Co-WRECKER

  “You don’t expect me to clean the wall by myself, do you?”

  “Listen, I’ve had my fair share of days spent scrubbing that crust. You’re the newbie, you have to earn your stripes.”

  Yup, could have guessed she was going to say something like that. Tough as nails this one.

  Putting on a good smile, I snag the bottle and say, “Not a problem. Care to supervise?”

  “Nope.”

  “Okay, care to sort the straws then? That’s the only thing I haven’t done yet.”

  Eyeing the straws, that have been mangled to no longer accompany their like sizes, she huffs out a long breath and nods. Lucky for me, the straws are right next to the milkshake wall so I can attempt a conversation with her.

  “So, plan on drinking any ‘cough syrup’ today?” I give her a wicked smile, letting her know I’m joking around.

  “Don’t tempt me,” she replies.

  “Do you always drink at work?”

  Leaning close, she says, “Can you not say that so loud?”

  “I didn’t shout it, but I can if you would like.” I take a deep breath to let it rip when she covers my mouth. The feel of her hand over my lips is everything perfect, like I just solved Euler’s identity.

  “Don’t you fucking dare.”

  And then the most marvelous thing happens. The smallest of smiles appears at the corner of her mouth, and when I say small, I mean a hobbit came along, latched a fish hook to the corner of her mouth, and barely tugged on it. It was minuscule, brief, but I caught it and it gives me hope. Maybe she doesn’t hate me all that much after all.

  Point for me.

  Pulling away, I chuckle. “Better watch yourself, I might blow your badass cover.”

  “If you did, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  I sit on the floor to gain better access to the wall, scrunching together in the corner, trying to fit my larger body, which is proving to be quite difficult. “You sure you don’t want to do this? I don’t want to take away the pleasure of scrubbing soured and crusted milk away from you.”

  “I’m good,” she answers.

  “All right, but don’t come crying to me when—” I pop the top to the bleach bottle and accidentally squeeze it at the same time, shooting bleach out of the bottle—like a pre-mature ejaculation—straight onto her extra black, perfectly fitting pants.

  Fuck. Me.

  Not even bothering to look down at me, her eyes fixed on the straws, she asks, “Did you just get that all over my pants.”

  Now I could say no but in a few hours, she will know it was a lie from the tie-dye creation on her black khakis.

  “If I said yes, what will happen to me?” I cringe, hoping she doesn’t try to take me to the freezer in the back and castrate me.

  Sighing, she reaches into her pocket for her phone and starts texting someone.

  Straightening up, I ask, “Calling in a hitman?”

  “No, asking my friend to bring me more cough syrup.”

  Pocketing her phone, she turns and heads to the bathroom.

  Shit.

  Sadie: 1. Me: -50.

  Best friends . . . not so much.

  Scratch that.

  Probably never.

  Chapter Six

  SADIE

  Is there something inherently wrong with me? Why can’t I stop chuckling when I think of Andrew’s face when he sprayed me with bleach? The utter devastation in his eyes, like he just accidentally spilled holy water on the devil. So comical. I know I’ve been a little hard on him, but for good reason. He’s one of those guys who can easily suck you in. Just with that smile of his, he’s a lifer, someone you know you’ll never be able to “phase out” of your world. He sticks like superglue, never letting up.

  But still . . . I chuckle some more. God, he looked so cute, absolute shock and regret in his expression.

  Shaking the memory out of my head, I grab a sack of fudge and head out of the stockroom where I see Andrew talking to the guys on the grill.

  “There is no way in hell Giancarlo Stanton holds a candle to Derek Jeter. Are you insane?” Andrew pleads. “First of all, they are nowhere on the same playing field. You can’t compare a shortstop and a right fielder. On fielding percentage alone, Derek Jeter outweighs Giancarlo.”

  My eyebrows rise in interest. Andrew speaks baseball? I never would have guessed the hot nerd with tempting forearms would like baseball, let alone hold his own in a conversation.

  “Baseball isn’t about fielding,” David says while flipping a burger on the grill. “It’s about home runs, everyone knows that. It’s what brings in the crowd.”

