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He reached out to grab my shoulders, stopping me before I fell. I pulled away quickly. Now wasn’t the time to be reminded of our crazy physical connection.
“Hey,” he said, his focus shifting from my face to the ground as he hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans.
I crossed my arms and stepped around him to continue up the stairs, irritated that he’d spoiled my good mood.
“Wait, Emerson.” I heard his feet hit two steps behind me before I turned and leaned back against the metal railing. We were practically eye to eye.
“What?” I drew it out, trying to sound bored, but my voice trembled at the end of the question.
“About yesterday … the Hourglass … I wish I could explain.”
“Why can’t you?”
He scrubbed his hands over his face. “I just can’t.”
I gave him an irritated growl and turned to continue up the stairs. He grabbed for my hand, but I yanked it away as I spun around. “Why? I ‘don’t know what I’m dealing with,’ so I should just ‘mind my own business’—isn’t that what you said?” I could feel the sneer curling my upper lip.
“It’s more complicated than that.”
The desire to kick him in the shins at the answer that was beginning to become his standard was overwhelming. “No.”
“What?”
“No.” My impulses moved from kicking to punching, spurred on by my own anger and the fact that, before yesterday’s incident in my bedroom, I had trusted Michael. “I won’t mind my own business. You show up, tell me you understand me and that I should trust you. And then you won’t tell me the truth.”
“Emerson, I’m being as honest with you as I can be, believe me,” he said, his palms up.
“Not being completely honest is the same as being a liar.”
“I am not a liar,” he said. A vein pulsed in his forehead.
“I think you are,” I pushed with my words.
“I’m not. What I am is extremely frustrated.”
Michael reached out, cupped his hands under my elbows, spun me around, and dropped me to my feet.
“Whose fault is that?” I shouted as he walked up the stairs to the back door, his spine stiff. “Not mine. Maybe you should go ahead and tell me whatever it is you think I can’t handle—have you ever thought of that?”
But the door slammed, and I was talking to thin air.
Chapter 12
The next morning I stopped by Murphy’s Law for a little liquid energy and a chat with Lily. Lack of sleep was becoming an unfortunate occurrence in my life. I briefly considered ordering chamomile tea. Supposedly, it helped with anxiety, and I had plenty.
Lily stood behind the counter. She saw me coming and called out my usual order. “Double Cubano and the biggest empanada we have.”
Chamomile?
Right.
When Lily wouldn’t let me pay, I shoved my money in the tip jar and walked to the front of the shop to sink into an overstuffed pumpkin-colored chair. Outside, a man wearing khaki pants and a T-shirt bearing the logo of a landscaping service pulled summer annuals from the intermittently spaced planters lining the street. He replaced them with delicate pansies in dusky crimson and two shades of purple. A Davy Crockett look-alike stood beside him, his calves disappearing into the middle of the planter. Rips and solid objects didn’t really mix. I was glad Davy was out of his century and not just fashion challenged.
The coonskin cap really would’ve been over the top.
As I watched them both I noticed a sign taped up on the outside of the plate-glass window of the coffee shop. The sun shone at the perfect angle to make the thick black words stand out clearly: HELP WANTED. The heavens broke open. I wanted a job so I wouldn’t have to ask Thomas for extra spending money, and my favorite coffee shop in the world was hiring. Could I get a job smelling and selling the elixir of life?
Lily brought over a tiny espresso cup and my empanada and then lowered herself gracefully onto the edge of the chair across from me.
