Free Swap Out by Katie Golding Page B

Makes doing inventory a damn nightmare.
    I get started on shifting around the placement of sofas, careful to keep them separated from the sharp corners of tables that place indentions on the backs and sides. Some people don’t care or realize not all couches get backed up against walls, and if the back looks like shit or has a tear, we can’t use it until I patch it up. Meaning busting out my super manly sewing kit and trying to hide the imperfection. I curse when I see that someone, probably Kevin, set a painting directly on a dinette without placing a buffer blanket between the frame and the tabletop, and I swear, I would fire him if I could. If he scratched it…
    I walk over and lift off the painting, carefully placing it on the floor so it leans against the wall. And when I check the dinette, sure as shit there is a six-inch long gouge right in the center. Zoe is going to freak. She bought this a week ago specifically for a stage we have on Wednesday, and it was the only one in a two hundred mile radius. I run my finger over the scratch and it’s deep but I think I’ll be able to hide it. Hopefully before she gets here and I have to deliver the news.
    But it’s gonna have to wait because the bell on the front door just rang, and it looks like I’m gonna have to deal with whoever is here and tell them Zoe isn’t in yet. I clean my hands off on my cargo shorts to disappear the dust, then grab the towel I carry with me and wipe the layer of sweat off my forehead and back of my neck before it seeps into the collar of my blue work polo, embroidered in white lettering with Zoe’s business name over my heart. I toss the cloth into the break room, then stride up front.
    “Welcome to Pearce,” I say automatically as I round the corner, then stop when I see Zoe.
    She’s a little pale again like she’s had a rough morning, but other than that she looks like her. Her hair down and full, soft waves that look like she spent three hours at a salon getting it done. Lavender silk button up blouse, the collar slightly open and the sleeves turned up, her shirt tucked into black dress pants and a blazer draped over her arm. Her eyes are wide as she stares at me, framed in thick black lashes that make her eyes pop, her soft pink lips slightly parted in shock.
    She’s absolutely stunning.
    “What are you doing here?” she asks, nervously adjusting her purse on her shoulder, and I have to remind myself she doesn’t realize I know the truth.
    Over the weekend it all came back, flashes at a time, but I now remember every word we shared in my bed. How she told me she wanted a family. How she… she took care of me . Texting Scott to come over to make sure I was fine before she disappeared. And I know I didn’t finish that bottle of Jack, but it was empty when I got up which means she poured out the rest.
    She kissed me.
    And yeah, it was only on my back, but it’s the first time her lips have ever been against my skin.
    She was real , and for a moment, we were more than we’ve ever been.
    For a fleeting second, we were together.
    But for all she knows, I’m under the impression we ended in a fight. Me calling her a liar and repeatedly trying to kick her out of my apartment. She may not even know I remember that much. She could think that the last thing I recall was leaving her house.
    I still haven’t decided how much to own up to, so I clear my throat and cross my arms.
    “I’m working.”
    “And what makes you think you still have a job?”
    “Look,” I say and start to walk towards her, “I don’t feel like dancing around this, so I’m just gonna be blunt. I know things ended badly when I left your house Friday night. And to be perfectly honest, I went home and drank. A lot.”
    She looks up at me when I pause in front of her, trying to keep my hands by my sides.
    “Whiskey and I, we don’t mix well.” It’s still the truth, and I almost just tell her everything, but I change my mind at the last minute.
    She