Loaded, p.7
Loaded, page 7
“I am wearing pajamas. I didn’t think I’d be coming shopping—I was fixing a toilet. But it wasn’t the flapper; it was the handle. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t be dressed like this in public.”
“It’s your fault that, what? That you’re wearing perfectly acceptable clothing that covers your body entirely?” He snorts. “Do you know what kind of trash some people wear? Sometimes they leave their booties or who knows what else just hanging out.”
That makes me laugh. “I suppose some people do wear questionable things.”
“I’ve never commented on their decisions, and those people can butt out about what you’re wearing. I’m the person who’s out and about with you, and I think you look cute. Their opinion isn’t wanted.” Before I can pay, he swipes his card and drops the handle into a bag.
“Are you saying your opinion on what I’m wearing does matter?” I arch an eyebrow.
“I mean, clearly it doesn’t to you, but if the person you’re here with isn’t embarrassed, and you’re covering the relevant parts of your body to be decent in public, then you shouldn’t let them drag you.”
“I’m not their mother.” I snatch the bag and walk toward his 4Runner. “It’s not my job to teach them anything. I take the path of least resistance when I’m in situations like that.”
“Noted.”
“Wait.” I stop at the car door, my hand already on the handle. “What’s noted?”
“That you prefer to ignore rude people, rather than confront them.”
“It’s not like we’ll be going to Cornell’s often.”
“Well, I’m not sure about that,” Easton says. “My sister’s shelter is a bit of a mess, even after the remodel. We may bump into each other a lot in the next decade.”
I can’t help laughing about that, because it’s true. Things there break a lot, which is the nature of a place that has people flowing through it constantly. It’s probably even more true of places that take in animals.
“It looks like they’re just as shameless about using you as they are with me.”
“Only when they can’t get a plumber on the line,” I say.
“Actually, they’ve never called me to help before,” Easton says. “I was telling Elizabeth this morning that I had a crush on you, and she said that the next time she saw you, she’d text and tell me to rush over.”
I freeze.
Easton’s eyes are steady on mine.
I blink. “You—you’re kidding.”
He smiles. “Of course I am.” He unlocks the car, and this time, he lets me open my own, but he doesn’t walk around to his side until I’ve closed my door.
On the way back to the shelter, he’s totally normal—no jokes.
Part of me wonders whether I imagined the flirting, but it’s happened too many times now. So when he pulls into a parking spot and cuts the engine, I break the silence. “Easton.”
He turns toward me, a half-smile tugging on the edges of his mouth. “Beatrice.”
“No one calls me that,” I snap.
“Why not? It’s pretty.”
“Let me rephrase. Only my mother and my grandfather call me that, and I hate it.”
“Bea it is,” he says. “Sorry to have stepped on that landmine.”
“It’s fine.” It’s really weird I even told him that. Usually I just cringe and ignore it. Always, actually. I always cringe and let it go.
“My parents call me Eastie whenever they want something. It may not be the same, but I hate that, too. I’m not three years old.”
“Do your parents ask you for stuff a lot?”
“Like fixing toilets, you mean?” he asks.
I shrug. “Sure.”
“Not really. They do ask me for money pretty often. Always have.”
“Usually I think it goes the other way, but mine was always asking me, too.” My mom took any two dimes I managed to rub together as a kid, so I guess I get it. But once I got older and had a job, she was downright hostile and persistent. “You should shut that down fast.”
“What?” Easton frowns. “Shut what down?”
“Do you know what enabling is?”
His frown deepens.
“It took me a lot of therapy to learn that when I give my mother money, I’m enabling the behaviors that led to her asking me for money. I thought I was helping, but it does at least as much harm as it does good. It only took a half dozen times of me refusing point blank and telling her I’d only give her food before she quit asking me.”
“My parents aren’t junkies.” He hops out of the car.