  Visibly shaking, Andrew responds with so much passion, I almost want to go give him a hug. Almost.

  “Are you insane? Baseball isn’t about home runs. Maybe for the guys who mask their flaws behind a bat. True baseball, the good kind of baseball, is played with intelligence, with well-thought-out moves. It’s like an equation: you have to put all the pieces together to get the perfect solution, a win. You can’t just stock your roster with home-run hitters and believe you’re going to win every game. Every player is essential in their own way from the catchers, to the fast left-handers, to the big home-run hitters. Without every piece to the puzzle, you’ll never go anywhere. I mean, look at the ninety-six Yankees. That team was full of a bunch of no-names and might arguably be one of the best rostered Yankee teams in history.”

  “Ninety-eight, Yankees,” I say, barging in on their conversation, pulling a surprised look from Andrew. “Ninety-eight Yankees are arguably the best team in history.”

  “Ah, there’s my girl. I knew you could smell a Yankee conversation from anywhere,” David says, flipping a burger.

  “You’re a Yankees fan?” Andrew asks, a little perplexed.

  “You’re an idiot if you’re not.” With my fudge, I head back to the fountain area, my heart beating a little faster than normal.

  So he likes the Yankees.

  That doesn’t change anything.

  But why does it feel like it’s thawing the icy wall I erected around me to avoid any kind of conversation with him? And why did I just think he has tempting forearms? His forearms are normal man arms. Nothing special about them.

  Nothing.

  Although, when he scoops ice cream, the way they flex . . .

  “Are you a real Yankees fan, or a flyby fan? I mean, did you even cry when Derek Jeter retired?” Andrew asks, putting a stack of sundae glasses on the center island, which is really just a metal table.

  “What kind of question is that?” I’m squirting fudge into the pumper when I answer him. “If I know about the ninety-eight Yankees, wouldn’t you know I’m a real Yankees fan?” I pause for a second and then add, “And if you didn’t cry then there is no hope for you in life.”

  “I don’t know.” He steps up to me, challenge in his stance, and pushes up his glasses, his sincere and beautiful whiskey-colored eyes looking down at me. God, he really is good-looking. “If I asked who your favorite player was from the ninety-eight Yankees, would you be able—”

  “Bernie Williams. An understated player. Full of class, talent, and the drive to win for his team, not for himself. So easily overshadowed in his career being surrounded by the Core Four, which honestly, he should have been a part of.”

  Mouth agape, Andrew stares at me for a second. Ha, bet he didn’t expect that answer. Don’t test me on my Yankees knowledge; I will slaughter you in that department.

  Clearing his throat, he says, “Bernie, huh? All right,” Nodding his head, he stops and sticks up his finger and says, “I bet you don’t have his CD—”

  “The Journey Within? I have a signed copy.” I smirk; I can’t help it.

  “Oh yeah.” Hands on his hips now, he thinks for a second. “And his birthday . . .”

  “September 13, 1968, which was a Friday actually, in case you were wondering.”

  “Well, what about Tino—”

  “You mean Constantino Martinez, born December
7, 1967, the first baseman for the Yankees from 1996–2001 until he came back in 2005? What about him?”

  Huffing in frustration, Andrew scratches the top of his hat, looking for any kind of fact to stump me.

  “Listen, I’m going to stop you before steam starts pouring from your ears. I know everything there is to know about the Yankees. I’ve read every book, every autobiography, watched every film, seen almost every game since I can remember, subscribe to the YES network, and I’ve collected their baseball cards since I was five. I have a mind of steel, and it’s full of useless baseball facts. Your challenge is just going to end up frustrating you more than anything.”

  He sits back against the counter and studies me, his arms crossed over his chest. A chest I can’t seem to stop myself from glancing at. There is something about this guy that is a stark contradiction to the vibe he portrays. His heart and mind give off the goody-two-shoes vibe, one I don’t mind, but one that doesn’t mesh with my belief that the world hates me. And then he stands there and . . . smolders at me. Yes, smolder is the correct word. Thick-rimmed glasses framing his hazel eyes, right above that pronounced jawline—he’s kind of devastating actually.

