Page 107 of Inside Silence
“No, I just meant…” He stalls before continuing with, “I don’t want things awkward.”
I snort before getting up from my chair so I’m not looking up at him. Well, I guess I’m still looking up at him, since he’s a towering six foot three to my modest five two, but standing makes me feel taller.
“Things would only be awkward if you make them so,” I return pointedly.
He narrows his eyes on me, scanning my body down and up again.
“Are you okay?”
Instantly self-conscious at his question, I run my hands down my flour-dusted apron.
“I’m fine, why?”
“You don’t look fine.”
* * *
*****
* * *
Hugo
* * *
Smooth.
Her sharp, “Thanks for sharing that observation. Now if you don’t mind, I have work to do,” served as an effective dismissal.
Apparently, I’d already put both my feet in my mouth and I figured my safest bet would be to make myself scarce and try again another time.
I don’t know why, but I seem to be making an art out of saying the wrong thing to her lately. To my recollection, this was never an issue before, but the past several months I can’t seem to say the right thing.
After a quick goodbye for my son with a warning to behave, I walk out to my cruiser, frustrated and brooding. Funny, because I was in the best of moods when I pulled in here five minutes ago. I’d planned to beat the crowd and score a couple of coffees and some pastries to take to the station, but I’m empty-handed when I slide behind the wheel. I highly doubt Bess would be willing to serve me early after I pissed her off.
“Who the hell pissed in your Wheaties this early?” Brenda Silvari, our office manager, asks as I walk into the small office kitchen, looking for a hit of caffeine.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” I grumble, reaching for the pot of black tar Brenda manages to brew every morning.
I swear, she adds engine oil to the coffee grinds to create the dark sludge she serves us, but it does the trick when in need of caffeine, and right now, I need that jolt to my system.
“Let’s just say, you don’t look particularly cheerful this morning,” she responds.
“And this conversation is not helping,” I point out.
But that doesn’t deter Brenda, who is more like a den mother than an office manager some days. She puts a hand on my arm.
“That boy giving you trouble?”
She’s referring to Carson, who hit a rough patch there for a while after his mom died and got himself into some trouble. Having two teenage boys herself, I found myself sometimes confiding my struggles with him to Brenda.
“No, it’s not Carson. He’s fine, he starts his part-time job at Strange Brew today. I just dropped him off.”
“Ahhhh.” She nods with a smirk. “You didn’t run into Bess by chance, did you?”
I have no idea how she manages to zoom in on the sore spot every time. Like I said; den mother.
“Bess?” I feign ignorance, an effort I know is wasted anyway. “Barely. I was in and out of there in minutes.”
