Between Now & Never (5 page)

I think about the dealers, what their next move might be.

Would they care if I got away? Would they give up? Hopefully they think I’m no real threat. But I am. I have their voices—their faces—recorded.

I take my phone in hand and locate the SIM tray.

“Do you have a paperclip?” I ask, knowing I’ll need something small to pop it open.

Her eyebrows scrunch together.

“Actually . . .” I say, snagging a pair of earrings from a stand. I poke the end of an earring in the hole of the SIM tray to pop it open. The tiny card falls into my palm. I shove the useless phone back in my pocket.

The employee snaps her gum again, pulling me back. Both of her eyebrows are winged upward now. “What number?”

“Huh?”

She holds up her phone again. “You still wanna make a call?”

I could call Dad. I curse the fact that he had every right to lecture me on drugs and friends. That and Mom’s farewell warning to be safe makes me realize how messed up this is. They’d kill me.

“You know what?” I say. “Never mind. Thanks anyway.”

I grab the neck of my T-shirt behind my head and whip it off with one pull. I grab the shirt and hat from the girl staring at me with wide eyes. “Thanks.”

I walk out, pulling the new shirt on and situating the hat. I toss my old shirt and shattered phone into a nearby can. Walking to the nearest retail kiosk, I hide behind it and peer down the emptying hallway, SIM card in hand. Still no drug dealers. I glance down the hallway behind me, pretending to be immersed in shopping. I reach for the first thing at hand, touching something fluffy. That’s when I turn and realize I’m at a stand of stuffed animals.

“Which one you want?” the employee at the kiosk asks, a Vietnamese lady who has to crane her neck to look up at me.

“Uh,” I stammer, throwing a look around. If I’m lucky, the dealers didn’t see me recording them. But what if they did? I don’t want this SIM card anywhere near if they find me. My eyes settle on a row of potted plants. Do I hide it? Not here. But where?

“I say, which one you want?”

I snap to, redirecting my attention to the lady smiling up at me.

“I’m just looking,” I say, scanning the stand for a polar bear, Lizzy’s favorite. No polar bears. I snag a white dog instead—close enough—and glance behind me again. I give the dog a quick once-over, my eyes settling on a small opening in the seam where part of the stuffing inside can be seen—and I get an idea.

“Actually, do you deliver?”

She looks at me like I’m stupid. After everything I’ve gotten myself into tonight, I’d have to agree.

“What?” she asks.

I hold up the dog. “Do you deliver? You know, like a flower delivery only with a stuffed dog instead?”

She shakes her head.

I pull out a twenty. “You know what, I’ll buy it anyway. Keep the change.”

I start down the hall, tugging the seam in the stuffed animal to make it wide enough. I search right, left. I begin to think I might have lost them for good.

I shove the tiny SIM card inside the dog, wedging it deep into the stuffing. I walk alongside what few shoppers remain in the mall. Blending in. Hiding. I pull the brim of my hat down, glancing from side to side. They’re gone. Gone.

That’s when it all crashes in: the nerves, the adrenaline, the gun, the sprint away from my closest brush with real danger. I grip the dog between my palms and my hands begin to shake.

And here I thought moving to Gilbert would be boring. Ha. Senior year has already thrown out more action than I bargained for and it hasn’t even started. I stretch the muscles in my neck, heading for the nearest exit. And then I see her.

Her smile lassos my attention, dissolving everything else around me. Long dark hair. She blows a strand away from her eyes as she works. She hands something to a customer, her eyes flashing a stunning blue under the bright lights of the mall.

Staying out—and I mean way out—of her life is for the best. Distancing myself from Vic, preventing the inevitable clash. My dad, the FBI agent. Their mom, the convict. But then I remember Vic’s drug dealers, the way they threatened her, and something kicks in, an inborn drive to step in and protect. I curse Vic’s name, sizing him up in my head and wondering how a throw down between the two of us would end.

I almost walk away, but I hesitate. At the very least, I should make sure she gets to her car safely after work. I almost take the first step toward her, but something holds me back. Gut instinct? Or maybe fear that I’ll cause more harm than good. I dither back and forth, unable to make up my mind. Unable to take my eyes off Julianna.

