The thought should've comforted me. Instead, it just wound the anxiety tighter, coiling around my ribs until breathing felt deliberate. Because absence of proof wasn't proof of safety. Just meant the clock was still ticking.
I set the phone down and pulled my knees to my chest, pressing my forehead against them. Counted breaths. Five in, five out. The exercise Marsha taught me when panic attacks used to steal hours from my day.
If nothing happened today, maybe I have a little time to get prepared.
What "prepared" meant, I didn't know. Couldn't think about. Couldn't let myself spiral into planning escape routes and worst-case scenarios before I'd even had coffee.
I had a job. Had to keep it. Had to function like a normal person who wasn't falling apart at the seams.
The shower helped—hot water and steam creating temporary distance from everything outside this tiny bathroom. I stood under the spray longer than I should've, letting the heat soak into muscles that hadn't relaxed since Marsha walked through my door last night.
When I finally emerged, wrapped in a towel that'd seen better days, my phone sat dark and silent on the counter.
Still nothing.
Good.
I dressed quickly—jeans, café T-shirt, hair pulled back tight. Applied concealer under my eyes, even though it didn't quite hide the shadows. Added mascara because maybe if I looked more awake, I'd feel it too.
The reflection in the mirror didn't buy it, but it would have to do.
I grabbed my phone again. Checked one more time. Nothing.
The relief burned through me stronger this time—warm and dangerous because I wanted so badly to believe it meant something. That maybe this wouldn't be as bad as every worst fear screaming through my head insisted. That maybe I had time.
I shoved the phone in my pocket and locked the apartment behind me, testing the door twice before heading down the stairs. Morning air bit cold against my face, sharp enough to ground me.
You can do this.
Work. Focus on work. Smile at customers. Pour coffee. Survive the game-day rush. Don't think about anything else. Don't let anyone see you breaking.
The café buzzed with pre-game energy when I arrived—players filing through, staff prepping stations, the espresso machine hissing like it had opinions about the chaos.
Jenna spotted me first, already moving at her usual double-speed, ponytail swinging as she restocked cups.
"You look like hell."
"Good afternoon to you too." I tied my apron, fumbling the knot twice before getting it right.
She paused long enough to actually look at me, something sharp and assessing flickering across her face. "You okay?"
"Didn't sleep great." The understatement of the century, but close enough to truth that it didn't feel like lying. "First game day nerves."
"Fair." She handed me a cleaning rag. "Wipe down the tables near the window. Ben's on register until the rush hits, then you'll swap."
Ben emerged from the back room carrying a crate of milk cartons, grinning when he saw me. "Hey! Ready for the madness?"
"Define ready."
"Breathing. Conscious. Not actively on fire." He set the crate down and knocked his shoulder gently against mine. "You'll be fine. It's loud and fast, but everyone's too hyped about the game to be difficult."
"Everyone?"
"Okay, like seventy percent." His grin widened. "The other thirty percent are why we keep Jenna up front."
Jenna didn't look up from the register she was counting. "Damn right."
Something in my chest loosened—just a fraction, but enough to matter. Ben's easy warmth. Jenna's no-nonsense steadiness. The familiar routine of wiping tables and straightening chairs and falling into rhythm with people who didn't ask questions I couldn't answer.
