Black Friday. The day after Thanksgiving. Black not so much for sales and shopping but for how my heart feels. Black and blue.

Is it over? Did we break up? Stenn’s been mad before, sure, we’ve had arguments. But he’s never asked for space. What does that even mean? Does “I need space” mean we’re breaking up? Or does it mean I’ll call you later tomorrow when I feel better? Why can’t it mean the stars/cosmos/galaxies kind of space? That’s the kind of space I can get behind. Stenn’s space sucks.

His FB status still says in a relationship. Click, refresh. Click, refresh. Still in a relationship. So that’s something. Maybe this is just a bad fight.

For breakfast, I force down a plate of leftover mashed potatoes and gravy while Mom hovers. She hands me my Zoloft and unloads dishes from the dishwasher as I put my phone, industrial strength lip balm, and a water bottle in my bag, next to the bag lunch I packed last night.

Mom looks at her watch. The woman wears a watch. Un-ironic retro. “Tell me again why you’re going so early?” she says.

“Rosemary’s mom wants to get to the mall, stat. It opened at 5:00 AM or something. Can I have some money?” Soon I will have tons of my own cash, thanks to Roy. But for now I’m still relegated to sponging.

Mom sighs, because I’m such a hardship. “Use your debit card. I’ll transfer money into your account.”

“So you can forget and I can be publicly humiliated when my card gets declined? Again?”

“Text me a reminder.”

“Fine.”

“And text me so I know when to expect you home and whether you will have eaten.”

“I’ll probably be back in time for dinner.” Not that I feel like eating anything. My insides are staging a revolt. Massive. Full-on Rebel Alliance in there.

I bundle up while Ruby wags. How can I possibly take her? Oh, by the way Mom, I’m going to take Ruby and pretend like she’s staying in the car all day but really I’ll be at Mr. Big’s selling trees and she likes it there. Besides, Roy and I have agreed to take turns bringing our pets. Today is Buddy Day.

“I’m sorry, girl,” I say to Rubes. “I’ll walk you when I get home, okay?” She wags her tail and my heart breaks a little more.

I meet Roy at the corner. We’re at Mr. Big’s by 7:30. We set out the wreaths and a sales desk, then dump out the icy water in the washtubs, flipping them and smashing out ice so we can fill them again. I manage to get my feet soaked with the most freezing cold water ever known to man. Roy sees me do it.

He doesn’t laugh or make me feel like an idiot. He just reaches into his pocket and hands me a book of matches. “Why don’t you start the fire.”

I stuff branches in the oil drum and light it up. Thank you, caveman who discovered fire. Thank you, hobo who first used an empty oil drum for a firepit. Thank you, pine needles for exploding into flame.

By noon, half the town has bought trees. Crazy. I don’t get the early buying of Christmas trees. It’s still November, people. But I’m clearly a minority voice. The tree lot is rocking.

I have to admit it pulls me out of my funk. A little.

It’s hard to pout when you’re maniacally busy.

Roy and I spin around like Tasmanian Devils—selling, netting, carrying, tying trees to the roofs of cars. I try to lay low, do the backlot work, but it’s kind of fun to see who’s coming, and when. Families with little kids are the first wave: haggard, tired parents dragged around by little snow-suited munchkins. Mellow older couples drift in around midmorning. Families with teenagers come later—edgy and argue-y. And the wreaths are selling like crazy. Big hit.

Ms. Franklin and Dr. Folger buy their tree/ wreath combos within an hour of each other. I hide in the shed the minute I see Dr. Folger’s car. Rat fink. There is not a chance he won’t remark upon my presence here to the paternal parental. I watch through the crack in the shed door as he pumps Roy’s hand to congratulate him on the booming business.

When Ms. Franklin comes, though, I decide to risk saying hi. Ratting isn’t her style.

At the cash table, she asks me how my Thanksgiving break is going.

“Busy.” And I think I got dumped. But I’m not really sure. I smooth out bills to make change. We are a cash-only establishment. Kicking it old school. “And yours?” I ask.

She tucks the money into her warehouse of a purse. “Hon, this time of year gets busier the older I get. So much to do at home, I hardly have time for work at school!” Conspiratorially, she leans close. “A snow day or two would sure be helpful.”

