I’m not very good at this. I got more strawberry jam on my uniform than in the donuts. I’m going to be sticky for the whole rest of my shift.
I’m standing by the sink, scrubbing at the bright red stain with a wet paper napkin when someone says, “Excuse me?”
I turn around and see Colin for the first time since I came back five months ago.
We’re both embarrassed. He clearly wasn’t expecting to see me here any more than I was expecting to see him.
I push my hairnet up off my forehead. He takes a step back from the counter and says, “Sorry. I just wanted a blueberry muffin.”
I nod about seven times. “We have blueberry muffins,” I say. I grab a napkin and turn my back to him. I have to lean against the donut trays to keep my balance.
I realize he’s wearing a uniform too. He must be working as a courier. I guess he has to. I heard his parents lost their house and their business and everything.
He must hate me.
I reach for the biggest muffin there is. As if that’s going to make it up to him. He used to be so excited about going away to university this year, and now he’s stuck here, having to work.
My hand is shaking so much I drop the muffin on the floor.
He says, “That’s okay.”
I shake my head. I put the muffin in the garbage and get another one.
Does he realize I didn’t know anything about it? That my mother didn’t know anything about it either until it was too late?
None of us had any idea Dad was capable of doing things like that. Stealing money. Scamming friends and relatives and helpless old ladies. Faking his own death. Taking off.
“Do you want it heated up?” I say. I’m so ashamed. I can’t even look at Colin.
“No, it’s good like that. Thanks.”
“Butter?” I suddenly want him to stay. His voice doesn’t sound angry at all. Maybe we could talk. I could explain everything to him.
What am I thinking? I couldn’t explain anything to him. I don’t understand anything. Part of me knows my father is a bad man. But another part of me still loves him, still even believes him, despite all the evidence against him.
And what difference does the evidence make any way? Dad may have done all those terrible things, but he turned himself in when he heard Elliot and I were missing, when he thought he could help get us back.
That must be worth something.
I just don’t know how much.
Colin says, “No. No butter, thanks. I’m not playing hockey anymore, so I got to watch the calories.”
He pats his perfectly flat stomach. I hand him the muffin in a little paper bag.
We’re careful not to touch each other.
He puts five dollars on the counter.
“That’s too much,” I say. “It’s only a dollar fifteen.”
Colin shrugs. There’s still a bit of sparkle in his eyes, even for me. “That’s okay. Buy Elliot a treat.”
He almost smiles. Then he walks out the door. I watch him disappear around the corner.
“Come back,” I say—but I know by now he’s too far gone.