Page 27 of Playing Dirty
I could call him. Demand answers. Ask why he hadn’t reached out in days, hadn’t checked in on the store, hadn’t said goodnight. But I didn’t.
Because pride is a hell of a drug. And I was starting to wonder if I was the only one still playing house in a relationship that didn’t exist anymore.
Pixie finished eating and rubbed her head against my knee. “At least one of you is consistent,” I muttered.
She purred louder. I didn’t smile.
By the time I pulled into the back lot behind Frontier Market, the clouds had finally cleared. The sky was that washed-out blue you only get after a storm, like someone scrubbed it clean with a bucket of bleach and a conscience.
Inside, the store was still dark, and the air was cool from the backup generator that had kicked on during the outage to keep the freezers and coolers going. I flipped the switch in the office, turned up the heat, and the fluorescent light flickered overhead before humming to life: coffee, lights, registers.
One by one, the pieces of the day snapped into place: tills from the safe, one for each cashier, register keys handed off, and the daily clipboard updated.
Smile.
Nod.
Breathe.
Go!
The first wave of customers hit before the clock struck eight. Small-town folks stocking up—paper towels, milk, canned soup, storm batteries they should’ve bought two days ago but didn’t. Everyone was chatty, grateful the power had only gone out for a few hours and not a full day. It gave the store a certain energy, like a low-key reunion. Friendly. Familiar.
Busy was good. Busy meant I didn’t have time to think about the way Matt hadn’t called. Or texted. Or cared enough to send a blurry photo of whatever city he’d disappeared to.
Finally, the rhythm of the store took over with a cacophony of voices.
“Do y’all have any ice left?”
“Yes, two bags per customer.”
“Is the bakery making bread today?”
“They’ll have loaves out by noon.”
“Did Matt make it through the storm okay?”
There it was.
The first ask of the day.
I gave the same answer I’d been giving all week: “He’s out of town. He’s fine.”
Lie. Shrug. Move on.
Ten minutes later, more questions.
“Any word on when Matt’s getting back?”
“Not yet. He’s still tied up.”
Smile. Breathe. Stock shelves. Repeat.
By the fifth time someone asked, it wasn’t just annoying—it was humiliating. Because the truth was, I didn’t know where he was. Not really. He hadn’t offered, and I hadn’t pushed.
And that’s when the thought crept in, quiet and ugly.
What if this really is it? What if he really isn’t coming back... to me, or to Lovelace?
