“I’m guessing that’s a big part of it, actually.” Nomi smiles wryly beneath those cat-eye sunglasses as she navigates us downtown. “Let it be a lesson, Julian. When you keep your judgmental opinions to yourself, people respond positively to you.”
“That’s what being a doctor is, though. Observing a person’s problems and telling them how to solve them. If their problems stem from their own behavior, I can’t pretend otherwise.” I fold my arms. “If they dislike me for it, so be it.”
“Okay, but hear me out: What if being a doctordoesn’tmake you an all-knowing god?” Nomi’s eyebrows rise over her sunglasses as she parks in front of Stranger Coffee. “What if being a doctor means standingbesidesomeone in need instead of lording over them?”
I blink, reeling from the insinuation thatIlord overanyone. That’s not what I do.
Is it?
We head inside, Nomi flipping the sign to Openbefore throwing me my barista apron. “I’ve got some work to do in my office. Can you… do that thing you did yesterday?”
“Craft a signature coffee drink of the day and advertise it in neat script on the chalkboard sign outside?”
Nomi shoots a finger-gun. “That’s it.”
I straighten, tying the apron tight around my waist. Nomi’s eyes track the movement before flicking up. “I suppose I could.”
I only stayed up half the night coming up with iced coffee concoctions to last through the end of August. Now that I bought and installedthe luxe commercial coffee brewing machine that can properly service the demand and arranged for high-quality beans from a local distributor, it’s actually kind offun, working here. I’ve always loved coffee—the smell, the taste, the electric way it lights up my brain. And after this week, I’ve realized I love making it, too. Word’s gotten around that Nomi hired someone who knows what they’re doing, and every day, the profits I bring her shop increase a little more.
“Good,” she says coolly.
“Good,” I mimic her tone, watching her disappear into the back with a misplaced pang of homesickness.
The following week, Nomi flips the sign to Closedfor our second shadowing session. The midafternoon is a slow time for coffee drinkers, and thus, the perfect time to part me from my demanding customer base. “Ready to go?” she asks.
“Yep.” I slide a tall, iced drink to Nomi and untie my apron.
“Oh.” Nomi winces. “I don’t drink coffee. Sorry.”
“I know that. It’s an iced chai latte with cardamom foam and ginger popping boba pearls.”
“Awhat?”
I sigh. “It’s delicious and tea based. Drink it.”
She picks it up warily, sniffs. After a tentative taste through the big straw, her eyes go round. “Julian. This is—it’s—”
“Amazing?” I smile, smug. “I know that, too.”
“—art,” she finally says after another long sip. “The boba pearls! They’re sofun. Delicious.” She sucks the drink down greedily all the way to her car, and I feel like a million dollars.
As she slurps the last of the tea, she asks, “Did you bring the apology letter?”
All the confidence the iced chai brought me quickly evaporates. “I—yes. Are we—am I—”
“Going to give it to Mr. Gutierrez today? Yes. Unfortunately, apologizing to Mr. Gutierrez requires you to speak, so I beg you—pleasedon’t mess this up. Dr. Appa won’t care how much you learn about cannabis if you piss off Mr. G again. Got it?”
I nod, patting my shirt pocket and the terrifying shape of the folded letter within. Nomi read it for me, and it’s taken four drafts to get an approved version. Even with her help, it still feels scary knowing that my future hinges in part on me successfully apologizing, something I’m not great at.
Nomi knocks first, then after a minute, slides a key into the lock of the small ranch home. “Knock, knock, we’re here,” she calls as we cross the threshold.
The hallway is flanked with metal handrails, several canes hanging from the end. The floors have been stripped to reveal a smooth, continuous base throughout the house. The rooms are painfully spare. Someone has thoughtfully taped cotton batting to the edges of the wooden dining table, the coffee table, and the corners of the kitchen bar. As we pass by, Nomi absently checks the tape, stopping to smooth the peeling edges flat.
Didshedo this for him? The thought plucks at my heart.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t answer the door today,” Mr. Gutierrez calls from the living room where he sits twisted up on the couch. His left arm is pinned against his chest at an awkward angle, thumping there erratically, his right shoulder slumped downward. He’s breathing shallowly and in clear pain.
“Mr. G, you should’ve called.” Nomi rushes over. “How long has the dyskinesia been like this?”
