Chapter 8: The Counter Break
I came back inside and the bell over the door sounded too loud.
My hands were still hot from holding my phone too tight. Ethan had moved to the far end of the counter, near the register where the lunch crowd never sat because the fluorescent light buzzed there. He'd stepped back inside without me hearing him, and he stood with his hands at his sides, not touching anything, like he was trying to take up less space in his uniform.
"You didn't have to come back in," I said, and my voice came out thinner than I wanted.
He looked at me. "You left your towel."
It was still where I'd dropped it, folded over the metal edge. The letter was tucked underneath it in my apron pocket, and I could feel the corner of the envelope pressing against my hip every time I moved.
I went behind the counter because I didn't know where else to go. Linda was at the grill and she didn't look over, which told me she was listening to everything. I reached for the water pitcher to do something normal with my hands. My throat was dry. I grabbed a glass from the rack, poured too fast, and my elbow hit the stack of clean glasses beside it.
The glass tipped before I could catch it.
It didn't shatter. It slid off the metal counter and hit the rubber mat on my side, then bounced once and rolled. Water went everywhere, across the counter, down the front of my apron, over the edge where the towel was. The towel soaked through instantly and the weight of the water pulled it down.
And the envelope came with it.
Both of them landed on the floor on his side of the counter, right by the toe of his tan boot. The towel landed with a dull wet slap. The letter slid half out of the envelope, white paper showing, my handwriting visible for a second before it settled.
I froze with the empty pitcher in my hand.
Ethan crouched. He didn't lunge. He bent at the knees the way they'd taught him, back straight, and picked up the towel first. It dripped. When he lifted it, the envelope lifted with it, stuck to the damp cloth for a second, then fell again. The letter inside slipped further out, maybe an inch, creased where I'd folded it twice to fit in my apron.
He could have pulled it. He was holding it. His thumb was right on the edge of the paper.
He didn't.
He shook the water off the towel once, folded it in half, and set the envelope neatly on top of it in his palm. He didn't open it, didn't turn it over to read the front. He just held it out to me across the low metal barrier, his hand steady, his eyes on my face and not on the paper.
"Here," he said.
I set the pitcher down too hard and water sloshed onto the counter. I wiped my hands on my apron even though the apron was wet, then reached over and snatched both from him. My fingers closed around the envelope so fast I crumpled the corner. I shoved it back deep into my apron pocket and pressed my palm over it like I could keep it there by pressure.
The towel was damp and cold in my other hand. It left a wet mark on my palm.
"You didn't look," I said. It wasn't a question but it came out like one.
He straightened slowly, his boots quiet on the mat. "No."
"You could have. It was right there."
"I know."
He said it plain, no edge to it. He slid his hands into his pockets and then took them right back out, like he remembered he wasn't supposed to do that in uniform. He glanced down at the puddle spreading near his boots.
"I was going to read it anyway," I said, and my voice caught. "It's mine."
"I know it's yours."
Linda turned the grill off with a click that was too sharp. I felt her eyes on us and then she busied herself with wiping down a tray she had already wiped down.
Ethan didn't look away from me. A drop of water fell from the counter edge and hit the floor.
"Do you want me to pretend I didn't see it?" he asked.
I clutched the damp towel tighter. The terry cloth was bunched and dripping between my fingers. "I want you to not have seen it at all."
"But I did," he said. "And I didn't open it."
For a second I couldn't answer because the honesty of it hit me harder than if he'd just read the thing. He'd had every reason to. I'd lied to his family. I'd been planning to leave. The letter was right there in his hand and he gave it back.
I tucked the wet towel against my stomach, both hands around it now, like it could hide the shape of the envelope in my pocket.
May you like
"Thank you," I whispered.
He nodded once, small. He didn't ask what it said. He just stood there at the end of the counter, water pooling around his boots, waiting for me to decide what to do next.
