Josh would’ve smiled too. He liked Kaylee. He used to like Michael, but there wasn’t a chance in hell that he still did. Not after two days of radio silence.
“I should call him,” Michael told Kaylee, who sat and stared up at him with hopeful interest. They were still in the kitchen, after all, and that was where the food lived. “I should at least text him, right?”
Kaylee’s ears twitched. Her focus never wavered.
He sighed and ruffled her fur, then waved her away. It had been too long. He should’ve called or texted on day one. The next morning at the latest. Now . . . now, he couldn’t call. At least not right now.
Had Josh called? Michael had turned off his phone . . . Shit. He couldn’t remember when, except that it had been dark. Last night? The night before? For all he knew, Josh might have texted or called and left a message, and now he’d be thinking Michael was intentionally ignoring him.
There it was. Proof that Michael was an awful person. God, he had no right to contact someone as nice as Josh—not after leaving him hanging for days.
A hint of anger flickered through his consciousness, aimed solely at himself, but he didn’t have the energy. He sighed down at Kaylee, who was still sitting by his feet, staring up at him, faithful and uncomplaining.
It was too late to do anything for Josh, but he had a responsibility to Kaylee. And to himself.
“Okay, come on, Kaylee,” he said, heading out of the kitchen. He’d been wearing the same ratty sweats for a day and a half, which was a day too long to spend moping. He needed a shower, fresh clothes, and groceries, in that order. The sky outside was still light. If he hurried, he’d make it to the grocery store and back before it got too dark.
He’d think of something to do about Josh afterward, once he proved to himself that he was capable of being a functional adult.
“Okay, look. I know this seems like a lot, but it really isn’t,” Lizzie said, turning the laptop an inch more toward Josh. “First, you’re not looking for outside funding, right? A bank loan, investors—”
“No.” Josh and his dad shared that philosophy, at least. They each had the minimum amount of credit required to establish a credit rating, and that was it. “We’ll handle it all ourselves.”
“Right. So, skip this”—she tapped the part of the screen that discussed funding—“and you’ve only got these six parts to go.”
Josh bit back the urge to tell her exactly what he thought of the word “only” when it came to writing a business plan. Executive summary? They sold bagels. They didn’t have executives. And what exactly did “market analysis” mean? More to the point, how much did it cost to get one?
A little desperately, he said, “Company description. That should be easy enough. We sell bagels.”
Lizzie twisted the laptop away so she could click the link, and Josh’s heart sank when another wall of text appeared. “It’s a bit more than that.”
“Oh my God,” Josh muttered, leaning back to look into the shop. Dee was almost done packing the deli case for the night. No help there. Maybe he could claim the floor was in dire need of a good mopping?
“No, Josh, it’s fine,” Lizzie said blithely, unconcerned with his need to escape. Then again, this meeting had been his idea. She had no reason to suspect he was regretting his decision. “We’ll start here. Tonight, you write up the company description. We can meet in a day or two to go over it, and then we can look into doing a market analysis. We’ll leave the executive summary for last. Once you’ve got everything else, the executive summary really writes itself.”
Why won’t it all write itself? Josh wondered morosely, eyeing the computer, suspicious of this whole mess. “Is this really necessary?” he asked. “We’re selling bagels, not aircraft carriers.”
Lizzie gave him a bright smile. “Trust me, you’ll be thankful once you’re done with it. It’ll keep you on track. Make sure you and your dad are on the same page. Help with marketing later, since you need a whole new strategy, selling to businesses instead of walk-in customers—”
“Okay, okay,” he interrupted, his own smile strained. “Business plan. You got it.”
“Good!” Lizzie closed her laptop and slid it into her bag. “So you’ll do the company description?”
“I’ll”—throw myself under a truck, Josh thought—“get right on it. Just as soon as I lock up. In fact, I’ll let you out.”
He escorted Lizzie to the front door, which he unlocked and held open for her. She left cheerfully—probably because she wasn’t stuck writing this stupid business plan. How had he ended up saddled with doing all the work? She was the expert.
