What's Coming to Me by Francesca Padilla

Author:Francesca Padilla [Padilla, Francesca]
Language: spa
Format: epub
Publisher: Soho Press

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

It’s the dead hour, midweek opening. It feels like forever since it’s been just Eli and me at Duke’s. There’s no Anthony, Jamira (still fired), Jordan, or new girls. We manage a few strategic kisses between orders.

I still don’t know what we mean to each other. We’ve been texting between shifts, and a few times he’s asked to pick me up and go to the beach, and every time I’ve constructed a different excuse so he wouldn’t see where I live. Or me in a bathing suit.

We race through the routine of stocking cones and toppings and popular flavors. He counts out the register while I pretend to sweep. Then we settle at the counter and take turns playing a paint-themed game on his cell phone.

After about ten minutes of this, my back pocket buzzes. I pretend to lose the game and, turning out of sight, open the group text. CeCe has written, You got his keys yet?

Even though I agreed to this beforehand, now all I want is to keep playing games on Eli’s phone and sneaking into the corner to make out.

I put away my phone without answering CeCe’s text. Absentmindedly, I pat the front pocket of the mechanic’s shirt I found at the Goodwill and remove the joint I was going to use in the event I can’t relax.

“What’s that?”

Too late.

“Oh.” I slip it back into my pocket. “I’ve been getting these headaches. But I wasn’t going to—”

Eli tilts his head and reaches over. I think he’s going to snatch it up, but he touches my hand instead. “A normal joint?” he says, like it’s a genuine question, brushing the inside of my wrist with his thumb, “or one of those monster joints from your neighbor?”

I can’t tell if he likes this or not.

“Normal.” I close my eyes, relishing his hand on my wrist. He leans down and kisses me, and I’ve officially lost count of how many times we’ve kissed. The fact of this hits me like a bus (or a white pickup truck).

When I pull back, he’s staring over my shoulder, still absently squeezing my wrist. I turn and follow his gaze to the nearest camera stationed behind the cake freezer.

“What? He’s not here right now, and they don’t record. Right?” I think back to the last time we made out, about fifteen minutes ago, right here in the cake station. “If not, we probably got bigger problems.”

“No, you’re right. They’re just for show.”

I can’t help myself. “Seems like Anthony’s gotten plenty out of having them.”

“I try not to think about that.”

“Lucky you.”

“Why?” Eli frowns a little, and for a moment I can’t quite read him. “I work here, too. I’m on those cameras, too. I get to hear the shit he—” He falters.

“What?” I can feel the earlier perfection of the moment slipping away, like a smile interrupted by bad news. “Did he say something about me and you?”

“Nothing.” Eli jumps onto the stool in the cake station, making us closer to eye level.

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