Page 29 of The End of Summer

“You called me Stumbelina and told me to stop crying.”

“I know. But I didn’tfireyou. I thought you still worked there.”

“No. Your dad told me you wanted me to leave. Once I cleaned up the mess, I went back into the kitchen and Chef Brax told me I should go.”

“So,hefired you.” I consider this new piece of information. “Seriously? He had no right to do that. It wasmyjob to manage the wait staff.”

“He specifically said thatyouwanted me gone – immediately. He told me that if I put up a fight or made a scene, he’d call the police. And I couldn’t risk him doing that, because my dad’s the police chief in Eastport, and word travels fast on Cape Cod.”

“What a fucking asshole. First of all, he would never intentionally bring the cops to the restaurant – that’s just ridiculous. Secondly, I never said any of that!” I insist, feeling my blood boil. “I swear, Gretchen. I felt bad about what happened to you. Anyway, that night I came home – back then, Ilivedwith my dad – and he fired me, too, and kicked me out of the house.”

“Which is how you ended up subletting from Luis.”

“Exactly.”

“Wow. Brady, your dad’s a real taint.”

I laugh. It’s such an accurate depiction. “You’re right. Point is, it wasn’t me. I would never have let you go fortripping, even if you did spill the steamers on a celebrity. You were doing me a favor, working outside of your station at the pub.”

“I just assumed you were mad. Your dad was furious, and even when he wasn't in crisis mode, he was always intimidating. So I kind of assumed that you could get angry like that, too. Or, rather, that youwouldget angry. Sorry,” she rambles. “I’m just surprised. I really thought you fired me. He said it with such rage. I thought you were both just assholes. No offense.”

“Oh, believe me, none taken,” I say. “I’m sorry you thought that. I guess that explains why you had such an ax to grind with me when I moved in here.”

“Can you blame me?”

“No. I suppose not,” I concede, grabbing a handful of popcorn and putting a few pieces in my mouth. “Anyway, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. Glad we cleared the air, though.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”

She sets the half-empty popcorn bag down on the counter and hops down. “Well, this has been enlightening. But I've got to go. I’m beat.”

I nod, feeling my throat constrict.

She walks to the door. “It feels weird.”

“Which part?”

“The not hating you thing,” she says. “It’s going to take some getting used to.”

“Well, you know what they say.”

“What’s that?” she asks, with her hand on the doorknob.

“Practice makesperfect,” I grin.

She smiles. “Tell that to your dance moves,” she says, raising her eyebrows. She shoves her hand into the pocket of her sweatpants and pulls out a crumpled dollar bill. Tossing it on the floor with the same motion one might use for a mic drop, she smirks at me and says, “Night, Zorro.” Then, she slips away, leaving me bemused, awash in the scent of popcorn, listening to the echo of her apartment door opening and closing behind her in the hallway.

CHAPTER EIGHT

GRETCHEN

Iwake up the next morning flustered from my active hippocampus, which kept me dreaming about Brady all through the night. Dreaming, remembering. I’m not sure.

I’m probably just ovulating, I decide.

Because I can't help myself, I call Jenna and I gush about running into Brady in his new role as Zorro. She lets me go on like the good friend she is, ultimately reminding me that the universe works in funny ways.

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