  “Uh, not to be rude or anything, but are you okay? It almost looks like you’re having a stroke. Your face isn’t moving and your tongue is doing weird things with your lips. Do you need to sit down?”

  What?

  Oh my God, I was just staring. And what was my tongue doing?

  Shaking my head, a flush of embarrassment staining my cheeks, I turn back to the fudge and tend to it. “Fine. Just thinking about something.”

  “What were you thinking about?” he asks, stepping up next to me and helping me with the fudge bag. Immediately my body heats up from his shoulder brushing against mine. What is happening to me?

  “Nothing,” I snap, bouncing off him, giving us some room.

  “Whoa.” He sticks his hands up in the air. “I was just helping.”

  “I’ve poured fudge in the pump before,” I say, stepping up to the pump again to finish the job.

  “Oh, I know, but with the whole tongue thing you were just doing I thought you might have needed a little bit of help. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Squeezing from the bottom, I move the fudge carefully into the pump, focusing on the task at hand. “I’m fine, okay? Just put away the glasses.”

  “Okay.” Turning away from me, I hear the distinct sound of him stacking glasses again. “If I had to be honest, it’s kind of badass that you know so much about baseball. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who knows that much.”

  “It’s just useless facts.” I don’t want to accept his compliment, because if I do, the warming sensation flowing through me will turn up a notch. Am I really this pathetic? The guy says he likes the Yankees and all of a sudden I see him as a new man? A very attractive man, one who I wouldn’t mind seeing with his shirt off, maybe scooping some ice cream with those forearms of his . . .

  No! Oh my God, no. Get that thought out of your head right now.

  But . . . Andrew’s forearms scooping ice cream.

  “Still, it’s pretty cool. Have you been down to the stadium to see a game?”

  I can’t help but chuckle. Facing him now, I lean against the counter and say, “Every year on my birthday, my friends and I go watch a game. Cheap seats, of course, because who can really afford the lower seats?”

  “Yeah, especially as a college student, but talk about a dream day—lounging in those executive seats, getting waited on while hobnobbing with the players. Man, that would be a fucking amazing day.”

  A shiver runs up my spine. Why did I like it just then when he cursed? It so easily rolled off his tongue, that it makes me wonder if just maybe there is a little hint of a bad boy under his exterior. Maybe.

  “It would be. Have you ever—?”

  “Hey, Maaa!” Smilly’s voice rings through the takeout counter, shocking me out of the interesting conversation with Andrew. “Brought you your cough syrup.”

  Smilly slaps the drink on the counter as a small snort comes from Andrew who starts putting away sundae glasses again.

  I toss the empty fudge bag in the trash and head over to Smilly who’s now sitting on the counter. When I reach her, she hands me the Gatorade bottle I know isn’t full of Gatorade.

  “Thanks. I didn’t think you were going to be able to stop by. Didn’t you have to take care of the twins?”

  “Sandy got home early.” Looking out toward her car, she says, “Uh, you might want to go see what I have in my car. I have to hit up the bathroom.”

  She hops off the counter and starts walking away when I stop her. “Wait, what are you talking about?”

  “Just go out to my car.” With that, she takes off toward the bathroom, being beyond evasive. I’ve known this girl forever, so why do I still expect more from her?

  Slightly annoyed, I remove my apron and put it on the metal island, then say to Andrew, “I’ll be back in a second. If Stuart asks, I’m in the bathroom.”

  “Taking your cough syrup with you?” he asks, a smirk on my lips.

  “No, but help yourself. You’re looking ill,” I throw at him as I walk away.

  The muggy heat of upstate New York hits me the minute I step outside. I’m convinced humidity is the devil’s creation, preparing us sinners for the afterlife. Given how unbearable the summers can be, there must be a lot of sinners in New York.

  Smilly parked her car right next to mine and before I can even guess what she’s talking about I see him.

  What the hell is he doing here?

