Page 18 of Salvation (Clover-Hills #1)
Blake
I tell myself I’m absentmindedly walking, not heading in any general direction. Whitney gave me an hour for lunch, so my curiosity got the best of me. I was thankful the car started with ease this morning, otherwise, I probably would’ve settled on hitch-hiking the entire way to work.
I did work as a barista in New York when I first got there, so it wasn’t hard to pick up on what Whitney needed from me in the shop, which I’m grateful for.
It’s an easy job, and one that will provide me with both a distraction and a good income.
After yesterday, I want nothing more than to bury myself in work and any other silly tasks I can come up with.
Moving, on top of my father’s release, on top of Marshall’s betrayal, has accumulated into a dark cloud hanging above my head, just waiting to let its core wreak havoc below.
I’m going to do everything in my power to forget it all.
If I managed to do it with my childhood trauma for six years, surely I can hold on a little longer.
I see the young girl from the other day locking up the door of the antique shop, and there’s a slight pause in my steps.
Unsure if pretending she doesn’t exist will come off as rude.
But Elain, if I remember correctly, takes it upon herself to strike up a conversation, not even turning her head when she blurts, “Sorry. We don’t sell pot here. Just the turtles.”
I outright laugh at her comment, and I see just a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips, her eyes lighting up at the fact that she had made me react so loudly. “Don’t worry. I was just passing by. Looking to grab lunch somewhere, I guess.”
“Me too."
She’s fully facing me now, keys dangling from her hand.
She looks tired, with light bags under her eyes that also look a little red.
And for some reason, I have this odd desire to make her smile again.
Brighten up her mood. She’s just a kid, and it’s summer.
She should be hanging out with friends instead of working, so it makes me wonder if she even has any.
“Elain, right? I’m Blake.” I peek around her shoulder, seeing Clover-Hills diner just a few shops away. “Do you want to go to the diner with me? My treat.” I’m not hungry, but something tells me she’d appreciate the company. I think I would, too.
She contemplates it for a bit, but then she’s shrugging her shoulders nonchalantly and saying, “Sure.”
We settle into an awkward silence as we walk. “Do they still serve breakfast all day?” I ask. “They have the best pancakes in town.”
“They do.”
More silence that I can’t stand. It truly makes me want to pull my hair out. I blame that on the reason I continue our conversation and not on the fact that I’m a nosy bitch. “So, do you enjoy working at the shop?”
“I just do it to help out my parents. I don’t get paid.” My brows shoot up at that. Maybe it’s just me, but who doesn’t pay their kid to work, even if it’s a family-owned shop? And then a lightbulb goes off in my head, and I’m spewing the words before I even give it much thought.
“Do you want a job? A paying one, I mean.” It would give me an opportunity to scope out her situation a bit more and the motivation to get the house fixed up faster.
“I don’t want your pity help.” She snaps, but it comes out weak rather than intimidating.
I shrug, feigning indifference. “You won’t find a pity party here. I need help cleaning up a house. And you seem young and able.”
Just to lighten the mood, I waggle my eyebrows and say, “Or maybe I just need someone to scare off all the ghosts living in my house.” I lower my voice and do my best Beetlejuice imitation, “You get a free demon possession with every exorcism. Can’t beat that, now can ya?”
Then, she shocks me when she laughs, tipping her head back and bellowing . My chest squeezes at the sight.
“Oh, you’re weird.” She adds, still laughing.
I laugh with her because I know my Beetlejuice voice is always spot on. One of my many talents. “I just bought the house. So, maybe some yard and interior work. I’ll pay you, of course. And it’ll be whenever you’re free, really.”
She’s not full-on smiling anymore, but I see her mood is much improved from when I first saw her. “I’m free like all the time. I’ll just have to ask my parents…but I don’t see why they’d mind.”
“Cool. I can always talk to them, too. Now, do you think they’ll still use whip cream to make a smiley face on my pancakes?
” She shakes her head, clearly done with my antics, but she’s much more talkative and excited when we sit down for lunch.
For the first time in a while, I feel at ease and happy about forming a new friendship, even if it’s with a broody teenager.
Elain even gets a smiley face on her pancakes, too.