He’s out talking to Emerson when I finish fixing the toilet handle. I wash my hands—their soap is mostly donated I know, but the bubble gum smell is annoying—and head back to the front. “I survived the gauntlet,” I say. “Your ploys didn’t work.”
“What?” Elizabeth doesn’t quite get my humor yet.
“I passed through the portal of puppies, and I’m leaving without one.”
“You’re leaving?” Easton asks.
I nod.
“Oh. Well.”
“Hey, what happened with that jingle contest?” Emerson asks.
I want to kick him.
“What jingle contest?” Easton asks.
“Bea plays piano like. . .well, like the Piano Guys or something. She’s amazing, and she’s always making up songs, too. She entered this jingle contest, or at least, she was going to.”
“I did,” I say.
“And?” Emerson asks. “When do you hear back?”
“I made it to the finals,” I say softly. “It’s on Tuesday.”
“Yes!” Emerson wraps me in a bear hug. “That’s amazing, B.”
“I mean, there are five of us, and we have to perform the jingle ourselves for a live audience so they can choose the winner.” I tilt my head and widen my eyes. He knows why that’s not great for me.
“Oh, shoot.” Emerson grimaces. “I’m sorry.”
“Why?” Easton asks.
“I can’t sing well, for one,” I say. “But also, I hate performing. I’m good at writing music, not at putting on a show.”
“Can you have someone else do it for you?” Easton asks.
“Are you offering?” I ask.
“Oh, heavens no,” he says. “I sound like the seagull in The Little Mermaid.”
“He actually does,” Elizabeth says. “His voice is an assault.”
“Bea’s not bad,” Emerson says. “It’s just that since she was a music major, she always compares herself to these opera quality singers.”
“I’d love to come watch and support you,” Easton says.
“Me too,” Emerson says. “What time is it?”
“It’s at seven at night,” I say. “But I don’t think we can take an audience.”
Emerson frowns. “But surely—”
I shake my head. “I’ll email and ask, alright?”
“Swear?” My brother does not let things go. It’s one of his most annoying traits. He holds out his pinkie.
I slap his hand. “I swear, idiot.” Even if we pinky promised last week, he should know better than to do it in front of anyone else.
“I’m really proud of you. I mean it.”
“And I’m impressed,” Easton says. “I really want to come see you too. I’m a great clapper.”
“A great clapper?” Elizabeth frowns. “Why are you being so idiotic?” She turns to me. “He’s not usually this corny, I swear. Actually, the only time I’ve ever seen him act this dumb was when I brought my friend Andie over and. . .” She freezes, and then she turns very slowly. “No freaking way. Do you like my adorable sister-in-law?”
7
Easton
“Like her?” I force a laugh.
I’m going to kill Elizabeth.
I don’t think they can take my business away for murdering someone. I can hire someone to run it while I’m in prison, surely. Right? I can’t believe she’s bringing up her stupid friend Andie from high school.
“I mean, it doesn’t matter whether I do or not,” I say. “Because when I asked her out, she turned me down.”
Elizabeth’s laugh is a little unhinged. “Holy Kibbles and Bits.”
I don’t know another adult in the world who uses mock swears that revolve around dog food and cat treats, but that’s Elizabeth. “If you don’t shut up, I’ll shove kibble into your big mouth.”
“I better get going,” Bea says. “I should practice for Tuesday.” She ducks out of the door so fast that I’m worried she might get whiplash.
“I think my sister might like you too,” Emerson says. “I’ve never seen her act quite so startled.”
“You must be kidding. She turned me down.”
He shrugs. “That’s just Bea. She turns down everyone. That’s why she never goes out on any dates.”
“Wait, you need to explain,” Elizabeth says.
“When we were like seventeen, my friend Holden asked her out,” Emerson says. “She said no, and he was pretty upset. When I asked her about it, she said he was clearly kidding.”
Elizabeth frowns. “But he wasn’t?”
