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I need her.
Need to consume her.
Prying the lid off, I put the rim of the cup to my lips and drink down the entire thing in a few large gulps. Relishing the way the hot liquid scorches my throat. Feeding the fire of obsession roaring through my bloodstream.
CHAPTER14
Payton
“I said decaf,”a woman snaps.
“Huh?” I glance up at the suddenly angry woman across the counter from me.
“I. Said. Decaf.” She says it slowly like she’s talking to an idiot.
I look down at the cup I’m holding out to her. “Oh, um, I’m sorry.”
“I watched you walk right past the decaf pot. If it’s empty, I’ll wait for you to brew more. I’m not drinkingthat.”
My shoulders slide higher with each sentence she speaks.
She saw me doing the wrong thing and didn’t stop me. Just let me fail.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat. “We have decaf made, I just… forgot.”
She scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest.
My face is hot when I turn away from the woman. She’s acting like I tried to force-feed her something she’s allergic to. Though now I’m sorely tempted to.
Like you’d ever retaliate.
I keep my eyes turned down as I set aside the cup of offendingcaffeinatedcoffee and reach for an empty one.
I’m not a kid, but when I get yelled at like this, it makes me feel like one. Like another powerless victim. Again.
When my fingers close around the bright orange lever on the correct pot, the woman comments a condescending, “Good job.” And I’ve never wanted to quit on the spot more than I do right now.
It’s been a long day.
A long week.
It’s been a long life. Why can’t I ever just catch a freaking break?!
And a good break. Not a bad break––like when my oven started making a rattling noise last week. Or three days ago when someone apparently used bleach in the washing machine right before I put my clothes in, ruining the only pair of decent jeans that I owned.
“I’d love to get that sometime today.” The woman’s voice slithers up my neck.
Without looking at her, I secure the lid on herdecafand set the cup on the counter.
I can sense her hesitating before she takes the cup and strides out of the café.
Good riddance. I don’t know what she was waiting for. I think my body language should be enough to let someone know I’m not interested in fighting.
I’d love to keep my shoulders back and head up when someone’s mean to me. But it’s hard. And that woman was old enough to be my mother, which triggered a whole other set of emotions. And too many memories that I’ve tried my best to repress.
I’ve never wanted to fight.
I don’t like it. I do everything I can to avoid it.
