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“Howdy, Payton!”
I smile as I turn toward the door to watch one of our regulars walk in, his usual swagger and charm in place.
“Hey, Carlton,” I greet him.
“How’s my favorite barista?” He grins as he approaches the counter, stopping when he’s across from me.
I just roll my eyes; I’m no barista. My talents are hardly worthy of the title. But no matter how many times I correct him, he keeps calling me that.
“You want the usual?”
Carlton dips his chin. “You know I do. Gotta keep this figure.” He runs a hand down his flat stomach.
I smile. “Uh-huh.”
I type his order in––a large, iced coffee with four sugars and cream and a chicken salad sandwich on a croissant with extra mayo.
Carlton is tall and lanky, and one of those people gifted with a high metabolism. Because no matter how often he comes in, no matter how many of these oversized sandwiches he consumes, he’s always thin as a stick.
Taking his card, I swipe it through the reader. “How’s the band doing?”
His grin widens. “Great! I don’t want to jinx it yet, but we might have a good gig coming up.”
“Oh, yeah?”
Carlton nods. “You’ll still come if we book it?” When I hesitate, my shoulders stiffening with nerves, he sticks his lower lip out in a pout. “You said you would.”
I force myself to relax a little at his teasing tone. He’s just being nice. “As long as the tickets aren’t like three hundred dollars, I’ll come.”
My attempt at making a joke flops as my mouth forms the wordhundred. Reminding me of the damp hundred-dollar bill sogging up my wallet.
Call me paranoid, but I didn’t trust leaving it at home, even if letting it sit out to dry would’ve been the smarter idea.
Carlton laughs. “Deal.” Holding his hand out, like he wants to shake on it, causes my tenseness to reappear tenfold.
We’ve never touched before. That’s the safety of our friendship. That’s the safety of this job. I stay on my side of the counter, everyone else stays over there.
I don’t like to be touched.
It’s never gone well for me.
You didn’t mind when that man touched you last night.
My heart jumps a beat.
Because it’s true.
I didn’t mind it.
Carlton’s smile doesn’t waver, not seeming to read my hesitation.
Tentatively, I reach out. If I can let a stranger touch my body after breaking into my apartment, I can let a friend shake my hand.
His long fingers close around mine. And nothing bad happens.
I haven’t had much need for handshakes in my life, so I’ve never mastered them. In TV and movies, they always make it look so easy. Just take a hand and shake it.
But how hard do you hold on? How many shakes do you do? How big is the movement supposed to be?
