Page 10 of Sweet Ruin

He stands there another second, like he’s waiting for something else to happen. When it doesn’t, he leaves. The bell over the door jingles behind him.

Vivian watches him go. Then she turns back to me and drums her nails on my counter.

“Cute,” she decides. “Kinda short, though.”

He was at least six foot one.

“Uh-huh,” I say. “What do you want, Viv?”

“I need dessert.”

“For what?”

“Tomorrow, dummy.” She reaches out and taps me on the temple with one French tip. “The party? At Mom’s house? Christmas Eve? The thing we do every single year because our family is weirdly obsessed with holidays?”

“Oh,” I say dumbly. “Yeah. Right.”

“I told her I’d handle desserts and then I completely forgot, so.” She raps the display glass with that same fingernail. “Guess you’re handling desserts.”

Numbly, slowly, I get a box out from under the counter and start folding it. “What do you want?”

“Whatever’s cute.” She starts roaming down the case, bent over, pointing. “What are those?”

“Cranberry pistachio.”

“Gross. Not those. Those.” She points at the candy cane sugar cookies one rack over. “Those are cute. And the ornaments. The red ones. Those photograph so well.”

“Anything else?”

She straightens up and plucks one of the broken cookies we put out in a sample jar. She takes one tiny nibble, makes a disgusted face, and dunks it in the trash.

“God,” she says. “That’s why I don’t come here.”

“You come here all the time.”

“To see you.” She swallows the molecule of cookie she let pass her lips. “I don’t come here to eat. I would be the size of a house.” She looks at me and then—and I swear she does this without one single thought passing behind her eyes—she says, “Are you eating a lot of these?”

“I’m working, Viv.”

“Because you can tell, a little, in your face. Not bad! Just, like, in the jaw. Like right there.” She squints at me closely. “It’s probably the stress, honestly. Stress does that.”

Yesterday, I would have said nothing.

So, even though I want to say something more than anything, I remind myself that I’m not ready to blow up everything.

Not now.

Not yet.

Therefore, I bite my tongue.

But I need to fill the air with something or I’ll start screaming like a banshee. So I ask, “How’s work?”

She’s looking at her phone. “Hm?”

“Work. How’s it going?”

I leave it vague because I’m not actually sure what Vivian is doing for work these days. She’s never had much of a steady job.