Emerson shakes his head. “I told her he was serious, and she said she could tell he wasn’t really serious. Not really.”
My sister frowns. “Does she have low self-esteem?”
“What do you think?” Emerson asks. “Her mom ignored her half her life, and then her grandfather criticized everything she did, including being quiet.”
“So she never dates?” I hate myself for asking, but I can’t help it. “And she’s not dating anyone right now?” It did occur to me that she might have turned me down because she’s already got a boyfriend. The idea makes me feel vaguely ill, but I’d rather know.
It’s always better to know, right?
“No way.” Emerson shakes his head. “She’s a really great person, but I don’t think she’s ever really dated anyone. I mean, she’s had a few dates here and there, but no guy ever took her out more than a handful of times, and almost all of those were setups.”
“How is that possible?” I can’t believe that’s really true. She looks like a goddess.
“Honestly, I blame Jake. He’s not big on sharing, and he’s a little off-putting. Add that to her propensity to think no one really likes her, and you have someone who’s impossible to take out.”
“Is he in love with her?” Elizabeth asks. “Because he’s really weird around her.”
“Jake hasn’t had much in his life, and he thinks Bea is his.” Emerson shrugs. “She’s the only person he even listens to, and I think it’s more like a dog protecting his only beloved toy.”
“That’s not a no,” Elizabeth says.
“I’ve wondered myself whether he might love her,” Emerson says. “But if Jake Priest wants something, he takes it.” He sighs. “I think if Jake is in love with Bea, he doesn’t know it himself.”
“Wait, do you really like her, Easton?” Elizabeth says. “Because part of me was wondering if maybe you were gay.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s so dumb that if a guy doesn’t have time to date or an active interest in someone in particular, every straight person they know assumes they’re secretly gay.”
“I mean, it’s not a big deal now,” Emerson says. “Most people who are out, they’re just out. Right?”
“I have no idea,” I say. “But that’s not why I haven’t dated much. I’m definitely not interested in guys, unless Bea’s secretly a guy.”
“This is so weird,” Elizabeth says. “Nine million girls out there and the only one you’ve ever liked is my sister-in-law? Is this a prank? Because if so, it’s a good one.”
I grab the door handle. “Thanks for the support,” I grumble. “I thought you’d be happy for me, but whatever.”
Elizabeth runs up and throws her arms around me. “I’m sorry.” She presses her head against my chest. “I am happy for you, E, I swear.”
I sigh slowly.
“Bea really is stunning, so I can see why you’d like her. I was just surprised.”
“And if it goes badly. . .”
“It would be a little weird for me, sure,” she says. “But it’s not like you two will fight at our baby shower, for instance. Right?”
I look down at her. “What are you saying?”
“I thought we weren’t telling people,” Emerson says. “I didn’t say a word to Bea, even though I was dying to when she started talking about those puppies.”
Elizabeth spins around and immediately starts wheedling. She’s got this down to an art. “I’m so sorry. It’s just, I was kind of moody with him just now, and I didn’t want him to leave mad.”
“You’re already using the baby to get out of sticky situations? Really?” Emerson asks.
“Do we know if it’s a boy or a girl yet?” I ask.
“Girl,” Elizabeth says.
“Boy,” Emerson says.
I frown. “Are you having twins?”
“We don’t know whether it’s a boy or a girl yet,” Elizabeth says. “We decided to wait and be surprised, so we just have hunches.”
“That’s dumb,” I say. “It’s a surprise no matter when you find out.”
“You’re dumb,” Elizabeth says. “It’s disrespectful to say whatever you think.”
She’s so snarky, always. I imagine it’ll only get worse once she has a baby to protect. “Just for that,” I say. “I hope it’s a boy.”
“Rude,” she hisses. “You know how much I love watching babies trying to crawl in floofy little dresses.”
“It’s going to be a boy,” I shout as I head out the front door.
Mom’s going to crap a brick.
