Chapter 2
CARMEN
“How about this weather we’re having, huh?”
I blink slowly at the open, friendly face of the man on the other side of the counter. My throat rumbles with a gruff hum of acknowledgment.
How about it? How about it, what? What does that even mean? It’s cold. Big surprise for January in Vermont.
Then I feel a tiny kick of reminder in my conscience. I’m working retail. Customer service and all that. I really needed a job, and my aunt Cindy giving me this position at the café-slash-bookshop she owns, no questions asked, was a lifesaver. I don’t want to repay her by running off her customers.
I still have no idea how to respond to that morsel of small talk the customer just laid out—I must have been born without that particular gene, which everyone else seems to have—but I should at least … I don’t know, smile or something.
I try to, but the muscles that lift the edges of my lips are sorely out of practice. I end up producing something a lot closer to a grimace than a smile.
But the guy is still chipper as ever as he pays for his drink and hums to himself while walking back outside.
I clamp down on my inclination to feel bitter about other people’s good moods. It’s not a good trait, and I always try to check myself when I feel it creeping up on me.
It creeps up on me a lot more often on days like today.
Days when I’ve had little sleep the night before, because I was up late, spending the long, empty midnight hours wrestling with writer’s block.
The chapter I’m working on right now is killing me.
Every time I sit down at my computer and try to fill out the blank space on my Word document with the scenario I’ve constructed in my head, it feels like my brain turns into a block of cement.
At the same time, I can’t focus on anything else.
If I try to watch a movie, or a show, or read a book, or even take a walk, I feel an irresistible force pulling me back to my laptop so I can write this chapter—but once my hands are on the keyboard, it’s like they’re paralyzed.
I end up sitting at my desk, frustration twisting through me, until my eyelids mercifully become too heavy to keep open.
The last week and a half have been like this.
If I’m being honest with myself, though, I’m always grumpy when I have these morning shifts, writer’s block or not.
I’ve always been a night owl. But whatever shift Cindy needs me to take, I’m not going to complain about it.
She’s done too much for me, and the last thing I’m going to do is ask for special treatment with scheduling.
A yawn surges up from deep in my chest, and I try to stifle it. With my teeth clenched and lips pressed to hold it down, I probably look like I’m scowling at the customers.
Granted, sometimes I do, especially when one makes an asinine comment or asks a ridiculous question. Both occasions are far from uncommon.
But this time I really am just trying to stifle a yawn.
I’d rather not give away how tired I am.
Nothing’s worse than people making comments all day, asking if I got enough sleep last night, when, no, I didn’t, and for a very frustrating reason.
A long workday of commentary like that from chatty customers would have me grinding my teeth, and I can’t afford any dental issues right now.
A customer walks to the counter wearing a navy-blue suit under a raincoat. Probably a local picking up coffee for the drive to his office job in Burlington. He catches me right when my yawn-suppression has my face at its scowliest.
He wags his brow at me. “You know, you should try to smile even if you’re in a bad mood. It’ll help.”
This time, I don’t feel any twinge of guilt when I level him with a sour look, not a trace of concern about customer service in my mind. The crease of my lips pulls so flat and tight that a car jack couldn’t lift it into a grin.
“I’m sure your boss would agree,” he continues, like he’s too stupid to read my expression.
Something tells me that the company he works for puts less of a premium on intelligence than it does on entitlement.
Hardly rare in the corporate world. “Seeing a smiling face behind the counter makes a customer want to come back, especially if it’s a pretty girl. ”
Various cathartic visions flash in my mind. Like grabbing the pair of scissors from the drawer behind the counter and snipping his tie in half. Or throwing a cup of hot coffee at him.
But then my conscience whispers to me, Don’t get your aunt Cindy sued.
The rationale is persuasive enough to keep those fantasies bottled up in my mind.
I only keep my lips straight, my brow low, and my eyes cold as I beam an annoyed look at Mr. Unsolicited Advice. In a couple seconds, he gets the hint and makes a face. “Large coffee, extra sugar.”
Wordlessly, I prepare his order and set it in front of him, only pointing with my glare at the price displayed on the register. If I open my mouth, he might not like what comes out. With a roll of his eyes, he pays and leaves.
Looks like he was the last of the morning’s commuter rush. With no line in front of me, I take advantage of the downtime to check my phone, which rumbled with a notification a couple minutes ago.
It’s just a meaningless notification from an app I hardly use.
A twitch of disappointment accompanies it.
Ever since Thanksgiving passed and the anticipation of Christmas started to thicken the atmosphere of daily life, I’ve been half expecting my parents to reach out.
But then Christmas itself passed, and so did New Year’s, and now we’re in mid-January, with our streak of not speaking to each other still unbroken since last summer.