Of course, she was the unpaid expert, at least for this. Expanding Bagel End was well outside the scope of her monthly fee for balancing the books. Josh had tried to hire her for this, but somehow he’d gone from bargaining to “convincing” her to shepherd him through the process instead.
Maybe she’d take a bribe.
For now, he put the idea of the business plan aside and went back to the kitchen. He’d already done most of the cleaning; all that was left was to put away the cleaning supplies and turn off the lights in back.
“I’m heading out, boss!” Dee called from up front.
Josh joined her so he could let her out and lock the door. It took him just a few minutes to close up the shop and get things ready for Dad tomorrow. They were back to their daily routine, with Dad opening the shop and Josh closing.
Back to the usual, lonely normal, Josh thought as he turned off the lights behind the counter. He’d opened yesterday, on the off chance that Michael would show up, but nothing. No visits, no phone calls, no texts. Josh hadn’t even seen him on the street yesterday—and he’d been looking hard enough that he’d cut open his thumb while slicing lox.
The memory made the cut sting all over again. Rubbing a finger over the bandage, Josh did one last check of the shop, then set the alarm and let himself out. The wind off the ocean was cool but not cold, a reminder that the tourists would soon be flocking to the island. He’d have to remember to ask his dad if anyone had dropped off an application. If they didn’t get extra summer help, they’d both end up dead on their feet.
As it was, Josh was so exhausted he made it halfway across the green, walking toward the diner on instinct, before remembering that Dad was at home. Flipping schedules had left them both scrambled and in need of a few good nights’ sleep.
Josh groaned and took a couple more steps, thinking he could pick up two dinners to go, but no such luck. They needed general groceries at home, not just dinner. And while Josh could live with reheated french fries for breakfast, there were no good substitutes for toothpaste.
So he turned the other way and headed back to Bagel End, then past it and around the corner. The small grocery store was halfway down the street, where it shared a parking lot with a mechanic’s station, the island’s only dry cleaner, and the barber Josh still hadn’t visited. It was too late now. Outside summer tourist season, most of the island’s nonrestaurant businesses closed between five and six, like Bagel End. Even the grocery store would only be open until eight. After that, people would have to go down to the south side of the island, where a couple of convenience stores and the all-night laundromat stayed open to cater to college students.
On autopilot, Josh picked up a basket instead of grabbing a shopping cart. Using a cart would encourage him to overload with groceries, and then he’d have to phone Dad to get a ride to the house or pay for a taxi. Toothpaste was a priority, so he went for the health and beauty aisle first, tempted though he was by the freezer case. Maybe on the way out, if he had room in the basket for ice cream.
No. Room in the basket didn’t equate to room in his waistband, and he was not going to turn to food to deal with how mopey he’d been over Michael’s silence.
The buzz of his phone in his pocket distracted him from thoughts of both Michael and ice cream. He switched the basket to his other hand so he could check the caller ID—it was Dad—an
d answer, “Hey. Do we need any other bathroom stuff but toothpaste?”
“I don’t think so, no. Are you picking up dinner?” Dad hinted. He sounded exhausted.
“Yeah. I’ll get something quick. Maybe pasta.” Josh’s bandage scraped against his stubble, reminding him that he needed to shave tomorrow morning. “Do we have stuff to put on cuts?”
Instead of answering, Dad asked worriedly, “Does your thumb still hurt? Do you need to see the doctor?”
“It’s fine, Dad. I used a packet of that antibiotic gel from the first aid kit at work.”
Dad grumbled but let it pass, just saying, “Yeah, pick some up, then.”
Josh nodded, absently searching his way down the row. Shampoo, bodywash, body spray . . . “Hey, do you have your old business plan?” he asked as he reached the toothpaste.
“What?”
“The business plan for Bagel End. Do you have it?” Josh figured it wouldn’t be plagiarism to build on an existing business plan. Maybe he’d have half of it done already. That was a cheerful thought.
“No. What on earth . . .” Dad fell silent, and Josh could picture him frowning and shaking his head. “Why do you need a business plan?”
