Hot Brew

Here's the winning prompt for my Dream Story Contest. It’s such a good prompt, you guys: How about an Embry and Ghost (chilling yet hilarious) meet cute? -@rafabrew

This has kind of a long story behind it that you may not be interested in, so I wrote two author’s notes. There’s a long one for everyone who wants the full story and a shorter one for those of you with attention span problems who just want the main details necessary for the story to make sense. Scroll down for the latter. :D

LONG AUTHOR’S NOTE: I’ll be honest, I toyed with this prompt for quite some time. I was intrigued from the outset, but there were a lot of variables to manage. 

At first, my brain latched onto a Bonnie and Clyde sort of deal, where Ghost and Embry go on a crime spree across the nation punishing abusive bastards and making out in a Model A Ford wearing excellent suits. Picture Embry in a waistcoat and Ghost in a fedora. I’ll admit, this idea seems fun. As much fun as vengeful murder can be, anyway. But even if I made Embry and Ghost only go after bad guys, the eventual bloody ending left me wary. I don’t know how you make that cute. Maybe in my story they could give up on a life of crime together and get a little farm in Kansas or something? I don’t know. The other thing that gave me pause about this interpretation was that this would require a ton of research because I know exactly zip about that era. I could skip research for the sake of just getting it done, but in that case, everything would be described as “old-timey” and that’s not particularly evocative.

So I decided to scrap that idea in favor of a more traditional rom-com meet cute, but that came with complications of its own. For one thing, I wasn’t sure how consistent to make Embry and Ghost’s characters. Let’s be honest, of everyone I’ve ever written, those two are by far the most fucked up. I tried to get them together in a room with all their attendant baggage, and still have it be something romantic, but they kept wanting to see each other as serious threats, and not in a sexy way. I just couldn’t keep them consistent with their dark backstories while also fitting them into a cute rom-commy situation. So finally I said hell with it. Who would they each be if they’d had more normal lives? Embry was easier to figure out in this way than Ghost was, but they both came together with surprisingly little difficulty in the long run, which I took as a sign that I’d gone in the right direction with the prompt. Plus, there’s zero research involved in Coffee Shop AUs. :D

SHORT AUTHOR’S NOTE: Ghost was never abused (and therefore never became a prostitute) in this story. Embry’s family was never attacked, either. Everyone lives in Boston because reasons.

Hope you enjoy!

--Sidney



Bow-tie-guy’s back again.

Ghost could set his watch—if he wore one, which he doesn’t, because time is a construct made up by man and he refuses to play by such arbitrary rules—by how regular Bow-tie-guy is. The ding of the coffee shop bell always comes right when Ghost is in the middle of transferring the last of the fresh bread from the cooling racks to the front display cases, which means his hands are full or he’s in the back. No one else comes in this early, let alone stands there huffily like Ghost is failing in his career by making him wait for twenty seconds. The only reason they’re even open this early is because the chick who makes the little afternoon cakes has to drop them off at 5:45 am so she can get to her other job on time. 

It’s a café that mostly serves students. A student out of bed at this hour is basically a unicorn—possible in theory, maybe, but utterly unrealistic. The morning is still navy blue beyond the windows for crying out loud.

It’s a pain in the ass.

Bow-tie-guy is a pain in the ass.

If he weren’t so damn pleasant to look at, Ghost would tell him to fuck off.

Well, no, he wouldn’t, because Magda’s trying to run a business here and she’d fire him in a heartbeat if he tried that. He wouldn’t mess with Magda even if he had more job security. She’s the meanest person he knows, and besides, he adores her.

But the point is that Ghost hears the bell when he’s in the middle of loading up the trays in the back. Bow-tie-guy is here again, right on time, at 6:03 a.m., exactly when it’s most inconvenient. Ghost gives him a smile as he comes out with the croissant trays in his hands, and it might be the most passive-aggressive, insincere smile he’s ever smiled. 

