As I peel off the now sweaty ghillie suit, and change into my usual sweater/blue jean combo, my mind continues to race with adrenaline and irritation. Stevie’s ignoring attitude had struck a nerve with me. I know he comes off as a goof sometimes, but he’s

always been there for me when I needed it. Once I’m back in my normal clothes, I exit the trailer, and walk towards the building, ready to talk.

Looking inside, I see Comby. Stevie took some blue spray paint to the cardboard before we taped it on, so Comby looks somewhat like his original self. A rough, royal blue color, split into several jagged lines of black duct tape.

Stevie stands leaned against the small rail buggy, taking a sip of coffee as he observes his notes.

Stevie’s eyes light up as I approach.

"Oh! Blake, good news! Thanks to our little expedition, I have determined that the track is in optimal condition."

I shake my head, baffled.

"You mean we went through almost getting caught by a cult, all so you could come to that simple conclusion?"

Stevie holds his hand up defensively, "Well now hold on Blake, track conditions are important," Stevie starts rambling, "I mean you gotta account for moisture, the degree of the turns-..."

"Stevie, that's not the point. I was telling you about my whole Tia situation, and you weren’t listening."

"What even is the situation Blake?! Like, what is your deal with Tia here, I don't understand."

I pause, dead in my tracks. Stevie’s words seem to only remind me of what I can’t really place into words.

"I want to know what's going on with Tia, and why she's still being odd with me.” I say affirmatively, trying to justify myself.

Stevie gives me an inconvenienced look, "I feel like you're not sharin' the whole pie here."

I exhale loudly, as Stevie's words act as a painful reminder. It clicks like a puzzle piece falling into place. I guess I just have to

Stolen story; please report.

face the facts. No matter how hard I try to push it back, or try to sidestep it, there’s no doubting it.

“I think I still like Tia.”

Stevie crosses his arms, looking down.

"I figured you were gonna say that."

* * *

As I continue to cut the lemon, I find frustration growing. It keeps crawling its way into my head, no matter how hard I try to push it away. Blake’s words from last night ring in my head like a broken record player.

“Tia, if you need to talk, I’m here for you bud.”

“Little late for that now asshole.” I mutter out loud, bringing my knife down onto the remaining lemon wedge. I find myself chopping faster and faster, each slice of the blade becoming more aggressive. Lemon juice coats my hand. My movements are sporadic as I go to cut the final garnish. However as my knife quickly approaches the last piece of lemon wedge, my fingers slip again. The piece of lemon flies out of hand, and the knife slices right into my left palm.

"A- Shit!"

I throw the knife away from me, grabbing my hand in pain. I feel my stomach knot at the sight of the blood already seeping out of the wound. It’s not a deep cut or anything, but it’s long, spanning from the base of my index finger to the bottom of my palm. It stings. A lot. Before I can get any more queasy I throw the sink on, and let cold water wash away the blood. I groan again. I hate blood. Makes me sick. Excess lemon juice drips into the wound, adding to the already painful stinging. I take deep breaths, trying to calm myself.

It’s not working.

After the blood washes away, I wash my hands, and dry them. I grab a paper towel, and hold it over the wound as I enter the kitchen behind the bar.

It’s a relatively small square area, with just enough room to fit the old grill, and some wire-framed shelves, all filled with random stuff. I had pushed the grill to the back, and moved all the shelves next to the door, creating a pseudo-storage closet. The rest is just empty space.

Bottles of syrups, alcohols, and so on fill the tall shelves. No first aid kit though, which sucks. I scramble,

looking for something I can use to wrap my hand, accidentally knocking off a milk crate full of stuff. Its contents scatter across the floor.

There’s nothing in it that can help me though.

I leave the useless room, kicking the doorway in frustration. I grab the towel I’d used earlier, and use some spare napkins to fashion a makeshift bandage. Should hold me till I get to my first aid kit at home. I lock up, and begin my drive home. At this rate, I’ll have to open later than usual. The thought adds to my frustration.