. Thankfully there’s no oncoming traffic.
“Please pretend I didn’t say that.” She shakes her head, her cheeks pink.
“Sorry. I wasn’t expecting that turn in the conversation.” Feeling too warm, I adjust the defroster and crack my window for some fresh air.
“I can’t believe I blurted that out. For the record, I’ve had sex.” She moans and tilts her head back, focusing on the ceiling as she mumbles, “Way to make this more awkward.”
Inwardly, I fight the urge to ask her to expand on her declaration. How many men? Has she had boyfriends? Where are they now and can I challenge them to duels out of pure jealousy?
Instead, I make light of her random confession by teasing her. “Was it awkward to begin with? Until you brought up sex, we were simply a couple of local business acquaintances sharing a ride and discussing the local fauna. What’s awkward about that?”
