I nod, because if I say anything, it’ll involve too many swear words, and then I head out to help Julie with the “rush.” There are two people chatting in line behind the old man that Julie’s currently helping.
I put my brilliant sandwich-making skills to use, and Julie, who might be more uptight than Roger, if that’s even possible, rings them up. When she’s finished, she sighs passive-aggressively in my direction. I’m left to stare at the bearded man eating at one of the tables, while Julie takes her break and Roger makes a personal call. Too bad our storefront faces east; from out back we have an almost unobstructed view of the mountains, and even from this side I can tell there’s a pretty spectacular sunset going on.
I’m checking the time on my phone when Julie comes back out.
“You can’t be on your phone in front of customers,” she says in this infuriatingly condescending voice.
“Don’t get your panties in a wad. I was just checking the fucking time.”
Her eyes widen and her face turns tomato red, swear to god. She spins around and storms into the back.
Once the bearded man clears out, Roger comes around the corner, his face plagued with concern.
“Tyler, I’m gonna need you to follow me to the back and apologize to Julie, then I’m gonna send Julie home, and you’ll close up alone tonight. Okay?”
Jesus.
When Julie comes into view, her face is splotchy, her eyes are red, and she’s sniffling.
“You can’t be serious,” I mutter, but not quietly enough.
“Now that’s enough of that,” Roger says in his manager voice.
“You see?” Julie says through a sob.
“Please apologize, Tyler,” Roger says.
“For what exactly?”
“Tyler . . .”
“No, really. I have no clue what I’ve done tonight that warrants an apology. I was checking the time on my phone when Julie had a fit for no reason.”
“Tyler . . .”
“This is ridiculous. There is no earthly reason she should be crying over something like this.”
“She says you directed offensive language at her.”
“Offensive language? Seriously?”
Julie sniffles and wipes her eyes all dramatically and I can’t do it anymore. I snap.
“You want offensive? How about this, Roger? A fucking monkey could do this job, and you treat it like we’re curing cancer or something. And you should seriously consider seeing someone about removing that stick up your ass.”
“That’s it. You—”
“And you.” I turn to Julie. “You seriously need to get laid and soon, otherwise you better be sure to get the number of his ass-stick-removal guy.”
“Tyler!” Roger looks like his head might explode.
“Don’t worry. I’m fucking out!” I slam the back door open and make my break for freedom. I was right. The mountains look fucking amazing.
? ? ?
It doesn’t hit me until the middle of the night that I actually needed that goddamn job.
FOUR
Dr. Dave doesn’t put up with my bullshit. That’s the only reason I come back. At first it was because it was mandated by Social Services, but now I actually don’t hate his freaking guts. Sometimes he even offers good advice. But not today.
“How did you feel after leaving like that?”
I glare at him. I hate it when he’s like this. “I told you. I didn’t have a choice.”
“You felt you didn’t have a choice?” He tosses his yellow legal pad and pencil on the coffee table and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He’s in his we’re-just-a-couple-of-pals-having-a-talk mode.
I learned early on that if I don’t speak but maintain eye contact, Dr. Dave will usually change the subject. He’s probably in his late twenties but he only looks a few years older than me. I’m much bigger than he is, and I’m pretty sure I remind him of the guys that bullied him when he was in high school.
“We always have a choice, Tyler. You didn’t have to swear in front of Julie, so what do you think made you choose to do it?”
I just stare.
He shifts. Makes a big show of checking his imaginary watch.
I stare.
He runs a hand through his dark hair and down the back of his neck. He tilts his head slightly and stares back.
I continue to stare.
His lips lift at one side. He raises his eyebrows slightly. He crosses his arms.
I stare.
“We can do this all day if you want, Tyler.”
I stare.
“We can talk about something else if you like. Football? Your dad?” The smile in his voice makes me want to punch him. “Or we can just sit here for another”—he checks his pretend watch again—“forty-two minutes and stare at each other.”
“Are you coming on to me, Doc?”
“Is that what your dad does? Deflect with humor?”
My hand balls into a fist before I can even think.
“Okay.” He motions toward my fist with a tip of his head, then picks up his notebook and scribbles something down.
Screw him. I swallow hard, deciding that football is the lesser of the two evils. “Marcus keeps bugging me about football. But I don’t miss it. I mean, I should miss it, shouldn’t I?”
“Should you?”
“Can we not do the psychobabble answering questions with questions bullshit today?”