Page 8 of A Minute More

But what the fuck was I supposed to do? Just let him walk on by without saying hello? My mom didn’t raise me to be like that. I ampolite.

That’s the only reason I did this.

“Shit,” I mutter as I jog down the stairs and across the street, meeting my friends at the local pub they all filtered into. None of them waited for me to reappear, which is fine. I didn’t expect them to, but they did order me a drink so as soon as I sit down, they slide the beer toward me.

“Was it him?” Jude asks, and I shake my head, feeling all kinds of stupid.

“Nah, just a look-alike. Kind of embarrassing.”

Jude bobs his head, not surprised that I made a fool of myself. I take a sip of my drink. It’s bitter and biting as it goes down my throat, but I wonder if that’s more Simon’s rejection or the fact that I really don’t like this kind of beer.

Probably the beer.

I don’t really care that much about Simon. Not at all.

But my words are proven to be lies the following day when I show up to work slightly hung over and feeling like death warmed over. They should make a panini named after me. The Wesley Wich. Will be a real hit.

Simon doesn’t even look at me as I fumble around in my locker, shoving my athletic bag and sweater inside. Fuck, I slept in and almost missed work. I should have been here five minutes ago.

My head throbs, and I press my fingers into my temples. Man, I need some water and a couple Advil to hopefully make this hangover go the fuck away. Not that I have any with me. Seems I’ll have to suffer through the day.

With a slow inhale, I try and center myself before moving out behind the counter and taking orders. I know my eyes are bloodshot and my movements are a little slow. I look hungover, and from the sad look a woman lobs my way as I take her order, it seems she understands.

And you know what the common denominator is? Simon. The last time I got roaring drunk was because he was on my mind then too.

I don’t know why I have such a fascination with him, but I do. I can’t quite seem to shake it off either. And whenever he’s on my mind, I feel the best course of action is to drink. A lot.

I need to get my act together.

I work tirelessly, taking orders and making sandwiches. And as soon as the rush dies down, I slump against the counter and run a hand down my face.

“Fuck me,” I mutter, my head still pounding. I needed meds for this hours ago.

“Here,” Simon says, handing me a cup with something in it.

I glance up to meet his stare, my chest constricting. “What is it?”

“Coke. Maybe the caffeine…the sugar…” his words trail off as he takes a step away from me, focusing intently on cleaning the counter.

I hold the drink in my hand, not quite sure what to do with it but take a sip. The cold, fizzy liquid slides down my throat, and I keep drinking more and more until a burp escapes me.

Simon peeks over at me and his lips twitch before they move back into a straight line and his eyes are diverted once more.

“I have Advil in my bag, if you need some.”

I nod and then thank him when he returns a moment later with some in his hand. My fingers brush his palm as I take the pills from him and his breath hitches as I do. I think he doesn’t like to be touched and the grazing of body parts makes him uncomfortable. I vow to never do it again.

“Seriously, thank you so much.”

Simon’s eyes flash to mine once more and that small amount of eye contact gives me the confidence I need to blurt, “So, who were you visiting last night?”

Simon freezes and his demeanor changes. “None of your business.”

His words cut me, and I feel my cheeks heat in response. Itisnone of my business, but I want it to be. I mean, we can be friends, right?

Fuck. But I want to know him. Just a little bit.

“Yeah, right. Okay, ” I say, shifting away from him and chucking the cup into the garbage. Simon doesn’t look at me for the rest of the shift, his gaze averted, his answers to questions merely a shake or nod of his head.

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