The guy’s at the counter in another one of those flawless suits. Charcoal gray wool this time, black shirt, a blood-red bow tie and matching pocket-square. His dark-dark hair is combed away from his face, which is a good thing, because that fucking bone structure is to die for. Cheekbones like razors, a hard jaw, an arrow’s edge for a nose, and that mouth. Sweet and full. Ghost could imagine that mouth doing things.

It’s his eyes, though, that make it harder for Ghost to take a deep breath. They’re black and sharp and full of judgment for everything around him. 

He’s heartbreakingly lovely.

“Be right with you,” Ghost says, and his tone means, you inconsiderate bastard. You know I’m going to be in the back because I’m always in the back. Would it kill you to show up three minutes later?

Bow-tie-guy watches him move with an unamused air. He doesn’t respond, because in addition to being freakishly punctual and gorgeous, he’s also a bit of a dick.

Ghost sets the trays down and takes his oven mitts off and goes to wash his hands at the sink at the end of the counter. He can feel those black eyes on him the whole time. If it weren’t such a judgmental stare, it would probably give him the good, down-low shivers. But it is judgmental, and therefore Ghost kind of wants to punch him.

“What can I get for you?” Ghost asks, as if he doesn’t already know. As if the guy doesn’t buy the same thing every day. And because he’s feeling particularly bitchy on this early morning, he says the guy’s order in unison with him.

“Large black coffee, darkest roast available, and a serving of the walnut and blueberry overnight oats.”

Bow-tie-guy’s eyes narrow. 

Ghost smiles back sweetly. “I’ll get right on that.”

He prepares the order, his skin warm and humming and irritated under that black gaze the whole time, and then he’s ringing him up. Bow-tie-guy doesn’t tip him—he never does, Ghost hasn’t expected it for ages—and goes to the cozy table near the emergency exit. It’s as far away from the counter as it’s possible to get. He unpacks a laptop and several books and gets to work, taking the occasional sip of coffee and bite of oatmeal.

The early breakfast rush starts about forty minutes later and Caro shows up blurting apologies for being late and one of the coffee makers won’t drip, but somehow Ghost doesn’t miss the moment when Bow-tie-guy checks the clock on the wall, double-checks the time by his own watch, cleans up his mess, packs up his things, and leaves.

At precisely 7:32.

Like always.

***

The next morning is exactly the same in every way except for one thing. This time, Ghost prepares Bow-tie-guy’s order in advance of bringing the bread out of the back. He finds the guy scowling at his oatmeal while tapping his credit card against the counter.

“Tell me I was wrong,” Ghost intones, reaching over to pluck the card out of his hand to run it.

Bow-tie-guy is not best pleased. “I suppose you think I’m predictable.”

“I would never,” Ghost replies, in a tone that means yes, absolutely. 

The scowl deepens. 

“You know,” Ghost offers thoughtfully, as if the idea is only now occurring to him. “It’s actually easier for me to prepare your order in advance. If it was convenient for you to pay in cash, you could just leave the precise change here every morning, and then you wouldn’t have to wait at all. It would give you at least seven minutes of your morning back.”

The scowl pauses. Those black eyes slide sideways, going thoughtful. He doesn’t say anything as Ghost hands him the credit slip. He signs it with a slash of the pen and hands it back without adding a tip. He doesn’t say thank you, either. He just collects his food and goes to sit down, where he repeats his routine of setting up his table exactly the way he wants it before he takes his first sip of coffee. 

Ghost rolls his eyes.

***

The next morning, however, when he comes out of the back, Bow-tie-guy is sitting at his usual table, food in hand, and there’s a neat stack of bills and coins on the counter. Precise change, Ghost thinks wryly, until he sees that there’s an extra dollar. A tip.

It’s for the seven minutes, Ghost realizes, and smiles a little, shaking his head, as he pockets the bill.

***

Every morning now, there’s an extra dollar waiting. 