I
hand the lady her chocolates: last customer of the day, thank heavens. “Have a better day.”

She looks up, offers a weak smile. “Thanks.”

Her nose is red, her eyelids a bit puffy. I see this from time to time at The Chocolate Shoppe. Her smile spreads into something more genuine and she shakes her head, like she’s brushing off the last of her tears. “I will.”

This is what I love about working at The Chocolate Shoppe: everyone leaves happier than when they arrived. At least that’s my goal. People don’t walk into a store full of chocolate to check a chore off their to-do list. Emotions drive them in. Excitement on a special occasion, satisfaction after an accomplishment, love at the best of times, cravings at the worst of times, and depression during those worst of the worst of times (ahem).

I heave a deep breath when she leaves, gearing up to close down for the night.

Suz, my boss, steps in from the back. “Here you go,” she says and plops down a few rags and cleaning supplies. “You tidy up the front and then I’ll take care of the rest, okay? You don’t want to miss your bus.”

“Thanks,” I say as she disappears again, and I recall our earlier conversation. Her daughter Ginger and her niece Lily will both be old enough to work here once school starts. What does that mean for me? Fewer hours this year. I slide a jar of sprinkles and a bottle of caramel aside and start wiping down the ice cream showcase, ready to go home. I can’t afford fewer hours, not with Mom in prison and Dad dragging his feet on his projects. Not with Vic stealing money again.

I grit my teeth and reach out for an extra rag, bumping the bottle of caramel in the process. I gasp, my lungs placing all demands for air on hold as I watch the bottle teeter. I lunge for it, but it dives off the other end of the counter before I can reach it, rousing visions of myself on hands and knees wiping caramel from the checkered tile. Missing my bus. Walking home.

“No!” I choke out.

A hand flies in, catching it like it was nothing. I breathe out, amused at the terror spiraling to a halt within me. I grip the counter, catching my breath and feeling like an idiot. But oh, so grateful that I won’t be on my hands and knees tonight.

I look up to find two very green eyes staring into mine. I blink twice.
Green.
Such an unusual, captivating color. Maybe because, in desert Arizona, we don’t see it much.

He smiles, a flash of white perfection that’s enchanting enough to disarm anyone.

“Got it,” he says, one side of his smile lifting into a crooked grin with killer dimples. Dimples are dangerous.

“Thanks,” I say. “I owe you.”

“Rough day?”

I should be offended.
I look like crap, huh? Do I, buddy?
But for some reason, his deep, concerned voice takes the edge off. My brother Vic could be on drugs again, my hours at work are being cut down by half, my mom is in prison, and my dad is being his normal self (enough said). Oh, and in a little over four months I’ll be competing in a—drumroll: look at me now in my chocolate-splattered apron and picture this—
beauty pageant
.

I blow my side bangs away from my eyes and almost laugh. “You have no idea.” I check the clock. Three minutes until closing. “What can I get for you?”

His eyes lock on mine and he keeps smiling that curious grin of his, like he sees something amusing. He gives me a look, a slight arc of the brow like he’s waiting for me to say something. Almost like he’s waiting for me to remember him.

“Have you been in here before?”

His smile broadens, his eyes flashing with anticipation. “No, why? Do I look familiar?”

Something’s definitely funny to him and I’m not catching on. Is he toying with me? He’s supercute with that fedora hat and all, but he’s not my type. At all. Way too clean-cut. Probably shaves first thing every morning and shines his shoes, a bag of potato chips and an ESPN game constituting his highest form of adventure. A jock. Perhaps even a player, one of those dudes who hunts for chicks at the mall. A mixture of irritation and embarrassment rushes in at that thought, making my cheeks burn.

“No,” I say, getting my spunk back on.

My cell phone vibrates in my pocket. I ignore it. It’s probably Trish or Mindy or even Lucas, calling to see if I can hang later. It buzzes again and again.

“Go ahead,” he says.

“No, it’s fine,” I say as it stops. “I should have turned it off anyway. Sorry.”

As if on cue, it starts buzzing again.

He shifts over to the displays of chocolate and puts on a mischievous grin. “No, really, go ahead. I need a minute to decide.”