“Lizzie needs it,” Josh answered before realizing the next logical question would lead to a discussion he wasn’t prepared to have. He focused on scanning the shelves, trying to ignore the tooth-whitening, extended-breath-freshening stuff and find plain old toothpaste.
Sure enough, Dad asked, “What for?”
How the hell was Josh supposed to answer that? He didn’t want to lie to his father, but other than their brief conversation about dog treats, his tentative forays into the “Hey Dad, let’s expand the business” chat hadn’t gone well to date. And now, when they were both tired and cranky, was definitely the wrong time to try again.
“Don’t worry about it. What—”
“Why, Josh?” Dad asked sharply.
Josh closed his eyes for a couple of seconds and sighed. “She was asking to see it, that’s all. No big deal.” He picked up the first package of toothpaste that looked familiar, no longer trying to figure out the cheapest price per ounce, and headed for the far end of the aisle.
Suspicious now, Dad said, “She shouldn’t need a business plan to do the books.”
“Forget it,” Josh snapped, rounding the corner, nearly running down a shopping cart. “Sorry—”
He cut off, the sound of his dad’s voice falling away as his eyes locked with Michael’s across the shopping cart. Michael looked like shit, his stubble inching close to a full beard, dark circles under his eyes. Josh had to glance away—to check for Kaylee, because he couldn’t imagine anything short of losing Kaylee that would make Michael look this awful.
“Josh.” It came out strangled, so different from Michael’s usual, charming, sweet voice.
Fuck off. Not interested. Maybe we should take things slow, just be friends. For two days, Josh had been mentally rehearsing what he’d say to Michael, but what he actually said was, “Are you okay?”
Michael flinched and stared down into his cart. Josh stole a quick look, and his eyebrows shot up at the sight of about twenty pounds of ground beef, a huge package of paper towels, and a box of minibagel pizzas. This was Michael’s idea of shopping?
“Yeah. I’m, uh . . . I feel”—Michael shook his head, still avoiding eye contact—“not good. The burger place . . .”
Josh winced at the utter lack of eloquence. Michael had misspoken a couple of times before, but this felt like he didn’t even know what he was trying to say. “Hey, don’t—” Josh put a hand on Michael’s cart, saying, “It’s okay. It’s fine.”
And to his surprise, it was. Josh had waffled about calling Michael for two days. It looked like Michael had gone right past wavering into full-blown disorganized panic. It was desperate and helpless, and Josh couldn’t be angry about that.
Shoulders hunched, Michael met Josh’s eyes and frowned. “I’m sorry,” he said slowly, as though the words were in a foreign language.
“It’s okay,” Josh repeated, hand sliding along the shopping cart as he took a step closer. He wasn’t ready to forget what had happened, but he couldn’t stand seeing Michael in this sort of distress.
Kaylee apparently shared Josh’s concern; she nosed at Michael’s wrist until he let go of the cart and scratched between her ears. At the first touch, some of the tension melted out of his shoulders. Thank God he’s not alone, Josh thought, watching them.
“Hey, if you . . .” Josh shrugged, trying to figure out a way to word an invitation without crossing over into pressuring Michael. The way he looked right now, one push might make him shatter into pieces. “You can call me sometime, if you want. We can meet up, give lunch another try or something.”
Michael blinked at Josh. “Yeah?”
Josh wouldn’t forget, but he sure as hell couldn’t resist forgiving—not after hearing such hope in Michael’s voice. “Yeah.” But then, because he also had to take care of himself, he gently added, “Maybe we can talk about what happened last time.”
“Yeah. Okay,” Michael said guiltily, staring back down at the contents of his shopping cart.
Josh had to take a two-handed grip on his basket to keep from reaching for Michael’s hand. “I’ve got to get home. Dad’s waiting for dinner. But maybe pick up some actual food for yourself? You can’t live on ground beef and paper towels.”
Michael’s laugh seemed to surprise him. This time, when he met Josh’s eyes, he didn’t seem like he was expecting to get kicked. “Frozen minipizzas don’t count?”
