Liquid Feels - Book 3 - DP Series - Complete

33. Show, Don't Tell

It's my first day on the job and it happens to be the coldest day of the year. Walking to the antique shop is the worst seven minutes of my life. I'm bundled from the head to toe—literally.

I arrive before the sun wakes up but the little bell above the door is definitely awake. It rings as if it's been waiting for the opportunity all its life.

Becky must hear me enter because she comes rushing out of the back with a smile on her face. She welcomes me with a warm hug and a gust of coffee breath. She takes me on a small tour of the place, shows me the break room, bathroom, storage room, supply closet, and the back door where trucks come to unload supplies. Once I know my way around, she settles me down with a box of knick-knacks and has me dust them and place them inside a display cabinet.

"Beck!" a voice calls from the storage room a moment later. "Kennedy's here with the table!"

Becky scurries around the front desk and past me toward the back room. My curiosity propels me from my kneeling position on the floor and I follow after her.

"Oh, Kennedy!" I hear Becky say, "It's stunning. You always do such great work!"

I step into the room to find Becky and two men gathered around a handmade dining room set. It's a dark red wood with hints of black slicing through the grains. It's so rustic I'd almost say it looks as if it was cut directly out of a tree. It's flawed in the most beautiful way, the edges curving and bending in a manner that would be hard to recreate.

"Wow," I mutter under my breath, drawing the attention of everyone in the room.

"You like it?" Becky asks, waving me over to get a better look.

"It's amazing!"

We spend the next twenty minutes listening to Kennedy tell us about the type of wood used, how long he worked on it, how he was inspired, and then we all helped maneuver it into the shop, making sure to display it front and center.

By the time I'm done with my shift, we've assisted nine customers and sold two pieces of furniture. I wouldn't say it's the most thrilling job of all time, but it'll help me earn some money and maybe I'll manage to learn a few things along the way.

Before leaving, I re-bundle myself in the mass of clothing I'd walked here in. With my sweater, my coat, my wool socks, and a pair of sweat pants over my jeans, I step back into the chill. I've wrapped my entire head in a fluffy scarf, just like the man who'd been riding his bike past Hank's house on Christmas day. With mitten-covered hands, I fumble with the doorknob until it finally opens.

Barely a soul is on campus, everyone having deserted the place to go home for the weekend, so I inhale the quietness. It's supposed to be a peaceful walk. It's supposed to be quiet, unbothered, and refreshing. But all of that changes when I spot two very familiar people ahead of me. Her hand is looped into the crook of his arm where his fingers are stuffed into his pockets, and his opposite hand is hanging on to the strap of his backpack.

They draw near, barely even acknowledging me as the path they're walking on intersects with mine. They step in front of me, several feet separating us, but I can still hear their hushed tones. She mumbles something about "I still can't believe that happened!" and I overhear his flat response of "I can." My feet stop working and I simply stand in the middle of the walkway, crunchy ice beneath my boots, and wind sneaking through my layers to bite at my skin.

I freeze in place, watching Seth and Cassandra retreat. They're headed in the direction of his dorm, and I wonder if they have plans to spend the day together. The thought makes me want to heave up all the beef jerky and potato chips I had for my mid-morning snack. Even if it's just friendship, it seems like he should know better. He should be creating boundaries, but it looks like he's still encouraging her obsessive behavior.