***

Ghost toys with the idea for a while before he does it. It’s possibly risking a good thing. He’s made sixteen dollars off of Bow-tie-guy’s tips so far since Ghost came up with the idea to give the guy seven more neurotic work minutes each day. There’s a chance this could blow up in his face. Bow-tie-guy has given zero sign of being flexible in any realistic, human way, after all.

But at the same time, Ghost wants to, and that’s been his guiding principle in life until this point. It’s served him well. Sort of. He’s successful in life.

Well, he’s not in jail. Or suffering from STIs. 

Anyway, on a Friday morning—Bow-tie-guy is never relaxed, but he’s discernably less starched on Fridays—Ghost puts his plan into action. He starts small and exchanges the walnut-and-blueberry oatmeal for the almond-and-cranberry oatmeal. The walnut-and-blueberry is a tiny bit more expensive, so it won’t seem like upselling, which Ghost is certain would eliminate any chance of cooperation.

As anticipated, it causes a ruckus anyway.

He comes out of the back to find that credit card clamped in white-knuckled fingers. Bow-tie-guy bites out, “What is this?”

Ghost doesn’t hurry in setting down his trays. He calls back over his shoulder as he goes to the counter, “It’s oatmeal. See, it says it on the cup.”

“I’m aware that it’s oatmeal. Why isn’t it the oatmeal I asked for?”

“Because variety is the spice of life. And because I want to see if we should expand marketing on the almond-and-cranberry. I don’t eat that shit regardless, so I can’t tell if it’s underselling because the recipe needs adjusting or because we haven’t promoted it enough. Why? Are you allergic? Are you going to die because of the almonds? Don’t eat death almonds, sir. We here at Coffee Nirvana strongly suggest that you die elsewhere.”

Bow-tie-guy stares at him without blinking for a full three seconds. “I don’t want to have to think about my breakfast.”

“So don’t think about it. Let me think about it.” Ghost leans on the counter, arms crossed, peering up into Bow-tie-guy’s cranky, stunning face. “If you don’t like it, you don’t have to eat it. Bring it back and I’ll replace it with the walnut and blueberry for free.” He nudges the little cup across the speckled countertop.

Bow-tie-guy stands there, looking generally constipated, and Ghost sighs. “You’re thinking about how coming back to exchange the food will take up part of your precious seven minutes, aren’t you? And start your whole day off wrong. Right?”

Bow-tie-guy’s cheeks turn a dull pink. 

Ghost chews on his bottom lip. “Okay, here’s a deal. Fridays only. And if you don’t like it, push the cup to the far edge of the table. That’ll tell me that you don’t like it, and I can bring you a fresh serving of the walnut-and-blueberry. Then you don’t even have to get up. No minutes lost at all.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Walnut-and-blueberry every day is boring.”

“I don’t mind it,” Bow-tie-guy says.

“Who says I was talking about your boredom? God. Self-centered much?” Ghost keeps his tone light, though, and nudges the cup toward the guy again. “Try it.”

Bow-tie-guy gives the cup a look that would make more sense if it were directed at a tarantula, but he picks it up and takes his coffee too.

He does not leave a tip, but Ghost hadn’t expected him to. Not this time.

He does eat all of the oatmeal though. On the following Monday, in addition to his precise change plus one dollar, there’s a small note in neurotically flawless penmanship that says, “Promote it better.”

***

“Too much sugar,” Bow-tie-guy mutters one day as Ghost picks up an offensive bran muffin and deposits the reliable walnut-and-blueberry oatmeal. 

“Gotcha,” Ghost replies quietly, and starts to turn away.

Then Bow-tie-guy says, “What do you usually have for breakfast?”

For a heartbeat, Ghost is thrown. “What?”

“You said you don’t eat oatmeal. What do you eat?” Bow-tie-guy keeps his eyes on his laptop monitor. But his fingers have paused on his keyboard. He’s listening. The books all have intimidating names about physics, and there’s a graphics calculator peeking out of his satchel, and he is Very Serious in pretty much every way possible. 

“Lucky Charms,” Ghost tells him, delighted by the resulting pained expression. “They’re magically delicious.”