I put my hands to my mouth. “Ms. Franklin! You’re not suggesting I ask my dad to cancel school. That would be positively scandalous!”

Ms. Franklin swats the air. “Oh, you! I’m kidding. I’m sure your father is impervious to your requests. Although I bet sometimes it’s tempting to try.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” I say. Because she doesn’t.

After three o’clock, the stream of customers dwindles. Roy and I haven’t eaten lunch; we haven’t had time. And now I’m starving. Boyfriend drama or not, work works up an appetite.

“Wow. I can’t believe how busy it’s been,” I say, crunching into an apple and warming myself by the oil drum. Thank Zeus my shoes have dried. Note to self: pack extra socks next time.

“Yep.” Roy has his usual peanut butter and honey sandwich.

“So enough small talk. Let’s get down to business.”

Roy cocks an eyebrow.

“My plan? The favor?” I say. Stenn can ruin my life if he wants, but it won’t stop me from trying to un-ruin Emmett’s. “I figure we’ll get to your—”

Beep. Beep. Beep. I look around. It’s not my phone. I frown at my apple.

“It ain’t your lunch.” Roy pulls something out from a pocket. A pager.

A pager? Do they even make those anymore?

Roy has a pager. Well this is some new information. So he’s not just a tree farmer and a part-time janitor, he’s also a drug dealer. I mean, who else uses a pager nowadays?

Roy presses a button, tilting the pager to read the display. “Goodness. Bad timing.”

“What’s up?” Translation: Do you need to get to your meth lab or what? Is your cook going to explode?

“Looks like I have to go.”

“Really? Now? Where to?”

“Yep. These things don’t wait.” He stands and surveys the lot. “Guess we’ll have to close down.”

“But you might lose money.”

“It’s too much work for one person. It was tricky when you hid in the shed.” He winks at me. Okay. So he noticed that.

Moving right along. “What if someone can fill in until you get back? How long do you think you’ll be gone?” I ask.

“Not sure,” Roy says. “But keeping the lot open would be a big help. I’d pay whoever helps, of course.”

I nod, thinking, but not about the money or the trees. What kind of janitorial business requires a beeper and won’t wait?

“Suppose you’re wondering,” Roy says as he packs up his lunch, “what it is I do… What else it is I do.”

“I mean, if you want to tell me…”

“It isn’t that I don’t.” Roy makes a face, shakes his head like he’s changing his mind. “It’s…complicated. Prefer not talking about it.”

“Your cleaning business?” What do you mean, it’s complicated? How can it be complicated? Someone has a mess, they beep you. End of story. Are you a meth dealer or what?

“Specialty cleaning. People call me when they have…emergencies.”

“I know. Like the deer,” I say.

He nods slowly but doesn’t say anything.

I say, “Or if a toilet bursts? Or someone’s house gets flooded?” I can see how that wouldn’t be able to wait.

Roy is still nodding. “That. And other things.”

“Sounds disgusting.” Nice. Tell the man his job is disgusting. Quickly, I add, “But important. I bet people are really grateful. I know I would be, if you came to help me with a job like that.”

Roy raises an eyebrow. “Appreciate you saying so.” He looks like he’s deciding whether to say more.

Jedi Mind Trick: You want to tell me everything. Keep going.

“Well. It’s not only when a pipe bursts. Sometimes it’s…other kinds of accidents.”

“What do you mean?” The air starts getting heavier. Starts whooshing a little.

Roy is just standing there. “Sometimes it’s—”

“Got it. Stop. Got it.” Oh my God. Like his son and wife? Or worse. Suddenly I have too much information. I cannot—do not want to—hear another word. Not one more word.

His pager beeps again. He thumbs it off, looks at the display. “Really should attend to this.”

“Sure. Yeah.” I stuff my lunch back into my bag. “Let me see if I can find someone to fill in until you get back.” And a bucket to puke into. Because now I’m even more nauseous than I was this morning.

There is a car horn—­a familiar car horn—and I look over, and the need to hurl gets worse.

It’s my dad’s Jeep.