Page 18 of The Words of Us

I hesitate for a second, biting my lip as I think about how much to share. But then I see the genuine curiosity in his eyes and the warmth that’s always there no matter how much we tease each other, and I can’t help but spill a little of the truth.

“I was with Evie Rousseau, the bookstore owner,” I say, trying to sound casual, but even saying her name sends a littlethrill through me. “We…I don’t know. It just sort of happened. I went to her bookstore for the poetry night, and one thing led to another…”

Glass whistles low, shaking his head in mock amazement. “So the mysterious bookstore owner finally got you, huh? I knew there was something going on when you kept talking about her open mic like it was the highlight of your week.”

I roll my eyes, but I can’t deny it. “Yeah, well, she’s…she’s different. It feels different.”

Glass gives me a knowing look, his smirk softening into something more genuine. “Good different?”

I nod, feeling my cheeks warm at the admission. “Yeah. Good different.”

We reach my door, and I fumble with my keys, still buzzing with the residual energy of Evie, of the way her smile lingered in my mind as I left. I push the door open, and Glass follows me inside, tossing his bag onto the nearest chair and flopping down on the couch like he owns the place. I drop my bag next to his and collapse beside him, sinking into the familiar cushions with a tired but contented sigh.

“So,” Glass says, turning to face me, his eyes sparkling with mischief, “tell me everything. Did you recite sonnets by candlelight? Spill wine on first editions? I need all the details.”

I laugh, nudging him playfully. “You’re not getting the full play-by-play, you perv. But…it was good. More than good, actually. It was—” I pause, searching for the right words, but all that comes to mind is Evie’s touch, her laughter, the way her arms wrapped around me when the world finally quieted down. “It was…easy. And intense. And I don’t know, it just felt right.”

Glass watches me, his smirk giving way to a softer smile. “I’m glad. You deserve something that feels right, Sash.”

I lean back, closing my eyes as I let the warmth of his words settle. There’s a comfort in knowing that Glass gets it, that he’shappy for me without needing every detail, without turning it into something bigger than it is. He’s always been like that—supportive, steady, and a constant presence in the whirlwind of my life.

We sit in companionable silence for a few moments, sipping our coffee and letting the quiet morning unfold around us. My thoughts keep drifting back to Evie and the way she looked at me when I left, like there was more to say, more to explore. And even though we’re apart now, I can still feel the pull of her, the promise of something new and unfamiliar but oh so enticing.

Glass nudges me with his elbow, breaking the quiet. “You gonna see her again?”

I nod, unable to hide the small, eager smile that spreads across my face. “Yeah. I think this is just the start.”

Glass raises his coffee cup in a mock toast. “To new beginnings, then. And to you finally finding something worth sticking around for.”

I clink my cup against his, feeling the warmth of his friendship settle around me like a second skin. It’s comforting, grounding, and as I take another sip, I know one thing for sure: Whatever happens next with Evie, I’m ready for it.

The familiar clatter of plates and the hum of conversation greet me as I step into the wing place, the late morning light filtering through the windows, casting a warm glow over the bustling restaurant. It’s already busy—tables filled with regulars and the occasional new face, all of them eager for a good meal and a cold beer. The smells hit me immediately: the spicy tang of hot sauce, the rich scent of fried chicken, the comforting aroma of garlicand herbs. It’s a sensory overload that wakes me up better than any cup of coffee could.

I slip behind the counter, grabbing my apron from the hook where I left it, and tie it around my waist with practiced ease. The fabric feels familiar against my fingers, worn soft from countless shifts. It’s a simple ritual, one that always helps me switch gears and get into the right mindset for the busy day ahead.

“Morning, Sash,” Jackson calls from the kitchen, his voice muffled by the sound of sizzling oil and the clatter of pans. He pops his head out, flashing me a grin. “You’re in early. Thought you might be dragging your feet after a late night.”

I give him a knowing smile, shaking my head. “Not a chance, boss. You know I’m always ready to work.”

He laughs, a deep, hearty sound that echoes through the kitchen. “That’s what I like to hear. We’re slammed already, so it’s good to have you on board.”

I don’t waste any time. The moment I hit the floor, I’m in motion—taking orders, refilling drinks, making small talk with the regulars who’ve come to know me as the friendly face who always remembers their favorite wing sauce. There’s a rhythm to it, a steady pace that keeps me moving and focused. It’s exactly what I need after the whirlwind of emotions from last night and this morning. No time to overthink, no time to dwell—just work.

The hours pass in a blur of activity. Plates are piled high with wings, fries, and all the fixings; drinks are poured and served with a smile; orders are taken and delivered with the same easy efficiency I’ve honed over countless shifts. I can feel the tiredness tugging at the edges of my energy, but it’s a good kind of tiredness—the kind that comes from knowing you’re doing something well, from the satisfaction of a job that keeps you on your toes.

The customers are in good spirits today, and so am I. I crack jokes with the regulars, tease the new customers about their wing choices, and make sure no one’s glass stays empty for long. The tips start piling up, a few bills here and there, tucked into the pocket of my apron.

“Hey, Sasha,” one of the regulars—Tommy, a guy who’s been coming here for years—calls out as I pass by his table. “You look like you’ve had a good night. Got that glow about you.”

I laugh, shaking my head as I refill his beer. “Just doing my job, Tommy. Maybe it’s all the hot sauce fumes getting to me.”

He grins, taking the fresh beer with a nod of thanks. “Whatever it is, keep it up. You’re brightening up the place.”

I flash him a quick smile and move on to the next table, the compliment lingering in the back of my mind like a warm ember. It’s nice to be noticed, even in the small, casual ways that don’t mean much beyond the moment.

As the lunch rush starts to wind down, I finally get a chance to catch my breath. I lean against the counter for a moment, stretching my arms above my head and rolling my shoulders to ease the tension. It’s been non-stop since I walked in, but I can’t say I mind. There’s something satisfying about a shift like this—steady, busy, with just enough chaos to keep things interesting.

I glance at the clock, realizing my shift is almost over. One more hour, and then I’m free. The thought of going home, maybe catching a quick nap before figuring out what comes next, is tempting. But there’s also a part of me that doesn’t want the day to end just yet.

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