Bow-tie-guy resumes typing, and Ghost leaves him to it, but he’s smiling. He’s smiling for half the damn morning, until Caro manages to spill a twenty-pound bag of beans all over the floor.

***

“That’s dessert, not breakfast,” Bow-tie-guy says once, as Ghost collects a troublesome slice of banana bread.

“Things can be both.” Ghost puts the new cup of oatmeal on the table.

“Only someone who eats marshmallows in his cereal would think so.”

Ghost tries not to smile as he begins to turn away. 

Then Bow-tie-guy says, “You work every day?”

Ghost pauses. “Monday through Saturday, open to 2.”

“That’s a lot of hours.”

Ghost weighs his possible responses: I can’t afford the kind of suits you wear and My mother isn’t great with holding onto jobs, so she can’t help me with school and I’m taking a brief break from classes, so I’m trying to stock up on cash, you know. 

Or he could say, why are you asking?

“It is,” he says eventually, and leaves.

***

That’s when Bow-tie-guy starts coming in on Saturdays. He’s earlier on weekends, coming in at 5:45 instead of 6:07, the second the door is unlocked so Abby can bring the afternoon cakes in, but that’s not nearly as startling as the change in his wardrobe. He’s wearing jeans—crisp dark blue jeans that’ve probably been tailored, but still, it’s progress—and an equally crisp, fitted collared shirt, and a tie. An actual tie. He manages to make it look trendy and hip and he can wear a suit, man, can Bow-tie-guy wear a suit, but he’s almost painfully hot like this. He looks more relaxed. Approachable. Human. 

It makes Ghost irrationally angry.

Ghost obviously doesn’t have breakfast ready for him on that first Saturday. Why would he? He’d have to be an idiot to think Bow-tie-guy would ever break pattern this way. He’s aware that he’s gaping a bit as Bow-tie-guy comes up to the counter, and maybe that’s not attractive, but fuck it. The world has basically turned upside down. He’ll catch flies with his mouth if he wants to.

“What are you doing here?” Ghost asks, aware that he sounds sort of hostile.

Bow-tie-guy hesitates for a split second, maybe taken aback. Then he says, “I have to work somewhere. The coffee here is better than it is at the coffee cart in the library.”

Ghost subsides, slightly mollified. “All right.”

That pretty mouth upticks a hair’s breadth in one corner. “Then I can stay?”

“Fine.” It comes out sullen. He doesn’t care. 

That uptick grows. Not much. Just a little. It’s not much of a smile, but it’s enough to show off a pair of completely adorable dimples. Ghost is being personally attacked. His stomach goes hot and rebellious, and he’s tempted to give the asshole the sugary bran muffin all over again to teach him a lesson for being all attractive and unpredictable this early in the morning.

“What’ll you have?” Ghost asks.

Bow-tie-guy licks his lips and the smile thankfully fades. “You pick.”

Ghost stares at him for a moment, and then he moves toward the coffee maker, thinking hard as he pours the usual large dark roast. Part of him is tempted to serve up the walnut-and-blueberry oatmeal. He’s not sure what the hell is happening, but he has a feeling that the walnut-and-blueberry would end it. 

But when he goes to the display case, instead of grabbing overnight oats, he finds his hand drifting to a breakfast pita. He hasn’t tried one of these on Bow-tie-guy before because they’re pricier than the baked goods and they’ll need to have a talk about the increase before it can happen regularly. But it suddenly seems like a day for risk, and they have one that has tomato and avocado and hard-boiled egg and fancy cheese and sprout thingies and it seems pretentious enough for a guy whose weekend clothes include a tie. So he wraps one up in wax paper and hands it over. 

“Okay,” Bow-tie-guy says. He studies the sandwich, his brow furrowed as if he’s expecting it to get fresh with him somehow. It’s not charming. Ghost wants to kick something. “Thanks. How much do I owe you?”

Ghost rings him up. He can’t believe the guy said thanks. He tries not to notice that he’s earned two dollars in tips this time. 

