How He Broke My Heart

Chapter 10

Tuesday, I wear my swimsuit to work under my clothes, planning on walking down to the beach during my break. No, I don't plan on snaking my way through the crowded side, I prefer the hidden side. There is a small, forgotten portion of beach on the other side of the large dock. It is a very shady place where I used to find a majority of my shells. Since the sun doesn't hit it very well, people have rejected it like some brace-face, chubby, pale, pimpled, four-eyed, thirteen-year-old girl. Nobody wants to go to the middle school dance with her—I speak from experience. I wasn't the most beautiful thirteen-year-old girl. It wasn't until the next year that puberty actually struck me in a wonderful way.

Brandon is in, as usual, not Sally, though. Sally is on her way into the city for a few days, leaving Brandon with the keys and with the title of 'temporary manager'. I heard the two laugh about it yesterday. They have conversations that I don't feel brave enough to join into.

As I hang back by the register, I watch Brandon as he helps two girls—maybe two years younger than me—with their shirts. The blonde one chose the dolphin transfer and the black-haired one chose the Hawaiian flowers. When Brandon is finished pressing the shirts, the pair walks over to me while glancing back at him. "Is that all?" I ask.

"Yeah, that's all," the blonde mutters, placing her coffee down on the counter.

"Oh, look, keychains," the black-haired one points out before digging her fingers through. "Is there a flip-flop one?"

I lean forward, my torso pressing against the counter, stretching myself all to find the flip-flop that's buried at the bottom. I've seen it when picking up the clear container to clean the counter. The little sign promises a variety of starfish, surfboards, flowers, but of course, she wants the rare flip-flop. No one ever wants the surfboards. Only a preteen boy made his mother buy one so he could add it to the collection of keychains on his school backpack. And before I notice, the blonde elbows her coffee when turning and the not-so-fastened lid pops off.  Hot coffee pours across the counter and seeps into my shirt, burning my skin.

The thing was full, probably full because I was still too hot to drink. Damn it.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" I blonde cries, triggering Brandon to come over. He steps behind the counter, moving in my place so I can steal a shirt from the back and take the coffee-drenched one off. The girls look pleased to be dealing with him, though.

I shut the back door behind me and squat down at one of the open boxes of black shirts. I grab an extra small men's shirt and toss it onto the table, ready to take off my shirt when I notice a small box beside the transfer shelf. I take it and open it, finding a new transfer design inside. It's a sunset, but not like my signature sunset. This one is more red than orange, and it doesn't melt down into anything. I take the stack out anyway and place them into an empty cubby before discarding the box onto the small pile of boxes that need to be taken out to the recycling bin outside.

After that is done, I yank off my shirt and drop it to the table, taking the fresh black one. The new shirts always feel stiff. All of my shirts feel worn in.

I turn around swiftly when the backdoor abruptly opens. My eyes widen at the sight of Brandon. His eyes fall down before returning to my own. "I'm sorry I thought—"

"It's a swimsuit," I say before he can completely back out of the doorway. Suddenly the air around me feels cooler against my bare skin as if he's doing it himself. A foreign breed of silence falls between us as he stands in the door frame and as I stand, making no move to put the clean shirt on. He looks at me as if he's waiting for it to happen. I can hear his thoughts: put on the shirt, Emma. Put on the damn shirt. But I don't want to—this is the closest I've been to him since the uncomfortable party Friday.