Page 17 of Puck Daddies
She smiles without showing teeth. It’s almost nothing and still a relief. I want the real one. The one that lifts to her eyes at the corners.
Not now. Not my job. I keep the car between the lines. That’s my job.
The closer we get to Bea’s, the more her shoulders square. The brave face sets—chin up, eyes bright, mouth calm. It’s convincing if you don’t know her. Her hands flatten imaginary wrinkles when she’s bracing. She uses both of them now.
She’s not fooling me. She’s not trying to. Not trying hard enough, anyway.
“Want me to run in with you?” I’ll do exactly what she needs, even if it changes in the four seconds it takes to answer.
She stares through the big front window. “I’m good. Aqua’s on. In full regalia.”
“She’ll scare away any lingering questions.” Why did I say that? I shouldn’t have said that.
“Exactly.” A breath. “Bex too.” She didn’t notice I said something too meaningful. Good.
“Then you’re set.” I pull into the space across from the shop, the one that’s technically fifteen-minute but no one polices.
I get out before she can say she doesn’t need help, and I grab the box of milk crates from the back because they always need milk moved. She lets me take it.
Aqua is at the register already, blonde wig high and makeup on point. She pivots when she hears the door and gives Meg the kind of once-over you only earn if you’ve shared closing shifts. “There she is,” she says, voice like a bell in a big room. “You look like a woman who’s going to make coffee and commit arson in her heart.”
“And in a pricy apartment building if the day goes badly,” Meg says. She’s almost smiling again. “Hi, beautiful.”
“Don’t flirt unless you mean it, I’m fragile,” Aqua says, then spots the milk. “Bless you, Rocco. Back fridge. Bex is setting honey out.”
Bex pops up from behind the pastry case like a prairie dog and wiggles a tongs hello. “Morning! You two look like you slept three minutes.”
“Generous,” Meg says. She ties her apron on, smooths it.
I carry the crates through to the back, stack them where they belong, and check the seal on one because I always do. When I come back out, Aqua is already halfway through talking Meg into the first hour, and Bex is arranging pastries like a tiny city.
“Want me to fix the hinge while I’m here?” I ask, nodding toward the back door.
Meg’s eyes flick, calculating time. “If it’s quick.”
“It’s quick,” I say. I find the screwdriver where it always is, tighten what needs tightening, oil what needs oiling, and wipe up what drips. The door opens and closes without complaining. Small victory.
I like small victories. They add up.
“Thank you,” she says, and on the second syllable her brave face slips a millimeter. I see it. I don’t know what to do with last night in a room full of daylight and pastry labels. I do know whatnotto do. I don’t touch her shoulder, because that would be for me. I don’t say anything weighted, because that would be for me too.
“Text if you need anything,” I tell her. “I’ll have my phone on me at the shelter.”
Aqua points a lacquered nail at me. “If anyone who looks like a man tries to talk to her about cars or stocks, I’m calling you.”
“Please do. I’ll bring a net.”
Meg huffs something that’s almost a laugh. “Go. Help dogs before I change my mind and put you on dishes.”
“You can’t afford me,” I deadpan, and she rolls her eyes the way I was hoping she would.
Outside, the air is bright and mean. I shove my hands into my hoodie pockets and walk fast to fight the impulse to turn back and make sure she remembers to drink water. Aqua will put the glass in her hand and glare until it’s empty. She’s covered.
The shelter sits four turns and a short stretch down from the shop, squat brick with a chain-link run out back and a hand-painted sign the neighborhood kids made. The place smells likebleach and wet and the kind of hope that keeps showing up even when it gets its heart broken. I breathe in and out and let the routine put its arms around me.
I clock in on the clipboard by the door, like always. Today is about fur and food and water bowls that aren’t clean enough yet. Best way to clear my head. I say a quiet hey to the first dog that looks at me. He looks away like it’s too early.
Fair enough. It is.