Bow-tie-guy sits down at his usual table and begins to work. He’s still there when the Saturday breakfast rush starts and still there when it ends. It’s in the lull that rolls around at about eleven that he gets up and comes back to the counter for a refill of coffee. 

“How was the sandwich?” Ghost asks, handing the fresh cup over. 

“Too much tomato, but otherwise good.”

“I’ll make a note.”

Bow-tie-guy stands there for a moment after Ghost hands him the credit card receipt. “My name is Embry.”

Ghost sucks in a breath. He has no idea what that’s supposed to do with that. It’s making his stomach hot again. Why is he telling Ghost this? And why does he look so damn expectant?

Oh, right. “I’m Ghost.”

“Yeah. I saw that.” He points at Ghost’s lapel, where his nametag rests. “I keep meaning to ask—”

“It’s a nickname,” Ghost interrupts. “My real name is Will.”

“Oh.” Embry pauses. “Actually, my real name is Adam. My first name. But I don’t care for it. So I go by my middle name.”

“Embry’s better,” Ghost admits. What the fuck is happening here?

“I imagine you would think so,” Embry agrees, and what the hell is that supposed to mean? Ghost frowns, about to ask, when Embry continues. “Are you a student?”

Ghost tilts his head sideways, considering. “Occasionally.”

“At Harvard?”

Ghost snorts. “Bunker Hill.” He waits for Embry to have a Judgmental Opinion about community colleges.

Embry only says, “What does occasionally mean?”

“It means sometimes I’m a student and sometimes I’m not.”

“What do you study?”

“Depends on my mood.”

“Most recently,” Embry asks, his voice getting sharper.

“French Literature. For exactly one semester plus two weeks. Then I dropped. Now I’m killing time waiting for the new semester to roll around.”

“Why’d you drop?”

“Because the hot French study abroad guy in my building went back to his mother country,” Ghost says rather tightly, and watches as Embry presses his lips together so that they go flat.

“What will you study next?”

For a split second, Ghost almost says physics. Just to see what Embry will do. There’s an odd thing happening here, one that Ghost can’t quite figure out. He knows what he looks like. People want to fuck him. A lot of people, actually. It wouldn’t surprise him if Embry is one of them. But he also knows that that’s usually all anyone wants from him. Ghost is the guy who studies the subjects his crushes are into because he has no other clue what he wants to do with his life and is perfectly fine working at a coffee shop indefinitely and playing video games with his friends.

Whereas Embry wears ties on the weekend and works for six hours straight on convoluted math and schedules his days to the minute. He’s not going to want more than sex from a guy who watches reality television in his underwear when he’s not at work.

But in the end, Ghost says something that is at once both more and less honest. “I don’t know. I don’t really give a shit about most things. I’m mostly trying to figure out how feasible it is to just marry rich.”

Embry’s face does something hilariously disapproving, and Ghost almost laughs, even as his stomach goes tight with unhappiness. After a moment of consideration that appears to be rather painful for him, Embry says, “You think you’re going to find someone who will support you just to be in a relationship with you?”

Ghost gives him a fake, slinky sort of smile. “I have talents beyond making coffee.”

Embry’s cheeks go pale pink—it’s lovely on him, of fucking course it is. He scowls at the same time, and that’s lovely too. Fuck Ghost’s life.

But all he says then is, “All right.” He stands there for another minute, then picks up his coffee and returns to his table, his stride brisk. 

The lunch crowd starts to trickle in about then. And the next time Ghost glances at that back corner, Embry’s gone.

***

That, Ghost figures, should be that.

***

“Any particular reason why you torpedoed that?” Church asks that Sunday, when they’re all at Miller’s place playing Fortnite. Church is amazing at Fortnite. He’s kicking Ghost and Tobias’s asses with a hand tied behind his back. He’s been doing that regularly these days, all because Miller bought a PlayStation 4 “for the house.” As if anyone thinks for two seconds that Miller’s going to play video games. Miller’s a grown-up. An enabling grown-up maybe, with the way he lets Church live in his spare room and buys pizza for everyone on weekends and watches in bewilderment as they play Fortnite. Part of being a grown-up, apparently, is not getting Fortnite.

