Page 35 of The Affair
And how did I fit in this crazy puzzle? I’d been around for years, and I’d never picked up on it.
Was I just as bad as the rest?
* * *
In the shorttime I’d gotten to know Sawyer a little better, I’d discovered there were two basic moods—or flavors, if you will—to his personality.
He was either chill or bubbly, and I was starting to recognize both.
Chill was the guy I remembered from last night. Well, most of last night anyway.
Chill Sawyer was the guy who had made me dinner and talked about dictation software. He was laid-back and didn’t come with a lot of bumps in the road. He set your mind at ease and was pleasant company.
But then there was bubbly Sawyer, and he was a whole different beast.
The second we’d finished dinner and we’d headed out back to look over the furniture he’d brought in to set up in his rental space, that calm demeanor had melted away. It was like this energy had taken over his whole body, and you couldn’t help but be swept in by the excitement he was exuding.
It was infectious.
Today however, I came to the realization that there were, in fact, three flavors, as I liked to say, to Sawyer.
Walking into the shop that morning, I discovered besides being chill and bubbly, Sawyer could also be slightly manic and incredibly anxious. Just like his bubbly state, I could see the energy almost radiating off him like a living being—only this time, a nervous jitter was sliding off him in waves. His face was tight, his eyes too big, and he looked slightly green.
“Hey, you okay?” I asked the second I walked in, setting down my travel mug of coffee, ready to check his forehead. It was something my mom always did in a moment like this, so I figured it might be worth a try.
His head snapped in my direction like he’d just noticed my arrival. “What? Yeah. I’m fine. Do you think I need to move that one table back—the walnut top with the white legs—to the other side? And shift the end tables to the front?”
He was wringing his hands, his gaze already drifting to his booth.
“I think the way you arranged it is perfect, Sawyer.”
“Really? Are you sure?”
“Did you sleep at all last night?” I asked, motioning him to the wingback chair that still sat in the entryway. I was beginning to think it needed to stay there for moments exactly like this. Who knew when you might need a chair to rest in? Lately, this place had been becoming more and more like a therapy office than an antique store.
He didn’t fight me and just fell back in the chair. “Um, a bit. Not really,” he finally admitted.
“Do you want some coffee?”
“Sure,” he said, still looking toward the booth.
This was obviously going to require some stronger methods. Snapping my fingers in his face, I got his attention.
“Hey!” I said. “Cut it out.”
“What am I doing?”
“You’re panicking.”
“Am not,” he argued, before amending his statement. “Okay, fine. I am. But I’m just terrified nothing will sell.”
“Well, it probably won’t.”
He looked up at me in horror.
“Not the first day at least. Probably not even the second. Hell, you might not make a dime the entire first week or even month.”
He looked at me, completely dumbfounded. Clearly, this wasn’t the motivational speech he had expected, but it was the one he needed.
