Friday arriveswith perfect weather and catastrophic timing.
The pastry display case is the problem.
It's beautiful—three-tiered glass, vintage-style brass hardware, what all my dreams are made of. It's also the size of a small car.
The delivery guys are bringing it through my front door right now, and Tom's bar is twenty feet away with a clear line of sight to my entrance.
"Back room," I tell them. "All the way to the back, against the far wall, next to the … just back there, please."
The delivery guys are halfway down the hall when Tom walks through my front door.
Jesus. Just my luck.
My heart rate picks up as though I just got caught doing something I shouldn't. I move instinctively to stand in the hallway with my arms slightly extended, trying to block a line of sight without appearing to block a line of sight.
Tom stops, lifts a thick eyebrow at me, and looks past me at the display case.
"Parking lot's blocked," he says. "I need you to move the truck. You're on my space."
"Give me thirty minutes."
"Too long. I need to leave now."
We stare at each other. I'm very aware that I'm standing in a defensive position in my own hallway, and he's very aware that I'm standing in a defensive position in my own hallway.
His eyes go to the display case again. The delivery guys are trying to move it around the corner, and there is no universe in which this looks like anything other than exactly what it is.
"That's a pastry case. Beth has one," Tom says.
"It's storage."
"It has tiered glass shelves and an electric plug."
"For storing things at different heights. The plug is decorative."
Oh God. I've committed to a position and cannot back down from it even as it collapses in real time around me. Nana would be equal parts proud, impressed, and horrified.
One of the delivery guys says, "Where do you want this again?"
"Back room," I say, not breaking eye contact with Tom. "All the way back."
"You're hiding something," he says.
"I'm storing something."
"In the back room."
"I don't know what you do with your supplies, but that's where storage normally goes."
He's quiet for a long moment, and I absolutely hate how I'm suddenly on the spot. My defenses are up, and I'm all ready to pounce when he nods once. "Move the truck. I need to get through."
I palm my chest twice trying to calm my racing heart. And fail.
Here I am, surrounded by Nana's rock memorabilia and my increasingly elaborate lie and the growing certainty that I cannot sustain it much longer. The effort it takes is not worth it. I’m spending more energy trying to cover up than actually preparing the cafe.
I sit on the floor between the two realities—the lie in front, the truth in back.
I think Nana would have opinions about Tom that I would find inconvenient.