Maybe Ghost is a grown-up these days; he fucking hates Fortnite. What is he doing with his life?

“Because I’m not a masochist,” Ghost tells him. He’s dead. His stupid man on the screen is dead. He fucking hates video games.

Well, that’s a lie. He likes video games. Just not Fortnite. And he’s not really in the mood for any of this anyway. Everything sucks lately. He kind of wants to take to his bed like a heroine from an old novel. Actually, he kind of wants to finish learning French so he can read Madame Bovary in the original language, because even in English and for a class, that novel broke his fucking heart. He’d identified so hard with Emma Bovary, with that desperate, reaching, selfish girl who had been told her whole life this is all you get, girl, be grateful, and she’d said hell with that.

But he’s not going to go read French novels in bed because he’s not actually a chick dying of tuberculosis in the 1800s, and Church would only make fun of him.

“You don’t know that it’ll go badly,” Tobias says, smiling earnestly, because Tobias does everything earnestly. It’s annoying. 

Tobias is terrible at Fortnite too, but it’s not much of a consolation, because Tobias spends more time studying than he does playing. It’s humiliating that Ghost dies at least as much as Tobias does despite many more hours spent wasting his time like this. 

“I do,” Ghost insists. “You haven’t seen this guy. He’s perfect. He’s probably never had a zit in his life. He irons his fucking ties. He has serious money. Do you know how expensive it is to eat at a coffee shop almost every day? No one can afford that. What the hell am I going to do with a guy like that?”

“Let him love you?” Tobias suggests.

“Fuck his brains out?” Church suggests. 

“I’m definitely going to take to my bed,” Ghost says sulkily. “By myself. Lamenting.”

“You’re a good guy,” Tobias says. Still earnest. Still annoying. “Anyone would be lucky to have you.”

“Thank you. You’re full of shit, but thank you.”

“Are you seriously this insecure?” Church asks. “I mean, Ghost, you’re gorgeous and you pay your bills on time and you’re a good friend. There are way shittier people than you. Buck up and tell the guy you were only pretending to be that superficial because you’re a fucking coward. Problem solved.”

“Like it’s that easy.”

“It is that easy.”

“Are you ever going to ask Miller out?” Ghost asks, maybe a little meanly. “Or are you just going to keep sleeping in the spare room until he magically realizes you’ve grown pubes?”

Church’s face scrunches up.

“I think I want to hire a private detective to track down my birth mother,” Tobias announces. 

***

And despite what Church and Tobias say, that apparently is that. Because even though Embry’s routine doesn’t otherwise change, he doesn’t speak to Ghost about anything more than oatmeal or sugar or too many raspberries for the next two weeks.

Well, there is that one time that he comes to the counter, scowls at the tiled floor for a good ten seconds, mutters something about walnuts that Ghost can’t quite make out, and then walks out with brisk, irritated strides, but Ghost is pretty sure that none of that means I love you even though you’re kind of trashy. 

So. He doesn’t really count that one.

***

And then, first thing on the following Saturday morning, Embry is hauled through the front door of the café by a woman in jeans and a leather jacket. Like, literally hauling him. If she were to let go, Embry might fall over, that’s how hard he’s resisting. Not that he puts a hand on her. It’s incredibly gentle, respectful resisting.

There’s no one else in the shop. It’s still pretty early—students sleep in on Saturdays way more than they do on weekdays, so there’s only going to be a few trickling customers as the morning goes on. There’s no one here to save Ghost from this awkwardness as the woman hauls Embry to the counter. 

That’s where she lets him go to face Ghost. Embry starts trying to sneak away, which would be funny if the sight of him didn’t make Ghost’s stomach hurt, but the woman seems to be on to his tricks, because she turns around and levels him with a mean stare and snaps, “Stay,” like he’s a dog. 

