Tom

He couldn’t ride the line for much longer.

Tom leaned on the countertop, elbows numb from the pressure. He hadn’t seen a customer for hours and was starting to wonder why the night shift was even a thing.

Lucy had been distant, which made his shift go even slower. Whatever happened between her and Kat was still causing tension, and even if neither would tell him what happened, it still involved him.

Of course you’d think that.

Tom shook his head; he had a tendency to make things about himself.

In his usual contradictory fashion, he found himself both missing Lucy’s company while also being relieved to have space.

Her interactions with him had become more… direct.

Tom scanned the outside. No one was around.

He slipped back into the office for his bag. He could do some reading to take his mind off things.

But back at the desk, comic pulled from his bag, he was back on the line again.

Holding the latest issue of Witchfinder in his hand, he was thinking about Lucy.

Would it be so bad if she was into him?

She really is. Why not give in?

She was 2 years younger than him to start. Not a good look. Also, she had a future off the island, and he didn’t.

Why deny what you want?

Because it wasn’t what he wanted. He didn’t see her that way…not the way he saw Becks.

He jammed the comic back into his bag.

It was so stupid; he was still holding a candle for someone who’d dumped him more than a year ago. Someone who had left him behind.

If you keep being picky, you’ll end up alone.

He liked Kat, but…

They worked together.

Lame excuse for being afraid. Also, no, you don’t.

The store felt so hot and humid. Less like an oven and more like a compost heap.

What does that make you?

Tom made sure the ovens were off, fumbling with the dials under the flickering lights. The whole place was going to hell. Maybe Sophie should just cut her losses and burn it down.

The oven was off; the lights were fine; it was just anxiety, and he knew how to deal with that.

Making his way back to the front counter, he tried to breathe deeply and exhale slowly. Tried to remind himself that 19 wasn’t the cutoff for figuring your shit out. He still had time.

Do you? How can you be sure?

Tom couldn’t deny his subconscious; he wasn’t sure.

He had go-to reasons not to pursue her, but he liked Kat.

But he hadn’t had a genuine conversation with her about how he felt.

He wanted to pull out his phone and reach out. But what if he overshot?

What would happen if he had those awkward conversations? Hell, he had things to tell them both.

Hey Lucy, I didn’t mean to, but I might have been leading you on. Oh, Kat, I do like you, but I’m too fucked up to pull the trigger.

You’re still in love with your ex and probably always will be.

He wasn’t breathing slowly anymore; the scattered thoughts led to scattered, rapid breaths, and under the irregular light of the store he spiraled.

Of course, he was alone. He had someone, and he fucked it up.

You only get one chance at that, and he blew it chasing anything with a pulse.

His vision was hazy, and he could feel the sweat rolling down his back.

He pulled his bag up like a shield, hugging it tightly against his chest.

Could you imagine if any of them saw you like this?

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a semi parked between the pumps.

Panic mingled with anxiety, and he threw his bag down on the counter, spilling its contents across the surface and onto the floor in-front of the doorway.

“Oh, fer fuck’s sake.”

He scrambled to clean it all up, but he wasn’t fast enough.

As the door chime sounded his discovery, he looked up from the floor to see a familiar trucker walking in.

“Sorry, Sir,” Tom said quickly, “just tidying up.”

“No harm, son,” the man said, stooping down to help.

Tom swallowed his pride and watched as the man gathered his books and items up and piled them on the counter.

“Thanks, I should have it from here,” Tom said, trying to push the panic down and out of his voice.

The man nodded before glancing at the counter.

“Oh, The Fence, is that your Daddy’s pub?”

“What?”

“The Picket Fence.” He said, pointing to a box of matches on the counter. “Obviously, you don’t go there, you’re what, 18? Not that they seem to care.”

“Oh, no, just something I picked up.”

The trucker adjusted his cap.

“Probably for the best; the place is a dump.”

With that, he stepped away to grab some coffee, leaving Tom with something new to obsess about.

That matchbook had been Rodney’s. Why did he have it?

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