Page 28 of The End of Summer

Gretchen groans with resignation, turning back to face me. “Well, if you’re going to trap me here, I suppose I’m welcome to check the refrigerator for snacks.” She walks the few steps into the miniscule kitchen and swings the fridge door open wide. “Yikes,” she says. “Slim pickings, huh?” She holds up a half-eaten jar of pickles.

“Don’t eat those,” I say. “They’re not mine.”

“Whose are they?” Gretchen laughs.

“Those belong to Luis. He didn’t clean out his condiments before leaving.”

“So, your fridge is basically empty and you can’t even claim the condiments as your own?”

“I have oatmeal if you want some. Or microwave popcorn.”

“Popcorn, please.”

I grab a package of movie-theater popcorn from the pantry and toss it in the microwave. As it pops, Gretchen hoists herself up to sit on my kitchen counter, next to the sink.

“Make yourself at home,” I comment.

“Thanks,” she says, not picking up on my sarcasm. Or, possibly, just ignoring it. “So,” she begins.

“So,” I reply.Pop, pop, pop.The scent of butter begins to permeate the airspace.

“Far cry from private dining, huh?”

“Yeah, I’d say so.”

“I guess Daddy gave you a flexible schedule so you could go parade your tubesteak around for the almost-married contingent of theOuter Cape?”

I laugh, pleasantly surprised with her humorous observation. “No, princess. Or should I call you Chicken of the Sea?” She snickers at the quip. “I haven’t worked at the Diamond Excelsior since our last time there together, actually.”

“Wait – what?”

“You heard me.”

“Why not? Did you quit?”

“Far from it. My fabulous father fired me.”

“Really?”

“Indeed,” I say. The corn pops like fireworks, not a far off metaphor from the sparks I felt flying around Gretchen before she snapped off my eye-mask earlier.

Somehow she’s even cuter now, perched on my kitchen counter like she lives here or something.

“Why? Was it because of me?”

“Nah.” I figure she doesn’t need to know that she was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. “I had it coming.”

“Really? But you always seemed so… uptight. Professional. Like a neurotic penguin in your fancy suit.”

“Neurotic? That’s real high praise,” I say. “And it was a uniform. If anyone should understand about a uniform, it should be you, Fishnets McGee.” Smirking, I take the popcorn out of the microwave and carefully pull apart the edges of the bag. Then, I hand it to Gretchen. “Careful. It’s hot.”

She accepts it and places it in her lap. “I’m serious,” she goes on. “Believe it or not, I actually didn’t hate you – until you fired me.”

“Wait.” I let her wordssink in. “Firedyou?”

“Yeah,” she says, sheepishly. “After the David Krumholtz thing.”

“I never fired you. I came back out with new table linens and you were gone.”

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