Read Future Perfect for Free Online Page B

here and have hated every day for the entire year following.
    I am kneeling in the pass-through, picking up big chunks of glass when Laura bumps up against me with a dustpan.
    â€œThank you,” I say, taking it from her. She doesn’t need to work, but she likes it. Her father had the idea initially. Gain a sense of responsibility and structure, he said. Get a feel for the realworld outside her head and her grand schemes and something else about her ability to develop practical skills that would stand her in good stead, and maybe also a distraction from the divorce and the fact that he and her stepmom are never home. She claims she doesn’t understand why her father wasn’t happy when she decided to come keep me company instead of taking an internship with his law firm.
    Nancy, the owner for twenty years, decorated this restaurant in “nautical,” which somehow translates to heavy wood tables and wood paneling and anchors draped with nets on the wall and a giant mounted swordfish that looks worried about the state of the world and bumps softly against the wall as the breeze rattles through. I love this place because none of the kids in town, or their parents, ever show up here. Though they would tip better than the regulars we do get. Laura loves this place because she admires a commitment to a theme and our customers’ dedication to routine.
    She is frowning at me and she shakes her head. “Okay. So. What is with you?” she says. “What’s going on? Are you okay? You’re all—” She waves her hands around her like she’s going to catch the words buzzing by her head. She sits down next to me on the rubber mat. “Seriously,” she says.
    â€œYou’re sitting in a puddle,” I point out. “And you’re going to cut your butt on glass. And you’re going to piss Nancy off if she catches you.”
    She waves that away. “Nancy is worried about many things and I can’t do anything about any of them because I am not responsible for her well-being.”
    â€œYou’re responsible for the sourdough,” I say.
    She sighs. “I am responsible for the sourdough.”
    â€œWith great sourdough comes great responsibility,” I say.
    â€œDon’t make jokes. You make me nervous when you make jokes.”
    â€œIt wasn’t funny?” I say. “I thought it was funny.”
    â€œYou make jokes when you’re upset,” she says. “You try to distract me.” She peers at my face, and I look away, finish sweeping up the wet glass, and drop it into the bin. She’s still sitting on the floor, looking up at me, and I can’t help sitting back down next to her. She smiles at me.
    â€œI am tired of bringing more sourdough bread to the Monroes,” she says. “They don’t even wait until they’ve finished the last basket. It’s like they’re afraid someone else will order it first and then they’ll be shit out of luck and their entire day will be ruined because a day without sourdough is a day without sunshine.”
    I snort, and she laughs. She reaches out and pats my head, tucks the piece of hair that always flies out of my ponytail back behind my ear. She is always grooming me like she is a mama cat, and I find it strangely soothing. “You sure you’re okay? Everything is well and good and right?”
    I nod. “Do you want me to take the bread to the Monroes?” I haul myself back up and wipe my hands down on my apron. “How does this place get so filthy?” I wash my hands at the bar sink, squirt soap onto Laura’s hands when she holds them out for me.
    â€œWhat are you doing after work?” she says. She sniffs her hands and makes a blargh face. “I hate this stuff. It smells like a hospital died.”
    â€œFood to dad. Dogs. Homework. Another midterm tomorrow and then the party.”
    â€œOh yeah, I should study for my history