The Richmond heir, being birthed by one of her children. I swear, I need to stay away for at least two weeks after they tell her. Mom’s annoying enough without hounding me about having a child. When I’m not stuck working over the next day and a half, I’m looking for funny parenting reels and memes and sending them to Elizabeth.
What on earth is Instagram for if not this?
But really, I’m trying not to think too much about Tuesday—the lunch I’m dragging the board to so that I can see her again—and the fact that I have heard exactly nothing about attending her competition finals. I really can’t think of many things I’d rather do than go and see Bea perform a song she wrote.
Finally, on Tuesday morning, the idea hits me. I shouldn’t just sit around and hope she invites me. I should be proactive. I didn’t build my business into what it is by hoping people would call and offer me opportunities. I created the opportunities by badgering, cajoling, tricking, and forcing people into giving me a chance.
About twenty minutes of searching yields the information that there is a final performance for the Jello Jingle Competition, and the finals are open to the public. I text a screenshot to Emerson, and he responds with, IT’S A DATE. He’s a pretty decent brother-in-law. I mean, that’s funny. He knows I want to date his sister, and he’s making a date with me to go cheer for her. Irony and a pun.
I do wonder, briefly, whether it might be a mistake to go without an invite, and I decide to feel her out at the lunch.
Which, thanks to the distraction of my research, it’s time for.
When I walk in, the host walks me, along with the three board members who arrived at nearly the same time, into a side room. “We’re excited to welcome you to our facility,” the thin man says. “Right this way.”
Several other board members are already there. “This menu’s great,” Mr. Dressel says, already poring over the items listed. “I’m thinking we should order a handful of appetizers, and then by the time everyone’s here—”
“Actually,” I say, “our waitress today has an amazing gift. If you answer a few questions, she can pick the very thing from the menu that you’ll like the most.”
Mr. Dressel arches one eyebrow. “That sounds. . .unlikely. How could anyone else know what I want better than I do?”
“For one, she might know the menu better than you.” Mrs. Yaltzinger sits. “I think it sounds interesting.”
“Me too,” Mr. Jimenez says. “I’m not sure about you, Frank, but I always seem to pick the wrong thing. The person next to me usually has something better than what I chose.”
“That’s because I make better decisions than you,” Mr. Dressel says. “It’s nice that you’re finally admitting it.”
“You certainly don’t have to let me choose for you.” Bea’s standing in the doorway. “But if you’re not sure what to order, I’m happy to help.” Her half smile is perfect. As the last few board members wander in, she explains to them that if they’ll answer a few basic questions, she can select their meal. Or they’re welcome to order for themselves.
Fifteen minutes later, everyone’s orders have either been placed or prepared, and a brawny guy in all black is helping her unload appetizers from large trays.
“For you.” She’s smiling when she sets scallops down in front of me. They look different than the ones I ordered for dinner over the weekend.
“I didn’t see those on the menu,” Mr. Dressel says.
Bea shrugs. “Sometimes the item someone would like most isn’t on the menu. I’m close enough to the chef that he’ll often make things that have been specials in the past for me.” She shrugs. “But the menu items are also all wonderful.” She sets his Wagyu beef tartare in front of him. “You chose one that I never pick for anyone, since it’s not one of my personal favorites.”
“See?” Mr. Dressel shakes his head. “That’s a flaw. What if the only thing I’d like would be the beef tartare?”
“In my experience,” Bea says, “that type of person never asks me to choose for them, so they always get just what they want anyway.”
Mrs. Yaltzinger laughs. “She’s got you there, Frank.”
“Well, now that we all have our food,” Mr. Dressel says, frowning, “we should get started.”
“But we need to see whether she was right,” Mr. Jimenez says. “This dangling bacon tower is weird. I’m surprised she chose it for me.”
“Yes, I was definitely not expecting oysters,” Mrs. Yaltzinger says. “I’ve never been brave enough to try them.”
