Nobody speaks.
Then Finesse coughs, and Jessica glances back and forth between Zan and me with an unmistakable glint in her blue eyes. I peek at Zan to see if he’s as uncomfortable as I am, but he’s still visually dissecting my face.
Man, is it hot in here? Might need to hop back into the cooler area…
The office door opens, and Mr. Zoughbi comes out with the coin rolls, instantly spotting Zan-the-Man—who you’d think was Barack Obama (Mr. Z’s favorite) based on the way his mustache quivers with excitement. “Mr. Macklin!”
Zan’s focus shifts to him (thank God). “Hello, sir!”
“I didn’t know you were coming today!”
Rich-boy shrug. “Was supposed to drive to Birmingham, but my travel companion had a ‘family emergency.’ ”
He blinks enough times for the sarcasm to stab, then forces a smile.
“Oh no…” Mr. Z rubs his beard. “I do hope everything is all right?”
“As do I, sir. Haven’t heard anything yet, but since my afternoon was suddenly open, I figured I’d bring some samples by.”
So he’s mad then.
Well, whatever. It’s not like I could tell him why I was canceling and what I’d be doing instead. He’d never understand.
“Oh, wonderful!” Mr. Z claps the way he does when he gets excited. “Come, come! We shall discuss!”
Zan squats and picks up the box, but before he slips into the office behind Mr. Zoughbi, he looks at me again.
He’s not mad. He’s hurt.
Which makes me feel like I just got punched in the stomach.
The anger I could’ve dealt with. Chalked it up to Hyperprivileged Rich White Kid Syndrome—symptoms include abject fury over not getting one’s way.
This, though, is making me feel as helpless and unmoored as when I handed over my bonus. No clue why, but I do not like it.
“Sweetie, will you grab me a Vitaminwater and a couple of PowerBars, please?” Jessica says to Finesse, snatching me back to, you know, my job.
“Sure thing, gorgeous.” With a li’l smooch. Then he swags off in that way great athletes who know they’re hot do. He and Jess are endlessly cute, and it’s kind of annoying.
I start cracking open the coin rolls.
“So you and Macklin, huh?” Jessica says, stepping up to the counter.
“Mmmm, no. We’re merely…acquaintances.”
She grins. “That mopey face he gave you didn’t look acquaintance-y to me. You’re the travel companion who canceled?”
I shrug noncommittally.
“You really are gorgeous.”
Who is this girl? And why are her compliments making me feel so warm inside? This is almost as confusing as dealing with Macklin. “Thanks.”
“Between the two of us, I think you’d be really good for him.”
I close the cash drawer. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but considering you and I have never spoken before, that’s a strong conclusion to jump to.”
Finesse comes back and places her requested items on the counter.
“Oh drat,” she says. “Honey, I forgot to ask for an ostrich jerky.”
Ostrich jerky? “Umm, I don’t think we—”
She cuts me a warning glance, and I’m so startled, my mouth snaps shut.
Finesse turns to me. “That would be near the beef jerky, right? Right.” He walks off before I can answer.
Jess waits until he’s halfway across the store before she faces me again. “Just because we don’t talk doesn’t mean I don’t see you,” she says. “We all do, babe. Zan most of all.”
Babe, huh? I dump quarters into the register just to make noise. All this attention is starting to make me itch.
“I’m serious,” she continues. “I haven’t seen Zanny this alive in the eight years I’ve known him.”
Zanny. Gross.
Finesse comes back to the counter. “No ostrich jerky, babe.”
“That’s okay, sweetie. Thanks for looking for me.” Jess smiles at me.
The office door opens then, and Zan comes out with Mr. Z at his heels. “So the triple-ply recycled and the Ultra-Tough Quilted?”
“Correct, Mr. Macklin.”
“And I’ll send you a sample of the moist prototype we’re working on through Rico.”
“Fantastic!” Mr. Z says. “Thank you, Rico!”
Zan turns to me then. “You’re off at ten?”
Mmmm…“Yes…”
“I’ll see you then. Ness, Jess, let’s roll.”
And they’re gone.
I cash out, give the overnight dude a rundown, and at 10:04 p.m., I exit the store.
Zan is leaning against the front fender of his Jeep, with his feet crossed at the ankles, fidget spinner spinning between the thumb and middle finger of his right hand. When he sees me, he shoves the thing into his coat pocket and lifts his chin, half greeting, half beckoning.
There’s a part of me that wants to walk right past his car to the bus stop—bus should arrive in approximately two and a half minutes….
But then his gaze shifts off into the distance and he sighs. There’s that hurt again. So I head toward him, feeling like I’m walking to my doom with each step.
“Rico,” he says once I get to him.
“Zan.”
And at first that’s all. Once inside the Jeep and on the move, we take the shortest route to my apartment complex (aka the way the bus doesn’t go): past the local tennis club, golf course, and the subdivisions of big houses most of my classmates live in. The only sound is some rap song about staying “fly till I die” playing softly in the background.
It’s actually kinda nice—
But then we pass the Walgreens that denotes entry into the cheap pocket of town. Once we turn onto the poorly lit street that leads to my complex, he turns the music off.
Oh boy…
“So?” he says.
Of course I know what he’s asking without asking, but screw him for refusing to just ask. “So what?”
“Family emergency?”
“I don’t owe you an explanation, Zan.” I cross my arms.