Page 3 of Glass Half Full
“I’ll just tell them you’re here, and then you can go on in.”
He pops his head into a doorway before motioning me inside, wishing me good luck as I go. I’m about to thank him as I step into an office as shiny and new as the rest of the place, but the words die in my throat.
My mind blanks. Everything blanks.
Out of everyone I could have imagined facing behind this doorway,heis the very last one.
Yet there he is, his presence sucking all the air out of the room as he sits in a folding chair pulled up beside a woman behind the desk. I note her round, smiling face, and I know I should smile back. I should smile atboth of them, but instead I stare at my hands, at the desk, at the woman behind it—anywhere but at him.
Smiley woman is now saying words I should be paying attention to. Her voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater, dulled by the thumping of blood in my ears. I barely catch her name and her explanation that she’s the bar’s owner before she’s offering me her hand. I zombie-walk toward it, offering my own name in return, but all I hear is his.
Dylan Trottard.
I almost called it out, nearly yelped it like it was a swear word and someone had just stepped on my foot. I don’t think I ever fully understood the term ‘shocking’ until I saw him sitting there.
That’s what it feels like: a shock, like someone zapped my brain with electricity and left me short-circuiting. Live wires are sparking inside me, all frayed ends and billowing smoke where just seconds ago a steady connection used to flow.
“This is Dylan, one of our most trusted cooks and now our recently promoted kitchen manager. Dylan tells me you two already know each other. You used to do poetry slams together?”
I let go of Monroe’s hand—some miraculously functioning part of my brain managed to catch the woman’s name—where I’ve been reaching across the desk to shake it and nod.
“We did, yeah,” I rasp, my mouth dry. “A few years ago.”
This is the part where I’m supposed to turn and shake his hand too. This is the part where I start acting like a normal human who’s here to get herself a job.
I am Renee, hear me roar.
I borrow my best friend’s signature phrase of encouragement as I fix my gaze on Dylan, steeling myself for however awkward or weird or painful this is going to be, but it turns out it’s none of those things.
My eyes meet his. He blinks. I blink.
Then the impact of how much I’ve missed him hits me so hard it’s like he’s crushed me into one of those giant Dylan bear hugs without even moving at all. The tension loosens, the air in the room no longer feeling too thick to pull into my lungs, and my head starts rushing with the dozens of questions I want to ask, everything I want to know and share.
How are you? How are Stella and Owen? How are the slams going? Who made nationals this year? Are you still performing?
I let myself take in the sight of him. He looks the same: same bulky frame, same doorframe-width shoulders we were always teasing him about, same tufty chestnut hair and coffee-with-cream coloured eyes that always made me shiver when they locked on mine.
Same cavalier smile. With Dylan, you could always count on a smile.
“Fancy meeting you here,” he jokes in that deep, rich voice of his, one massive hand covering mine. The live wires inside me spark again at the contact as heat blooms in my chest. His forearm is still tan from the summer even though October is days away, the freckle-dusted skin a contrast to my smoother, darker arm that looks so tiny next to his. He really is built like a rugby player.
“Wish I’d known you work here before I applied,” I tease him before I can start to wonder if that’s an appropriate thing to do in an interview.
“Why? So you could work even harder on your application?” he teases right back.
“So I would have known not to apply in the first place.”
“Well she’s certainly got the sass factor necessary for surviving at this place.”
Dylan and I both turn to Monroe like we forgot she was here. Part of me reallydidforget she was here.
“No need to worry about sassiness with this one. If I remember correctly, she always gives as good as she gets,” Dylan assures her.
“I will check that box off.” Monroe pretends to draw a checkmark on the paper in front of her, which I realize is my resume. She tucks a strand of her brown bob behind her ear, and I let myself take a closer look at her now that I’m not reeling at the sight of Dylan. She looks young to own a bar; she can’t be any older than thirty.
Just a few years older than Dylan must be.
I do the math in my head. Twenty-eight. He’s twenty-eight now.
