Page 90 of Wish You Would

“Hey,” I said to the first person in line. “What can we get started for you?”

About ten minutes later, Simon called out the last drink and the group herded outside, going about their day. Once they were out of our sight, Simon placed his hands on my shoulders and whirled me to face him.

“Okay,” he said. “Now that that’s done.” His eyes sparkled like the mischievous sidekick in a cartoon. “How are you? I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages. Catch me up!”

Cheeks burning, I turned away. Reaching into the bucket below the counter, I grabbed the towel and wrung it out. As I wiped up the mess we’d made during the mini-rush, I searched my brain for what to say. Where to start. At the end, then work backwards? Or from the beginning? Or—

“You are blushing,” Simon said, delight in his voice. “Details, details!”

I faced him, his face a blur through tears I hadn’t realized were there. Before I could speak, he had his arm around my shoulder. The moment he touched me, the barrier broke. Turning into him, I buried my face against his chest, crying every tear I’d held in for the last however many hours since I’d left Gigi outside of Heathcliff’s.

Simon’s arms tightened around me. He rubbed soothing circles across my back, making shushing sounds against my temple. In the darkness behind my eyes, last night replayed like a home movie. Gigi shining so bright onstage, then falling apart in my arms. The conviction in her voice when she said she was choosing me.

The hurt in her eyes when I told her I couldn’t let her do that.

Not for the first time since I’d said the words, I wondered if I made the right choice.

“Okay, all right,” Simon said, gently pulling me away from his chest. “People are starting to stare, hon. Let’s get it together.”

I took the handful of napkins he offered. “You just don’t want my snot on your shirt.”

“Two things can be true.” He dabbed at the tear stains I left on his Holy Grounds-issued tee. “You really were drawing the attention of our patrons.”

One glance over my shoulder told me he was right. Both writers stared in our direction, twin expressions of concern on their faces.

“I’m okay,” I called, waving their way. “I’m good.”

Neither looked convinced. Turning to each other, they bent their heads and conferred amongst themselves.

I turned back to Simon. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to…” I gestured at his tear-and-snot-stained shirt, wincing. “I can hold down things here if you want to run home and de-snot-ify.”

“Eh.” Simon shrugged. “Probably the least objectionable thing I’ll get on this shirt before the end of the day. Now.” He leaned against the counter and cocked his head, concern shining in his hazel eyes. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

I looked down, twisting my napkins into oblivion. Where did I start? How did I start? My heart lay in my chest, barely beating. My brain was a constant loop of scenes from last night. How did I string together an explanation from that?

“I…I think I fucked up.”

Simon’s eyes widened. “You fucked up?” He put his hand over mine. “Who are you and what have you done with my sweet baby bestie who wouldn’t dream of dropping the eff bomb?”

I couldn’t even muster a smile. Throwing the napkin massacre into the trash, I wrapped my arms around myself. “We broke up.”

A chorus of awws rang up from the lobby, and both Simon and I turned to find our resident writers decidedly not writing.

“Sorry,” one of the women said, looking chagrined. “You’ve looked so sad all morning. We had to know why.”

Her friend nodded, eyes wide. “We suspected breakup, but were hoping we were wrong.”

Simon looked from them to me, then seemed to make a decision. Taking my hand, he dragged me from behind the counter and into the lobby. We made a pitstop at the door where he flipped the sign to Closed, then steered us to the table beside the writers.

“What,” I started, but the rest of my question was lost to the immediate hand squeezes and shoulder pats from the other table.

“Reinforcements,” Simon said when I looked askance to him. He took his seat across from me, crossing his legs. “I know nothing about lady emotions. Cari and Jill, on the other hand? Well, they write romance novels.” He said it with such reverence I couldn’t help but smile. “If anyone can help, it’s them.”

I looked from Simon to the two people with laptops, feeling like a turd for not knowing their names or what they were writing before this. Simon was so much better at this job than I was. Giving them what I hoped was a smile, I looked back to my best friend. “All due respect,” I said, “but I don’t know that there is help for this.”

“Even if there is nothing to be done,” Simon said, “it’ll at least help to talk it out.”

Cari and Jill nodded their agreement. One glance around told me that I was surrounded by sympathy. Even if two-thirds of that sympathetic audience were strangers, the energy was warm and comforting. I took a deep breath and, before I could second guess, I told them everything.

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