Page 71 of Grounded
Thefollowingweek,Theoand I prove to be capable of portraying civility for the sake of our parent's feelings. To be fair, Theo hasn't really left his room to interact with me, so it hasn't been that difficult. And I've been working more shifts to pick up some extra money.
I arrive at Roasted two minutes before my shift begins.
"You forgot to clock in…again," Tawny chides while she sanitizes a machine.
I want to tell her I haven't clocked in at a job in years, but I think she already put a hex on my house because Theo never texted her back. She must hate everyone under our roof.
My apron is fastened around my waist as the door chimes.
"Hi, welcome to Roast—" My words trail off and my eyes widen when I see the man standing in front of me. "Oh, shit."
"Amelia?"
"No, no, no," I whisper like I'm about to be robbed at gunpoint. I think I'd prefer that.
"What are you doing here?" he asks.
"What areyoudoing here, Beckett?"
"Umm, I'm—"
"You're not here to ask me back, are you?"
A sliver of hope and the familiarity of our relationship sinks its doubtful claws into my back. Regardless of the admission I told Theo in my car, I don't know if I'd be opposed to him asking my forgiveness and choosing me.
The chime of the door dings again, and my heart rate accelerates. Not another customer, I don't need a line forming right now while I'm reunited with my ex-boyfriend.
Beckett's nose has healed nicely, but there's still a faint bruise that's only visible if you knew I broke it.
"Sorry, my love. I didn't mean to take so long on that call."
The fashion model standing before me radiates confidence and charm. She's beautiful, tall and thin, and I want to ask her about her skincare routine. But then my focus remains on her perfectly manicured hands and the fat, brilliant-cut diamond that has to be at least three carats.
I'm staring at the heart of the ocean fromTitanicbut in ring form. On her left hand.
"I—" the words won't form. I'm mute, my brain is currently incapacitated by the whiplash of that fucking diamond.
"Ooh, a caramel swirl latte sounds amazing. May I get that in the petite size?" she requests.
Her eyes are even smiling at me. How is that possible?
I'm still glaring at them like I'm Ariel fromThe Little Mermaidwhen Ursula stole her voice.
"What will you get, Beckett?" she asks him.
"Umm... umm... I'll get the same, I guess."
I want to protest and remind him that dairy gives him horrible diarrhea, but I still can't form words.
Beckett's eyes have a pleading look to them. Pleading for what? That I don't make a scene? That I don't tell his fiancée who I am? That I use oat milk instead of whole milk?
Instead of tossing scalding coffee in his face—I can't push my luck with the assault I've racked up—I say, "Sure, that'll be nine-fifty."
Beckett hands me fifteen dollars with trembling hands and tells me to keep the change.
Is he bribing me? What the hell is this?
I'm heating his milk, and I contemplate burning it. But I don't want Beckett thinking that not only am I a single loser, but on top of that, I can't even make coffee.