I peel my eyes away from his dimples and sneak a look at who’s calling.
Vic
. What the weird? Vic never calls. If I hadn’t already ignored four text messages from him within the past twenty minutes, I wouldn’t even consider this.
What if it’s about Mom?

I step back and answer, keeping my voice light, “Vic, what’s up?”

“Jewel, where are you?”

“Work.”

“At the mall?”

Duh, where else?
“Uh-huh,” I say instead. “Everything okay?”

“Uh . . . I . . . yeah,” Vic says, like he’s out of breath, agitated. “Everything’s cool.”

Please tell me he’s not on crack. “Is Mom okay?”

“What—yeah,” Vic says.

“Look, Vic, I gotta go.”

“I’ll come pick you up.”

“What? Why? I’m fine taking the bus,” I say, confused at the undercurrent of concern in his voice. So not like Vic. Maybe he’s worried about the whole dust storm warning that came out. “I’ll see you at home.”

“Be carefu—”

I hang up and turn my phone off, embarrassed. “Sorry, that was my brother.”

“Vic?” he asks.

Good ears. I laugh it off. “Um, yeah. You know, the whole
rough day
thing? That would be Vic.”

“You guys don’t get along?”

I scramble for a light way to sum it up, a bit surprised at how attentive—how bold—this guy is. “Vic’s just . . . trouble. And his friends?”—I let out a little laugh and roll my eyes—“Don’t get me started.
Total
losers.”

His Adam’s apple slides up and down. Usually I’m the one who lets the customers do the talking and vent their frustrations, not the other way around.

“So what do you want?” I ask him. “Are you buying for yourself or someone else?”

“Someone else.”

“Someone special?”

“Mm-hm.”

I pull on a new pair of plastic gloves and ask, “Girlfriend?”

Suddenly I know he has one. He’s gorgeous in a preppy yet rugged sort of way, if that’s possible, and holy Jamaica
,
he’s ripped. I tear my eyes away from the swell of muscles beneath the tight fit of his shirt.

He hesitates, darting a quick look behind his shoulder. “Ah, this is for a girl, yes.”

I can’t help but note his evasiveness. “Not your girlfriend.”

His lips twist up into a cute expression of thought. Man, his eyes are beautiful. “Mm, that’s to be determined.”

“Ah,” I say and throw him a wink for good measure. “Well, chocolates will sway her verdict in your favor.”

“Yeah?” he asks and smiles like I just delivered a hard fact. Man, I’m good at selling chocolate. I sure hope I’m not giving him false hope. But come on, this guy is gorgeous, in a suffocatingly neat-and-put-together sort of way. I picture his girlfriend-to-be, some J. Crew model with perfect hair, coordinated accessories, and a pricey bag dangling from her arm. Yep, she’ll fall. Hard.

“Well, chocolates would certainly sway me.”

“Sweet,” he says and resituates something under his arm. A stuffed animal?

“So what’s her dessert of choice?”

His eyes scan the array of chocolates behind the glass. “Ah . . . shoot, I wish I knew.”

Guys these days. “She likes chocolate, though, right?”

“I sure hope so,” he says, his expressive eyes flashing an incredulous look. “Who in their right mind wouldn’t?”

I like this guy already.

“I sort of just met her,” he offers, all dimples.

“Okay, well, tell me a bit about her. What you know, at least. Maybe I can point you in the right direction.”

He exhales, an almost dreamy look flickering over his face. He’s toast. This chick has him wrapped around her finger.

“Well,” he says, “she’s beautiful for starters. Full of life.”

“All right,” I say.

He gets this faraway look, like a kid staring up at a cookie jar he’s nowhere close to reaching. “She’s got these big blue eyes that are, well,
incredible
. She’s assertive. Tons of spunk.” His gaze meets mine now, the intensity in his eyes reaching right through me. “Yet she’s vulnerable and doesn’t know it, and I think she needs someone to look after her.”

My insides turn to the consistency of melted butter and I realize my mouth is hanging open. I snap it shut. “You should tell her that sometime.”

A dimple accents his cheek before he even smiles. “Maybe I will.”

