Page 16 of Under Pressure

She used to tell me that her granddaughter would crucify her if she began wearing cardigans and patterned leggings like the old ladies she plays bingo with. I’m not sure this is any better, but I’d never tell her that. She’d have my ass burning from a wooden spoon regardless of her age.

With my nan having passed, Ruthie’s the closest thing to another that I have.

“You’re going to choke at this rate,” she chimes, looking down at the balls of cookie dough she’s weighing out on the counter.

I struggle to swallow the wad of muffin. “Mind your business.”

“I don’t care how old you are, Quinn Archer. I can still chase your ass around this kitchen for a beatdown.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

Christ alive, I sound like a petulant child.

My frustration with myself is too strong to keep hidden, which is why I’ve banned myself from working out front. After nearly snapping the heads off a group of teenage boys who have made it their weekend ritual to come here and clog three tables so they can use the free Wi-Fi, I put myself back here as punishment.

They never buy anything, which rarely bothers me. I am a firm believer that if Blank Page can be considered a safe enough environment for a group of guys to want to spend their weekends here instead of out drinking or doing drugs, I’ve done something right. Sure, they take up a lot of space and are loud enough to annoy the older customers with their laughing and gossip, but who am I to kick them out?

Today is an anomaly. Their loud voices are like nails on a chalkboard.

“Would you like to talk about whatever it is that’s crawled up your ass and built a nest?”

My face draws in. “That’s a disturbing way of saying that.”

“Well?”

I shake my shoulders out and rip a chunk of muffin from the warm centre. “I slept badly last night.”

“Is that so?”

Ruthie turns just enough that she can roll over the silver rack of prepared cookie dough. Her wrinkled hands tremble slightly when she pulls an empty pan free and sets it on the counter. She transfers the rolled dough to the pre-laid parchment, making it crinkle.

“There’s an issue with my bathroom pipes. They keep groaning at night. Maybe during the day, too. I don’t fucking know.”

It’s not a lie. Though the obnoxious pipes aren’t the reason behind my attitude.

“Call a plumber, Quinn. Don’t put it off until you’ve got pipes bursting and you wake up covered in shit water.”

“It’s on my list.”

“Well, move it to the top.”

“Alright,” I say, willing to do just about anything to have her leave this alone.

“The longer you wait, the more expensive it’s going to be,” she pushes, casting me a fierce, sidelong glance.

“I said I’ll do it. I’ll find someone.”

“Good. The last thing we need is the pipes bursting upstairs and the water to seep through the ceiling. We’d be out of business for months with repairs. Not to mention the health inspectors?—”

“Ruthie,” I interrupt with a sharp snap of her name. “I’ll take care of it.”

Her nod is jerky. “Good girl.”

My stomach grumbles again, and I take a giant bite of my muffin, almost finished with it.

“Are you eating enough? Clearly not. You’re fading away, and that muffin will not fill your belly,” she says heavily. Finished with the cookies, she faces me completely. The exasperated look on her face nips at me. “Have I told you that my grandson works in the trades? He may be an electrician, but I’m sure he knows a few plumbers from one of his work sites. Let me finish up here, and I’ll go give him a call.”

Chest heaving and filling with heat, I pop up from my chair and shake my head frantically. The single bite left of my muffin falls to the floor as I quickly eliminate the space between us and grip my wide hips, primed to argue.