She bumped into Brady as she passed, and not in a friendly way. For some reason it made me like her more. Even though she was technically helping Paxton in his Make Macy Feel Like Shit campaign, I appreciated the reason why she’d done it.
I jumped off my seat to hang the At Capacity sign on the door, really more of an excuse to get my feelings under control. By the time I turned back around, Brady still stood in the same place, slack-jawed.
I rested my elbow on his shoulder, which I had to raise over my head at an odd angle. “Looks like we’ve got the same problem. Want to be my pathetic pity date for the night?”
A low, humorless chuckle rumbled in Brady’s chest. “We’re working.”
“Hey, Midnight!” one of the Brewster boys yelled. “Nice Janis Ian costume.”
Midnight hadn’t dressed up.
“I think you better start that movie before a murder is committed,” I whispered to Brady.
He nodded and dimmed the lights before Midnight could launch herself across the store. She had an amazing amount of velocity for someone so tiny. Like a scary Wes Craven–esque hummingbird.
I hadn’t watched where Paxton had gone, but it didn’t stop my eyes from seeking him out anyway. He and Strawberry had laid out a blanket and put their backs against the counter, right underneath the register. I had a strong urge to drop the wrench on Paxton’s head and see how accidental I could make it look. They didn’t act like two people on a date, though. They were both job interview levels of stiff and formal. In fact, I’d shown more affection for the salmon Eric had tried to shove down my throat.
Paxton caught me staring, and before I could look away, he leaned toward Strawberry and whispered in her ear. Whatever the two of them were up to, they both sucked at faking it. It would’ve been comical if it hadn’t been done in part to get a rise out of me. I stuck my nose in the air and hopped up on my stool behind the register. It didn’t bother me that Paxton had purposely tried to hurt me. Not at all. Because the first rule of professional-level faking: you had to convince yourself before you had a chance of convincing anyone else.
I zoned out during the first half of the movie, keeping my ears trained in the direction of the not-so-happy couple on the other side of the counter, and my eyes on Brady’s expressions. He loomed in the back, his face illuminated by the projector, and he had a clear line of sight of the two people who had us both on edge. Every time he frowned, I had the urge to lean over the counter until I could see for myself what was going on.
Strawberry got up to use the bathroom, and because I had no shame, I took the opportunity to claim her seat next to Paxton. “Date going well?” I asked.
He shook his head and turned back toward the movie. “It’s fine.”
“I get what you’re doing. I even get why.” I reached across him and took some of his M&M’s because again, no shame. Goose bumps peppered my arm when I brushed his. “But do you have to torture Brady, too? He has nothing to do with why you’re pissed at me.”
Paxton gave me a cold stare. “Contrary to what you believe, the world doesn’t revolve around you.”
“I never said it did.” I popped an M&M into my mouth. “I only pointed out your obvious sham, and just because I’m ninety-nine percent sure it has something to do with me, doesn’t mean I’m a narcissist.”
We both turned at the sound of the bell dinging above the entrance. Just in time to see Strawberry’s golden-brown hair flying out the door, Brady not far behind. I gave him a mental fist bump.
“Oh darn,” I said. “Looks like you lost your date.”
“Looks like it,” Paxton said without much heat. He stood and dusted off his jeans. “Enjoy your movie, Macy Mae.”
The bell dinged again as Paxton walked out of the store, and I only half pretended I’d sat through the credits hoping he’d eventually come back.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
SUNDAY MORNING I SAT in bed with my quilt pulled over my head like a floral cave. After the Friday night movie disaster, Saturday had been a blur of suckage I’d rather not remember. Work had kept me busy, and Paxton had taken the on-call shift and spent it at the Jackson farm repairing their leaky garage freezer. He really went above and beyond to avoid me. Which not only annoyed me on a me level, but it also validated my mom’s stance on not complicating work with romance. Or, in my case, not-romance. Elise and Midnight had offered to take me out and get me grossly drunk after work, but I had big plans to stay in and scroll through Twitter until I passed out in a puddle of my own misery. Good times.
Since the Bees chattering away had pulled me out of sleep at seven, I decided to open YouTube and see how my dinner video with Eric was doing. We’d passed half a million views. I tried to muster some kind of excitement, at the very least a Judd Nelson fist pump, but I had nothing. It was as if all those things I wanted were happening to someone else, and I was just a spectator on the outside. I was numb, underwhelmed, and uninspired. I didn’t even want to do another movie review, since my Dirty Dancing one had gotten so many thumbs-downs.
If I left the video alone, it would easily reach a million views. My golden ticket. The magic number I’d been waiting years for. But it would also send a clear message about the kind of person I’d chosen to be. About what I’d be willing to do for clickbait.
Having a video hit a million didn’t mean anything if I didn’t come by it honestly. It would never be my accomplishment. And if I couldn’t get a million views on my own with my regular content, what was the point?
If I deleted the video, my YouTube channel might suffer, my business arrangement with Eric would definitely suffer, but I’d still have my soul. That had to be worth something.
I logged on to Video Manager, and my finger hovered over the delete button. One click and it would be gone. A few more clicks and my Twitter would go with it. Gritting my teeth, I shut down the app and left my phone on my bed while I went to get ready for the day. I couldn’t delete the video. I wanted to. Just like I wanted to quit scrolling through Twitter in the middle of the night, but in the end, I couldn’t do that, either. I’d built my entire world and every plan for my future around YouTube, and I wasn’t ready to test who I’d be without it.
After I took a shower and dried my hair, I headed into the dining room. Peg and Donna were already taking swipes at each other, and no wonder. They didn’t have their usual peacekeeper to sit between them.
“Where’s Gigi?” I asked.
The three Bees looked at each other, then back at their patterns. Weird.
“She’ll be along later,” Gram said.
I didn’t stick around. They’d gotten far enough into their quilt where they wouldn’t want me peeking at it before the big show. With Mom already gone to work, I curled up on the recliner in the living room. Eric tweeted about making plans with me for next weekend (he hadn’t), and I didn’t have enough energy to do more than like it.
I closed Twitter and went into my saved photos, pulling up the one Elise had sent me of Paxton messing with Midnight last week. A tight fist wrapped around my heart and squeezed. I missed him. Not just the kissing, though that had been excellent. I missed his lopsided smile and his late-night texts and his self-deprecating sense of humor and the ridiculous way he let Gigi dress him and the way he looked when he held one of his bunnies. I missed all of him. And I couldn’t stand to go another day with all this nothingness between us.