I hide the twitch of my lips. “It was all I could come up with.”
“Fuck!” She puts her hand on her forehead. “Why did you do that?”
“Roxy, you’re absolutely wasted. There was no way I was letting you go home with that jerk.”
“I’m old enough to decide that for myself.”
“But not clear headed enough. Besides, you didn’t exactly look like you were welcoming his advances before I turned up.” I shoot her a meaningful look.
She pauses, sucking her bottom lip into her mouth and nibbling on it. “I just needed a few minutes.”
“Mhmm. And if I didn’t come out when I did?”
She says nothing.
“Good job I decided to come over tonight, isn’t it?”
“I told you earlier. I don’t need you.”
I pull into her drive, parking behind her mom’s car, and turn to her. “Obviously, you do.”
“You’re a f**king ass, Kyle.” She shoves the door open and gets out, pushing it hard to close it. I get out and walk to her, holding her arm to stop her, bending my mouth to her ear.
“True, but I’m a f**king ass who probably stopped yours getting raped tonight.”
Roxy freezes. “That wouldn’t have happened.” Uncertainty filters through her words, a tiny waver I know well.
“How do you know?”
Nothing.
“It isn’t worth the risk, is it? Like I said, lucky for you, I was there.”
She lifts her head until her blue eyes collide with mine. “And now you can say you fulfilled your promise to Cam. Now you can leave me to it.”
“So you can do the same thing next weekend?”
“That’s nothing to do with you.”
“Wrong. It’s everything to do with me.”
“How is it?”
“Because I care.”
“Well, don’t.” She snatches her arm from my grip and opens her front door. “Go back to California, Kyle. I don’t want you to care.”
The door shuts behind her, and I stare at it for a second. What the hell happened to her? Everything she’s been tonight – from her actions to her words, even her facial expressions – they really are nothing like the person I remember. It’s as if she’s been taken over by something or someone else.
And I hate it.
I sigh, turning from the house. “Goodnight, Roxy.”
Chapter Three – Roxy
The morning after is always a complete bitch. The hangover, the empty, sick feeling in your stomach, and the blurring of your memories. My brain has blocked out random chunks of last night after around ten p.m., and all I can really remember is dancing with Tom then leaving with Kyle. I have no idea about the rest of the night, or why my wrists are aching.
“Roxy! Get up!” Mom yells up the stairs.
“I am!” I call back, rolling out of bed.
“I need to open the café, and we’re going to be late!”
“Alright! Give me five minutes.” I rub my face with one hand as I grab my jeans from the back of my chair with the other. I throw on a shirt and slip my arms into a sweater. My hair and make-up takes me two minutes to rush through, and I practically fall down the stairs.
Mom looks me up and down when I pull my boots on. “At least you look presentable.”
“So glad you approve,” I mutter dryly.
She sighs. “Roxy…”
“Let’s go, Mom.” I open the front door. “Don’t want to be late, remember?”
I hear her sigh again as I walk to her car. She can sigh all she likes – she told me to hurry so I’m not stopping for a heart-to-heart in the damn hallway. I just want to get to the café, do my shift, and then call Selena to find out what I did – or didn’t – do last night.
We pull up to R & C’s, the café Mom’s owned for the last twelve years. She named it R & C’s after me and Cam – she said we were her pride and joy and so was the café, so it made sense to name it after us. The inside is even decorated in our favorite colors – blue and purple. At least they were when she freshened it up five years ago.
I walk across the royal blue, tiled floor to the counter and look over the café. The white walls are covered in photos of the Columbia Gorge and Mt. Hood through the seasons. They start in spring to the left of the counter and spread round the café, finishing in winter to the right of the counter. The images hang between the small menu boards with the specials on, their alternative blue and purple frames bright against the walls. The tables are half covered with table covers, alternating like the frames and the menus that sit on them. If there’s a blue cover, there’s a purple menu.
Mom really went all out on her design. She put as much love into opening the café as she did raising us, and it’s all that’s kept her going the last few months.
Mom flips the sign on the door to “Open,” and I start up the coffee machine. Sundays at the café are easy; old Mr. Yeo will be in for his coffee and waffles in fifteen minutes, followed by the Stevens sisters for their weekly cake treat ten minutes later, then Louisa, my cousin, will be in to drink us out of coffee as she writes another chapter or so on her next book. Always the same people at the same time.
Just how I like it. It gives me something to concentrate on, and if I’m doing that, I’m not thinking about the photo of Cam right in front of me on the counter. If I’m not thinking about him, I can almost pretend I’m not hurting.
Just like Mom does.
Two weeks to grieve, to hurt, then she was back at it – throwing herself into work. She insisted the café had to be opened, that life had to go on. Our lives didn’t stop just because Cam’s did. The truth of it plagues me and taunts me every day, and I’ll never know how it’s so damn easy for her to walk on in here each morning, put a smile on her face, and pretend everything is fan-freaking-tastic.
I don’t know how she does it. I never will.
I tie my apron around my waist and tuck a pad and pen into one of the pockets as the doors open. Mr. Yeo walks in, ten minutes early, and I know instantly today is going to go horribly.
Mr. Yeo is never early.
“Good mornin’, young Roxanne,” he says in his usual chipper tone.
I smile despite his use of my full name. “Good morning, Mr. Yeo. Your usual?”
“Of course, girl. When have I ever had anything else?” He chuckles, sitting at his table by the window. He rests his cane against the wall behind him and settles down, waiting for his coffee.