Embry stays. He looks like he’s just been told he contracted typhoid, but he stays.

“Hi,” the woman says, and up close, Ghost can see she’s actually still more of a girl. She’s roughly Embry’s age, in fact. She has black hair and black eyes and when she smiles, she has a dimple, and—well, a sister, obviously.

“Hi,” Ghost says back, warily, because she’s eyeing him like he might also have typhoid. 

The girl says, “My brother tells me that you like fucking with his feeding schedule.”

“God, Amy, please?” Embry mutters. 

“Nope,” the girl—Amy—calls cheerfully over her shoulder at him. “You’re not talking.”

Ghost has no idea what to make of this. Part of him wants to be amused, but the bigger, larger part of him thinks he’s about to get chewed out for daring to aim high. Like in old movies, where rich families pay off the inappropriate waitress or showgirl so she won’t drag the youngest son into infamy. And if they’d done this anywhere but Ghost’s workplace, he’d tell them both to fuck off because he doesn’t have to stand for it. But he is at work, and as tempted as he is to get mean, he’s not quite willing to risk his job yet.

Ghost finally lands on, “You make him sound like a pig at the trough.”

“Do I?” She fiddles with the sugar packets on the counter. “I mean, he eats like one.”

“Right,” Ghost says, because Embry has better manners than anyone he’s ever met. Embry probably thinks the Queen of England is a savage. 

“That’s just an act he puts on,” Amy says, apparently having read his doubt. “The thing you have to know about my little brother—” Here, Embry snorts. “—is that what you see is definitely not what you get.”

“So he’s not actually the biggest nerd in all of nerd-dom?”

She pauses. “No, that part’s true.”

“Jesus Christ,” Embry mutters, turning to stare out the window at the passing foot traffic. Ghost would feel sorry for him if it weren’t for the fact that everything about this sucks worse for Ghost. He’s the one who deserves all the pity in this situation.

“Look, we both know what’s happening here,” she tells Ghost.

There’s a sinking feeling in his stomach. He wonders what the going rate for buying off a showgirl is. “I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, kid,” she says, as if she’s that much older than him, when she’s maybe 22. She’s, like, his age. What the hell. 

“Sure,” he replies, his tone giving her a healthy dose of screw off. 

“He likes you, you like him, but for whatever reason, you’re giving him the brush off. Judging from the fact that you said you want to marry rich but you haven’t hit on my brother despite his obvious lack of struggling with funds, I’m guessing this whole thing is a mirage that actually reveals deep-seated insecurities on your behalf. I mean, he said you’re gorgeous, and he wasn’t wrong, because holy fuck you are, but usually people who look like you are assholes, not wallowing in the depths of self-destructive head-casery, and, well. My brother is also gorgeous and a head case, so I know what it looks like. So what is it? Insecurity because you don’t have money too? He said you go to Bunker Hill—are you worried he’ll think you’re stupid? Because he won’t. He doesn’t judge people like that. Did you really study French literature? That’s so far up his fucking alley, you have no idea.”

“Wow,” Ghost manages.

“I’m sorry,” Embry tells him, with deeply pained sincerity, looking like a car just ran over his foot. “She’s a psych major this week. She’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”

“This week,” Ghost echoes. They’re the only words he can come up with.

“I get bored easily,” Amy says. “Seems like something we have in common.”

“This is bizarre,” Ghost announces to no one in particular, and then feels a pang of guilt when he catches Embry flinching.

She reaches over and takes Ghost’s hand. “Look at me, Ghost. Look close.” So he does. 

She’s gorgeous, much like her brother is. Same stern, sharp bone structure, same huge eyes, same soft mouth. She’s wearing a leather jacket and jeans and a T-shirt. Her fingernails are bitten to the quick and painted a deep, midnight blue. Very messily. In fact, they’re heavily chipped, and her left thumbnail is a bright, blistering crimson, as if she decided to repaint them but changed her mind as soon as she started. She’s wearing a candy necklace, although most of the candy is gone, and the string is all stretched out and kind of kinked up from being gnawed on. The T-shirt has a band name on it that he doesn’t recognize and a hole in the collar. She smells like expensive perfume, though, and her black eyeliner is flawless. She’s a mess. An expensive, carefully-realized mess. Not all that different from the kind of mess Ghost is—if appearances can be believed.