I clear my throat, channeling my inner creative flair. “Well, you said she’s spunky, so I can almost picture her with a butterscotch lollipop or maybe a mocha truffle. Some maple cashew brittle could be nice, too, something with a little snap. Assertive makes me think she’s used to getting her way and is maybe even borderline bossy, in which case I’d suggest anything
Rocky Road
.” I pause, hoping that wasn’t offensive, relieved when he starts to chuckle. I start laughing, too. “But if you ask me, what any girl needs every once in a while is some good old-fashioned milk buttercream.”

“Perfect,” he says. “I’ll get some of those.”

He checks over his shoulder again, like this girl is going to show up any moment. Is that sweat on his brow?

I bag three of our milk buttercream chocolates. “Does she work here?”

Again he laughs. “Yeah, she does.”

I think through the other girls I’ve seen working down the hall, wondering if I know her. Not that I care. “Anything else?” I ask. “Cupcakes? Truffles? Ice Cream? We do sell our ice cream in tubs.”

He takes off his hat and scratches the back of his head like it will help him think, his biceps bulging in the process. I focus on his face instead, his even five o’clock shadow, thick eyelashes, and the manly jawline that saves him from looking too pretty.

“I don’t know,” he says with a cute twitch of his lips, “I thought I was good at reading people, but you’re giving me a run for my money. I never knew there was so much behind chocolate.”

I smile, a little laugh escaping my lips, aware of the effect that he’s having on me. “I’ve got a suggestion.”

His eyes slide back up to meet mine.

“Ask her what she likes next time you see her. She’ll appreciate it.”

His crooked smile returns, a trace of humor twinkling in his eyes again. “All right, I will,” he says. “What do
you
like best?”

I get this a lot, and I tell every customer the same thing. “Our white chocolate Bordeaux can’t be beat. I also love our milk chocolate chew and, above all—I should be ashamed to admit this—the Rocky Road truffle.”

This receives a weakly restrained burst of laughter from him.

I laugh, too, humbly aware of my rocky road, feisty personality. “Oh, and if that’s not enough, I must say that I do appreciate these German chocolate cupcakes because I spent a good hour frosting them.”

“You
made
those?” he asks, visibly impressed.

I nod. I can’t lie; his reaction means a lot. Baking is an art, one that is consumed all too quickly.

“Well then, I’ll take it all.”

“Come again?”

“Everything you listed,” he says. “I’ll buy it all.”

I get to work boxing up all of my favorites, eyeing the clock. Five past nine. I steal glances at him every now and again, absentmindedly noting little details and making inferences. Brand-name shirt.
He’s rich
. The dignified set of his jaw and his sturdy bearing.
He’s confident
. The stuffed dog under his arm.
He’s sentimental, or maybe plain weird.
The subtle shine of perspiration on his forehead.
He’s worried
.

That’s when I notice a tag still hanging from the back of his hat. Did he steal it?

I ring his purchases up at the register, keeping one protective hand on the over-thirty-dollars of chocolate until he whips out the correct dollar amount in cash and pays. I relax, telling myself off for being so guarded.

I hand him his bag and smile. “Have a good night.”

I force myself not to watch him leave. We girls fall hard, and I hate it. Cute, charming guy comes along, makes us laugh, and we’re still thinking about it hours later. I grab my rag and start cleaning, completing five circular motions before noticing he hasn’t budged. I look up.

“Ah,” he stammers, looking around the store before throwing his killer smile back on full display. “Do you want some help?”

“Huh?”

He laughs, his timid chuckle petering out as he gestures to the store in general. “I was just wondering if you could, you know, use some help cleaning.”

I stare at this guy, at his bag of chocolates and stuffed dog, trying to figure out if he’s for real. And why he’s still here. Whatever his reason, I have less than twenty-five minutes to finish up and catch my bus.

“Sure,” I say, highly amused as I retrieve the broom.

He gets to work. Suz walks up, her eyebrows pulling together as she spots the random hot guy sweeping our floors. She throws me a curious look. I shrug and so does she. Everything is tidied up a few minutes later. I bid Suz good-bye and walk out behind the guy.

“Thanks for the help.”