That Night by Amy Giles

Author:Amy Giles
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2018-09-02T16:00:00+00:00

Jess

Maybe my crappy job won’t be so crappy anymore now that Lucas and I are a “thing.” (Exactly what that thing IS is TBD, but still!)

What base is holding hands? Negative first? Is that even dating?

Kiss the girl already, man!

Everyone at work the next day is weirdly chill, which makes me start to think maybe nothing really happened last night. Maybe it was all in my head.

About an hour into my shift, Joe holds up a bottle of weed killer.

“See if you can find more of these in the back.”

When I get to the bay of shelves in the back of the warehouse that has all the lawn and weed supplies, I find Lucas grabbing a box of Roundup.

“Joe asked me to get those,” I say, hands on hips.

“He asked me too. I think he’s up to something,” Lucas answers, lifting the box onto his shoulders.

A little while later as I’m restocking light bulbs, Joe’s voice comes over the intercom.

“Jess, Lucas, please report to the break room.”

When Lucas and I both show up, there’s a tin of Altoids and a tube of ChapStick on the table. Joe’s phone is lying between them playing “Let’s Get It On,” by Marvin Gaye.

Lucas pockets the Altoids. “Someone’s suddenly got too much time on his hands now that he gave his notice.”

Pete comes in late, closer to noon. The only person who doesn’t know it’s because of his hangover is Enzo.

I walk over to Pete and Lucas at the paint center. Pete’s sitting on the stool staring at the paint shaker like the vibrating can is the most riveting thing he’s ever seen.

“This is about all I can handle today,” he admits, stopping the machine to take the can out. He takes his bottle of water from under the counter and chugs. Wiping his lips with the back of his hand, he says, “Hey, let’s go bowling tonight.”

“You sure? You don’t look so hot,” I point out. He’s as white and waxy as the day he had that stomach bug.

He scrunches up his face, dismissing my concern. “I’ll be fine by then.”

Lucas turns to me. “You want to?”

“Yeah,” I say, trying to hide my enthusiasm. “I haven’t bowled in a while though. Do they still have gutter guards?”

“Yeah, for five-year-olds,” Pete answers. Propping his elbow on the counter to hold his head up, he adds, “Someone tell Reg. I’m not ready to move yet.” He closes his eyes and moans.

Lucas’s hand grazes my back. “I’ll tell her,” he says. “So I’ll pick you up tonight?”

I smile and nod. “Sure.”

Lisa Loeb’s one hit from the nineties, “Stay,” plays through the speakers. A pregnant woman stops to collect paint chips, different shades of pink, murmuring the words to the song while holding a hand over her belly. A lump forms in my throat. I really don’t know why that song and those pink paint chips and that pregnant woman are making me choke up like this. It’s a mixed bag of sad and happy, all swirling together.

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