“I’m his favorite person in the entire world,” she says, slowly, meaningfully, as if she’s imparting the wisdom of the ages to him. 

“Oh,” Ghost says. Oh. 

She must see the dawning realization in his face, because she nods once and turns to Embry. She pushes him toward the counter with two fingers. “Ask him now,” she prods. “Do it. Ask him.”

“He’s not going to want—”

“He’s going to say yes,” she hisses. “He’s one of us. Ask him.”

Ghost’s heart cartwheels inside his chest. He feels suddenly immensely powerful and also incredibly resolute. This is a fragile thing that he’s been handed, this person, this chance. He wants, so much, to take good care of it and keep it safe. All this time, Ghost has been thinking that Embry really did just want walnut-and-blueberry oatmeal, despite seeing that Embry can be led to things that are better when it’s someone he trusts doing the leading.

It’s kind of weird for Ghost to realize he’s the better thing, but he’s going to pull an Emma Bovary here and fucking milk this situation for all he can get.

“She’s right,” Ghost tells him, trying to make it easier. “I’m going to say yes.”

For a split second, he wonders if Embry’s going to want to take him to some expensive French restaurant with a bunch of silverware that he doesn’t know how to use. But no, that’s not Embry after all, he realizes, and so he’s not surprised when Embry sucks in a deep breath, and says, as if his voice has been wrenched from him, “Do you like video games?”

“As long as we aren’t playing Fortnite.”

“God, no, Fortnite sucks,” Embry says, appalled.

“Then yes.” Ghost smiles at him, and Embry hesitantly smiles back. And then Ghost keeps smiling, because that light, hopeful, terrifying feeling isn’t going away. If anything, it’s getting stronger. And Embry’s smile is getting wider, and those dimples are there, and Ghost would totally sigh about how adorable they are if he weren’t at work and pretending to be a person with, you know, dignity and shit. And then they’re just standing there smiling at each other and they have a date, and Ghost hates Fortnite so fucking much, and as long as he’s with Embry, he doesn’t have to play it.

“You are both so pathetic,” Amy mutters, rolling her eyes, and behind her, the bell dings as a new customer walks in. Damn the whole having-a-job thing. It’s so dumb.

“I have to…” Ghost says, jerking a thumb in the lady’s direction.

“Sure. What time are you done?”

Ghost is technically off the floor at 1:45, which was four minutes ago, but Caro is late, as per usual. Jimmy comes in at 2, so regardless of whatever else happens, the counter will be covered by then. It usually takes him about fifteen minutes to do his side work, but if Caro is going to be late, he figures he can pawn it off on her this once. One minute to get his things and clock out, and another two minutes of leeway just in case he needs a delay of some sort, so…

“2:03,” Ghost says. 

Embry turns pink with pleasure, and it’s only then that Ghost realizes suddenly how precise that time is. How easily he’d calculated his answer down to the minute. He hadn’t even second-guessed how he should phrase that. For Tobias or Church, he’d have said, “Give me twenty minutes or so,” but he’d known, instinctively, exactly what to say here. 

It’s stupid that he gets such a sense of accomplishment over giving Embry something so small that makes him so happy. But Amy’s still waiting by the counter, and the expression on her face is a mixture of gratitude and approval.

“2:03 exactly,” Ghost says.

“I’ll wait,” Embry promises, and sits down in his usual seat. Amy steals a straw from the jar on the counter, unwraps the paper, and starts chewing on one end, drifting over to the table to sit across from her brother, and Embry is smiling at the table, cheeks pink. He is, in fact, waiting. For Ghost.

It’s 1:47pm on a Saturday, and Ghost is pretty sure a new routine is starting.