Page 34 of Bronson

“Ain’t nobody happy,” I echo.

The door opens and we muffle our laughter, arranging our faces and bodies into the perfect saleswoman posture. I have a lot riding on today—Hank is scheduled to start on the bathroom renovations Monday.

Ten o’clock comes. He doesn’t come out… The latte he’d left on the counter is gone. I’m feeling a bit peaked.

Eleven o’clock comes. I am with a customer when he finally emerges. He’s briskly making his way out the door. His eyes are avoiding me. I ignore the queer feeling in my stomach. Half an hour goes by. He’s back, and he’s returned with my usual breakfast. He delivers it to me with a tight-lipped smile. He doesn’t stay to chat and eat my cantaloupe.

A shocking disappointment washes over me.

But I have a date tonight. With a nice, smart boy who⁠—

Why am I calling him a boy? Peter’s probably the same age as Bronson. But next to Peter, Bronson seems like such a… man.

Bronson’s decisive. Assertive. Protective.

Dominant.

Peter is… nice.

As if reading my mind, Alice elbows me, lifting a piece of toast from my plate. “So who’s the lucky guy?”

I pretend to be hungry, though my appetite has left me. I pick up the fork. “Peter Dobbins. A teacher from Buffalo.”

She takes a bite of the toast and licks the butter from her finger. “Oh, I adore men who teach. Such sweethearts.”

Sweethearts.

“Yeah,” I agree. Piercing the egg with my fork, I twirl the bite on the white plate.

“Where’s he taking you?” she asks, nibbling at the bread.

“Dunno. He’s meeting me here when I get off work.”

Her eyes light up. “Goody! I’ll get to meet him.”

“Sure,” I say. I put the fork on the plate. “He’d like that.”

She picks it up, polishing off the eggs as she makes light chatter about Peter. Where was he born? How did I meet him? What color eyes does he have?

He was born in New York, like me. He’s the grandson of a patient at the home. His eyes are blue. Light, translucent almost. Friendly eyes.

Not deep brown, almost black eyes that burn like coal.

I sneak a glance at the office door. Closed.

“Um, Paige?” Alice’s voice draws my attention back. “There’s someone at the front door.”

“Peter?” I go to greet him.

He stands by one of the cases, a friendly smile on his open face.

“Hi!” I smile back. “What are you doing here?”

“Just stopped by to tell you I’m excited to take you out tonight.”

There’s a sharp gasp behind me. Alice. She practically pushes me out of the way. “Isn’t that the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard! Let me meet your mystery man, Paige.”

She stands before him, hand held out. “Alice.”