My first job of the day was to run items to whatever properties had requested them since end of business the day before. I grabbed the list from where we kept it, on a clipboard on the door, and got busy getting what I needed.
As always, lots of people wanted more towels. Someone needed a bathmat. A smoke detector was beeping for new batteries at one house, multiple light bulbs had blown out apparently simultaneously at another. In other words, nothing very surprising until I got to the end of the list, where I saw this:
Functioning, high-end brand-name toaster oven with temperature-adjust feature and varied toast doneness options. Only new from box acceptable. ASAP!
Even before I ran my finger across the page to the column listing what houses requested what, I knew what I would find opposite this item. Sure enough: Sand Dollars.
Sighing, I propped open the back door, stuck my bag and biscuit in my car, then doubled back for the towels and everything else. Then I went to my mom’s office for further instructions. I found her on the phone, sipping at her fountain drink.
“No, she wouldn’t tell me,” she was saying. She listened for a moment. “Of course I did. But—”
“Mom.”
She clapped a hand over the receiver, a guilty look on her face. “Oh, Emaline, hi. Yes?”
“That’s Amber,” I said, nodding at the phone. “Right?”
“You know what, it is,” she said, like this was such a crazy coincidence. “We were just touching base about, um . . .”
I held up the list, mostly to spare us both whatever excuse she was scrambling to come up with. “What’s the story with the toaster oven on here?”
“Sand Dollars?” she asked. I nodded. “I have a call in to the owner. If it needs to be replaced—”
“It’s brand-new,” I said. “I unpacked it myself.”
She shrugged. “Could be a lemon. It happens. On vacation, people need their toast.”
“I’ve dealt with this client plenty,” I told her. “I’d bet you big money it’s just not up to her standards.”
“Well, she is paying ten grand a month,” she pointed out.
“Then she can afford her own high-end, temperature-adjusted, varied-doneness toaster oven. We shouldn’t have to cater to her every freaking whim.”
Through the speaker of the phone, I heard Amber say, “Someone’s in a bad mood.”
“I’ll send maintenance over to check the current machine,” my mom said, sliding her hand to cover the receiver. “Okay? And then we’ll go from there.”
“I’ll do it,” I said, turning on my heel. “It’s just stupid, is all I’m saying.”
“You know,” my mom called out, as I walked away, “maybe you’d be happier doing reception today? I can send Rebecca to—”
I waved her off, shaking my head. Dealing with Ivy and her appliance standards was in no way ideal. But being stuck at a desk, a sitting target for everyone’s curiosity, would be much worse.
I got into my car and cranked the engine, then pulled out onto the main road, headed towards the Tip. I’d gone about a block when I saw a familiar figure loping in a very familiar way down the shoulder ahead. I pulled up slowly, waiting until I was right behind Morris before leaning on my horn, hard. Anyone else would have leapt right from their skin, but true to form, he didn’t even jump.
“Hey,” he said when he turned and saw me, all casual, like it was common for people to try to scare him to death during rush hour on a weekday. “What’s up?”
“You want a ride?”
He considered this, like he actually preferred walking, before saying, “Sure.”
I unlocked the passenger-side door, he slid in, and I eased back into traffic, neither of us saying anything for a moment. Finally, as we came up to a stoplight, he noticed the take-out box, sitting in the center of the dash. “That yours?”
“Luke’s,” I told him. “A biscuit from Last Chance.”
“Huh.”
Another silence. Traffic was really moving slowly. I said, “We broke up this morning.”
I felt him look at me. This seemed to warrant actual surprise. “For real?”
“Think so. There’s some other girl, apparently.”
He directed his gaze forward again. “From here?”
I shook my head, then swallowed. “Nope.”
We drove on a little farther, then had to merge left around some construction cones. As we did, the biscuit box slid a bit down the dash, the Styrofoam making a squeaking sound. Morris and I both watched it until it hit a vent, which stopped it.
“I’m so stupid,” I said, embarrassed suddenly by the catch I heard in my throat. “I don’t know why I’m still carrying that around. He didn’t even want it. I need to just throw it away.”
Morris considered this as we pulled up to a yellow light that was turning red. Then he reached forward and grabbed the box, unwrapped the biscuit, and stuffed the entire thing in his mouth, dispatching it with about three chomps. After swallowing, he crumpled the paper back into the box, threw it onto the floor at his feet, and said, “Asshole.”
For some crazy reason, it was this—not the breakup itself, not the shock afterwards, not even Margo’s kind words—that finally made me cry. The tears just came, blurring all the brake lights ahead. “Morris,” I said.
“Cheating, no-shirt-wearing loser,” he added, looking out the window. “He’s a punk.”