Page 26 of Between the Lines

“It’ll fit,” she grunts, regripping the lumpy bag and pushing with all her strength until the car bounces. The bag barely squeezes in when she slams the trunk shut and grins triumphantly at me. “Ha! See, that’s why I’m the manager. Persistence is key.”

“Yes, your packing skills are why I hired you,” I mumble to myself, but Fia glares sideways at me.

“Anyway,” she proceeds, “I’m almost done, so if you want to just wait out here, I’ll be maybe twenty more minutes.” She turns and trots up the porch steps.

I follow her. “I’m not sitting in my car while you pack in the fucking heat.”

“Caden, seriously, you’ve helped me enough.” She pops her hands on her hips.

I sidestep cardboard boxes as she walks through the propped-open front door. Her cat lounges lazily on the oak stairs in the foyer, tail swinging back and forth.

Fia pauses next to a box.

“By the way,” she begins, “when you have time, I’d like to talk about loan payments. I calculated what I can pay you monthly, and it will take some time to pay back twelve thousand dollars, but—”

I cross my arms, cutting her off. “Let’s just get you moved, then we can discuss that.”

She grumbles, and I don’t miss the roll of her eyes.

She is very feisty outside of Good Grinds, where she’s always professional and overly kind. I’m not upholding professionalism myself, though, as I stand in her house half naked.

“Fine, follow me then,” she instructs flatly, and I snap out of it, walking into the kitchen. The cabinet doors are all splayed open, half-packed boxes line the floor, and a coffee maker sputters in the corner. Honestly, it looks like she got robbed.

“You can take these coolers. They are full of Daisy’s food . . .” She trails off, distracted by the contents of another box, so I grab the cooler.

“It’s not like I’ve had a lot of time to prepare,” she blurts out, unprovoked. “Plus, I know they are containing the remediation to the second floor, but I’m sure it will be a mess, and I don’t want to come back once they begin.” She pauses, looking around at the various items near her feet. “So I’ve got to bring everything, just in case.”

I shrug. “I’m not judging you, Fia.”

“Right, I just—” She stands up straight, running a hand through her hair.

That’s when it hits me how tired she looks. Honestly, I don’t know how she does it all—and it’s not my place to know. It’s my place to make sure she is able to keep showing up.

That’s why I’m here.

I haven’t crossed a line.

She grabs a box of cat toys and food and follows me to my Jeep.

I stack everything neatly, but Fia marches up beside me, tossing in a bag, ruining my perfect Tetris setup. When her elbow brushes mine, her eyes snap up.

“Your car’s a mess,” she remarks bluntly.

“Well, isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black,” I mumble, rearranging the trunk.

“It’s just, the other day when you gave me a ride, I was a bit surprised.” She cranes her neck to look inside my Jeep. “No offense . . .”

“And what exactly were you expecting?”

Her nose crinkles. “An obsessively clean car with everything in order. Like your office.”

“Well, I make different rules for the different parts of my life. Especially things I love,” I spit out before it registers how stupid I sound.

Her eyes linger on me for a beat.

“So, what, you’re in love with your car or something?” she asks, laughing to herself.

My jaw ticks as I square off with her. “The coffee shop—my office—is business. It requires structure, systems, and precision. This”—I lean on my Jeep—“is for joy, for surfing. It’s supposed to be messy. Different rules, Hanson.”