  Wearing a threadbare T-shirt, worn jeans, and a few leather bracelets, he approaches me.

  Tucker.

  Fuck. I’m going to kill Smilly.

  Not wanting to cause a scene in front of the restaurant, I meet him by the car, which is off to the side and out of hearing range.

  “Hey, beautiful,” he greets me.

  “Tucker, what are you doing here?”

  “Good to see you too, Sadie.” Without my permission, he pulls me into a hug, but I don’t let him hold me for more than a second.

  Straightening up, I ask again, “What are you doing here?”

  “Truck is in the shop. Smilly was the only one not working who could pick me up.”

  “Okay, well, I don’t know why she told me to come out here.” Literally going to kill her.

  “I asked her to send you out here. Listen,” he takes a deep breath and pulls me into him by the loops of my pants, “I know our last break-up was rough. I’m working on some things, some things I should have worked on a while ago. My head hasn’t been straight for a while and I can now see how that’s affected my relationship with you. I want you to know I’m working on it.”

  “Tucker, it wasn’t just you. It was me too. We’re not compatible. Not long term.”

  “You don’t know that,” he says. “We haven’t shown each other our best selves. Let me get my shit together, and I’ll show you I can be the guy you need.”

  “The guy I need? How do you know the kind of guy I need when I don’t even know what that is?”

  Hell, I have no idea what I want these days. Apparently superb forearms are on the list though.

  Pulling me in closer, his arms around my waist now, he presses a kiss against my forehead, attempting to melt my cold exterior—and possibly my heart. “Sadie, I’ve known you almost your entire life. I’ve been there for you through thick and thin, and you think I don’t know what you need? I can read you better than anyone.”

  He used to be able to read me better than anyone, but now, I don’t think he can. I’m not the same person I was in high school. Hell, I’m not the same person I was a few months ago. I really have no clue who I am, and truthfully, that’s what is most terrifying.

  He tries to lift my chin but I step away, needing to put distance between my past and me. “Tucker, I don’t even know who I am anymore. I can’t jump into another relationship with you.” I won?
??t.

  His eyes soften as he puts his hands in his pockets. “You didn’t have to drop out of Cornell, Sadie. We could have made it work.”

  Shit, I don’t want to talk about this, but from the look in his eyes, it seems like I don’t have an option.

  “No, we couldn’t have.” I shake my head. “I was killing myself to get decent grades before I got pregnant. There was no way I would have been able to keep my grades up with a baby. And all the expenses.” I shake my head, “Every last cent I had was going toward tuition.”

  “I told you I could have helped you. I wanted to help you. You wouldn’t let me.”

  “Because I didn’t want you to feel obligated to me,” I shout, a little louder than intended. I grip the bill of my hat, because I need to do something with my hands to calm myself. Why is he so persistent? Yes, we have known each other for years, but surely he can see we need to stop this merry-go-round. “I don’t want to have this conversation right now. I have to get back to work.”

  As I start to walk away, Tucker calls out, “The miscarriage wasn’t your fault, Sadie.”

  Without turning around, I answer back, “Sure as hell felt like it.”

  The last thing I want to do right now is cry, but with Tucker showing up at work—and bringing up a past I very much want to forget about—my eyes are stinging, brimming with tears.

  “Shit,” I mutter, making my way back to the restaurant. Going through the front doors, I bypass Smilly who is talking to Andrew and go straight toward the stockroom where I try to catch my breath. Images of that horrid night flash through my mind. Waking up in a pool of blood, not knowing why, unsure of what to do, who to call. The blinding, life-altering pain coursing through me. So scared. So damn scared. Yeah, it sure as hell felt like it.

  I grip the shelves in the stockroom for stability as I squeeze my eyes tight, trying to rid the images.

  Let it go. Let it go.

  Taking deep breaths, I try my best at calming my racing heart and easing the tension from my shoulders. Why? Why did she drop by with Tucker? Why do that to me?

  Breathe in, breathe out. Just like that.

  “Are you okay, Sadie?” Andrew’s broad frame shows up in the doorway of the stockroom, his voice full of sweet concern.