“Remind me to teach you to cook,” Josh said, rolling his eyes. He looked down at Kaylee and said, “Get him home safe. Okay, Kaylee?”
She ignored him until Michael said, “Kaylee, say hi.” Then she stood—she’d been sitting on Michael’s sneakers—and sniffed at Josh’s hand. “Thanks, Josh.”
Don’t touch. Don’t touch, Josh told himself. He scratched Kaylee’s fur, keeping a good half inch between his fingers and Michael’s, and said, “Talk to you soon.”
Then he escaped down the pasta aisle before he could push for more, like a confirmation that Michael would call. Josh’s minimal research on PTSD hadn’t been enough—not by a long shot—but he knew that making demands, especially during a time of emotional stress, would make things worse, not better. Josh had to keep a light, almost delicate touch, as if he were coaxing a skittish deer out of the bushes, a comparison that he was sure Michael would hate. Best not to mention that.
“Josh? Josh?”
That wasn’t Michael. Josh looked around, wondering why the hell he was hearing his dad’s voice, and spotted his cell phone in the grocery basket. Shit. He’d been on a call.
He fumbled the phone up to his ear and asked, “Dad? You still there?”
“Uh-huh,” Dad answered.
Josh winced. “So, uh . . . you heard all that?”
“Yeah,” Dad said more softly. “That sounded tough. Are you okay?”
“Fine. I’m fine.” It wasn’t even a lie. Josh picked up a package of rigatoni and dropped it into the basket with a rustle of plastic. “Pasta okay for dinner tonight?”
“Sounds good.”
“Is plain sauce okay? I don’t feel like browning any ground beef.” If there’s any left.
“That’s fine,” Dad said absently. “Josh . . . was he okay? He didn’t sound all that . . . I don’t know.”
Josh wasn’t going to have this conversation with his dad. Not now, hopefully not ever, but definitely not without more facts. “Yeah. It’s been a long day for everyone. Let me finish up here. I’ll be home in twenty minutes. Heat up the water for me?”
Dad’s pause was just long enough to let Josh know he’d seen through the casual dismissal. “Sure.”
“Okay, then. See you in twenty,” Josh said, and this time he made sure to disconnect the call before he dropped the phone in the basket. He’d made it halfway down the aisle, to the jars of sauce, when
he remembered to check the battery. Twenty percent. He’d been less than diligent about charging the phone, but tonight he’d have to remember. He didn’t want to miss out on talking to Michael again—assuming he called.
What a difference a day makes, Josh thought when he spotted Michael’s warm, easy smile through the locked front door. And wow, he cleaned up nicely. He’d shaved, for one thing, and his polo shirt and dark jeans were a far cry from the T-shirt and ratty jeans he’d worn to the grocery store last night. Even Kaylee looked better, or at least fluffier, as if she’d had a bath.
“You’ve got this, right? Got your keys?” Josh asked Dee as he looked himself over, self-conscious of how casually he was dressed. Sure, his T-shirt was clean, but Michael had some put-together quality that Josh lacked. Never had Josh been so aware of the chasm between townies and mainlanders—a chasm Josh had never even been tempted to bridge until now.
“I’ve got it.” Dee snickered and elbowed him toward the pass-through. “Will you stop worrying? You’re adorable,” she scolded.
Josh’s face went hot. Adorable wasn’t what he was going for, but it was all he had going for him. “Sexual harassment! Hitting on your boss!” he teased, deflecting as he always did. He wasn’t good with compliments.
“Your shift ended four minutes ago, so you’re just some guy who’s in the way. Go.” She shooed him away.
“Okay, okay. Good night. If there are any problems, call my dad.”
Dee let out an exasperated huff. “I know. Good night, Josh.”
Trying not to grin like an idiot, he came out from behind the counter, with Dee on his heels. He unlocked the door and opened it just enough to slip through. “Hey,” he said to Michael, noting the way Michael waved Kaylee back rather than letting her move between them as she usually did.
Michael smiled, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Hi. Sorry if I’m early.”
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