After school, I head to work and find that the evening is helping clear my mind. We are unusually busy for a Tuesday, and I am grateful for it. I’m lost in my work, and I’m happy that Mill’s is getting some much-needed business.
The bell rings out, and I look up to greet our next customer but freeze when I see Natasha and Everett walk in. What are they doinghere? In all the time I have worked here, they have never come in together.
I plaster on my customer service voice, take a deep breath and remind myself that he is just another customer. “Hi. What can I get for you?”
Natasha’s eyes are full of disdain. Everett is just staring at me, like he is imagining me in all sorts of compromising positions. Like his ex-girlfriend isn’t standing right next to him, probably plotting my murder.
And even though no one is looking at her, she answers. “I’ll take a small sugar-free caramel macchiato, with extra caramel drizzle, and Everett…” She places her hand on his bicep, clearly staking her claim, but he shrugs her off. “He will have a—”
“Nat, I can order for myself, once you’ve paid for your drink.” His tone isn’t mean, but it doesn’t allow for her opposition either. He will make a great politician if he decides to follow in his father’s footsteps.
I can’t help but smirk at her shock as I type in her order. And who orders a sugar-free drink with extra caramel drizzle? Doesn’t that defeat the purpose?
She pays and steps to the side, keeping her glaring brown eyes on me.
“Coffee, black, with a dash of heavy cream please.”
I quickly glance up with surprise.
“Good choice, but it’s better with cinnamon on top,” I say, because it is.
He flashes his dimple at me with that smirk. “Okay. Coffee, black, with a dash of heavy cream and cinnamon on top, please.”
He pays, and when he slides his signed receipt back to me, I notice a little note.
Why are words difficult around me, Leo?
—Ev
I pocket the receipt. When I hand him his cup, I make sure to turn it so my reply that I wrote on the cup is facing him.
You fluster me.
—Leo
I make sure he reads it. I can tell he does because his eyes meet mine and they have a mischievous sparkle to them. As if flustering me was his goal and he just hit his target. I can feel my blush creeping up my cheeks. I cover my message with the sleeve of the cup and thank him for coming in.
But as giddy as I feel over our little exchange, I can’t help but wonder why he was here with Natasha. They left as soon as they got their drinks, and my mind races with all the things they could be doing. Is he back with her?
I let out a sigh and remind myself that it’s better this way. As excited as my little heart gets over the idea of being involved with Everett, my mind is quick to remind me that I cannot and will not get attached to him.
As my shift draws to a close, I do a mental checklist of everything I need to do when I get home. Start dinner, fold laundry, catch up on homework, clean up, and then shower and go to bed. I am grateful for busy shifts at work because Mill’s deserves the business, but it means I can’t get my homework done, so it will be a long night.
When I get home, I see Mom getting ready for work with thick layers of makeup and scant clothes.
“Make sure you clean up this mess before I get home in the morning,” she slurs as she opens the fridge. “What the fuck? Where is all our food? Is your fat ass eating it all?”
She loves to comment on my weight when she is about four sizes larger than I am. IwishI was bigger than her. It would be easier to fight back.
She stumbles, and I can’t help the reflexes that reach out to help her. Stupid reflexes. She pushes me off her and slurs, “Don’t touch me.”
“I’ll pick some stuff up tomorrow. Come on, Mom. Sit here, and I’ll make you some mac ‘n’ cheese.” She moves to the chair with as much grace as a baby giraffe and starts making her calls. I listen to her plan out her night with her men as the noodles cook.
She has a few regulars she sees on Tuesday, but it sounds like a pretty slow night. She drives into the city each night to conduct her business. The city offers more business than our small town, but she still has her regulars here too. I know she shouldn’t drive intoxicated, but the few times I tried to stop her, she added more scars to my collection. Mom doesn’t like being told what to do. So, I don’t try anymore. Sometimes I think it would be better if she didn’t makeit home one night. But then I think about the lives she could take by driving drunk. Shame fills my gut because I don’t do more to try. Call me selfish for not trying harder; I call it surviving. I couldn’t take more, knowing it would be more pain for something that wouldn’t stop.
I serve her a bowl and sit down with my own while I start my homework.
“Don’t eat it all. I’m going to want more when I get home.”
