Page 21 of We Are the Stars

“Yesterday I flipped Carsen off because he was being…”

“Carsen?”

“From what I know of him, yes, that’s accurate. Anyway, my friend sort of…threw it all out there. About Carsen, I mean. Then, ya know, later, curiosity and whatnot made me do the worst thing ever.”

“The worst?”

“I Googled him.”

Cal winces. “Bad idea, kid.”

“I soon realized that.”

“You good working with him?”

I tilt my head and squint, confused by his words. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Most people think he’s guilty.”

“Guilty of being a dick, sure. But murder? I don’t think so.”

His eyes light up at my words. I don’t think he was expecting to hear that, and I know I’m not expecting the small smile that plays on his lips. Before I can question him, he nods and taps the counter twice. “Good. That’s good. I’m going to go get started on my games. Good luck today, Elliott.”

“Thanks, Cal,” I say, only he’s already walking away, leaving me more confused about Carsen than I already was.

***

Carsen wasn’t kidding; this place is jam-packed on Sundays. As soon as Cal got settled on his lane, customer after customer came in. There hasn’t been a single second for us to breathe since.

When Bryan came in around nine and greeted me like family, Carsen stopped questioning if I was supposed to be here today.

He also retreated to the floor, leaving me to face the chaos of the counter on my own—mostly. He’s come up two times to complain about something I did wrong. I think he’s trying to get me riled up, but I merely nod and apologize, and then he grits his teeth and stalks off in a huff.

I’m only now sitting down for my first fifteen-minute break and he’s come back into the storeroom.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking my break? I told you I was.”

“I said you could take your breakafteryou folded the towels and organized the spray bottles.”

I point at the shelf behind him and he spins around. The shelf is organized like it never has been. It’s impeccable. I can’t wait to hear what he complains about this time.

Carsen straightens a towel that doesn’t need straightening and turns my way. “Whatever. It’s good enough.”

“Good enough? Try again.”

He tilts his head. “Excuse me?”

“That”—I point to the shelf again—“doesn’t lookgood enough.It’s flawless and you know it, a hell of a lot better than the mess it was this morning. You’re welcome.”

“I’mwelcome? You did your job. What do you want, a cookie?”

“A ‘good job’ or ‘thank you’ would suffice.”

“So you need to be rewarded for doing the job you were hired for?”

I stare at him blankly. “No, but I also don’t need to be micromanaged and talked to like hot garbage because you’re in a pissy mood.”

---