Page 61 of The Vacation Mix-Up
“It was. But Roni now helps out in the store.”
“That must be nice… the two of you carrying on his legacy. I bet every time you complete a piece of furniture, a part of him has completed it with you.”
Eyes locked on hers, I pause, my burger midway to my mouth. In just that one sentence, Riles has understood a part of me that Krystal never did. Why I work so much. Why I love it. Why I chose to run the business when the business struggled to make ends meet.
Blinking, I take a bite and mumble, “Yeah.”
Her eyes soften for a moment, but then she brushes her hands together before pulling out her phone and tapping the ship’s app. “I wonder what’s happening in the theatre tonight.”
Again, I appreciate her ability not to probe beyond a point I’m not ready to talk about, which only enforces what I already suspect… that she too shares some form of grief. Heartbreak speaks to heartbreak or, in most cases, doesn’t speak when speaking isn’t required.
She frowns. “It’s an opera performance.”
“You don’t like opera?”
“No.”
“Me neither.”
“Maybe I should go and check it out anyway,” she says, chewing her fingernail. “I’m supposed to be trying new things on this cruise.”
“Why’s that?”
Riles freezes, much like she did last night. And even though I want to know what she’s not admitting, again… heartbreak speaks to heartbreak, so I pay her the same respect she did me by not prying.
“I’m sure you’ll try a lot of new things on the cruise, whether you watch the opera or not,” I offer, changing the subject for her.
Her shoulders relax, and she nods, more to herself than to me. “True.”
“Have you checked out the casino yet?”
“No.” She sets her phone down. “I’m not a gambler.”
“Probably a good thing. No doubt you’d bump into Ben.”
“I’d rather bump into a cactus.”
I chuckle. “Did you know he owns Mason’s?”
“The hardware chain?”
“Yes.”
Riles’s eyes nearly bug out of her head. “No, I didn’t. But Tittney and Spitney’s interest in him makes more sense to me now.”
“Are you money-shaming him?” I ask, deliberately baiting her as I pop another fry into my mouth.
“No! Well… okay, maybe I am.”
Shooting her a judgmental look, I continue goading, because it’s kinda fun. She’s overly defensive, and it intrigues me as to why she feels she has to justify herself so much.
“What’s that look for?” she asks.
I wipe my mouth and hands with my napkin, then toss it onto my plate. “I’m not giving you a look.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