My parents didn’t agree with my decision to take a gap year after my sophomore year of college to dedicate myself to writing a book.
Hah. Didn’t agree with my decision. That’s an understatement.
They totally freaked out, made it clear in no uncertain terms that if I did this, I was completely on my own financially.
But I knew this was the right thing for me to do, and after the way my sophomore year ended at my last college, I was determined to do it no matter what.
That’s how I ended up here. My aunt Cindy owns this place, and I was pretty sure she’d give me a job if I begged her for one.
Maybe even throw extra overtime hours my way.
Plus, her café is in Cedar Shade, Vermont, home to Brumehill College.
After my gap year, I could transfer to Brumehill and have a job to rely on so I could finish my degree without my parents’ support.
Cindy ended up doing even more for me than I banked on. She offered me the apartment above the garage in her backyard, rent-free. Even when I told her I’d be happy to pay her rent, she wouldn’t hear of it, insisting that it’s impossible to be too generous with family.
Now I have a place to stay and a job to support me.
I’ve really made progress writing my book.
But thanks to this damn writer’s block, it feels like completing it is still far off beyond the horizon, the distance between where I am and where I want to be with the story menacing, even though I still have half a year before I need to force myself back to school.
“There’s my favorite niece!” My aunt Cindy announces her presence in her big, boisterous voice. She steps behind the counter and, as always, pulls me into a tight, crushing hug.
My lips tighten, and I stiffen up. I still haven’t learned quite how to react to Cindy’s physical style of affection. She’s a big-time hugger, and I’m … not.
It’s funny that I’m on great terms with my aunt and awful terms with my mother. Of the two sisters, I definitely take more after the one who gave birth to me. For better or for worse.
She pulls back and fixes a playfully chastising look on me. “That’s your cue to say, but I’m your only niece.”
If it were anyone other than my aunt pulling this with me, I’d be drilling them with a glare sharp enough to cut through stone. But as it is, I can’t stop my lips from twitching just a little while I roll my eyes.
“I’ll remember that for next time,” I deadpan.
Now it’s Cindy’s turn to roll her eyes. “No, you won’t. Love you, niece.” Cindy says, squeezing my arm and heading off to see to the endless series of tasks that running this place entails.
My cheeks warm with embarrassment. I don’t return Cindy’s words, but I hope she knows I do return her sentiment. I just wasn’t raised in an environment where words like that are exchanged freely. My aunt being very free with affectionate words and gestures often has me feeling off kilter.
When she walks away, the tiny brass bells tied to the entrance door jingle, announcing a new customer. I turn and hope this one isn’t as annoying as the last.
Oh, great. It’s him.
The feeling that swirls through me at seeing him isn’t exactly annoyance. At least, it’s not entirely annoyance. There’s perplexity mixed with it, a sort of dry amusement, and, sure, maybe a bit of pity, too.
Jamie O’Donnell, captain of the Brumehill Black Bears hockey team, can’t even bring himself to make eye contact with me as he shyly approaches the order counter.
His pupils flit restlessly around the space like a pair of little birds flying fitfully, unable to choose a branch to settle on. It’s like he’s trying to find some object to occupy his attention, an excuse not to look at me face-to-face until the moment he can’t put it off any longer.
Nothing about Jamie makes sense.
It doesn’t make sense that he’s maintained this inexplicable crush he has on me for months, even though I’ve done nothing to encourage it.
It doesn’t make sense that this six-foot-three hockey captain is so timid and reserved.
I’m positive he gets no shortage of female attention.
With his boyish good looks, wavy dirty-blonde hair, muscled frame, and ridiculously big, veiny hands (I’ve tried not to notice, but come on), it couldn’t be any other way.
You’d think that would’ve inspired a certain confidence in him by now.
And it really doesn’t make sense that he doesn’t annoy me more than he does.
I never feel the urge to snap at him. Sure, I might prick him with a barb of sarcasm. Or drill him with a flat, unencouraging look when he tries to make conversation. But he never truly irks me the way a lot of people do at this job.
Maybe it has something to do with the way the tips of his ears turn pink, like they’re doing right now when he forces himself to make eye contact with me when he arrives at the register. It’s cute … in a pathetic way, but still.
When Jamie comes in, our interactions tend to go either one of two ways. Sometimes he’s overcome by shyness and can barely stammer out his order. Other times, he’s built up the courage to try and make small talk.
“I’ll, umm, take a …” his eyes bounce around again for a moment, “umm, a coffee, please,” he finishes.
There’s an unfamiliar pressure at the edge of my mouth, almost like I want to smile. Almost.
I can’t make sense of this guy’s infatuation. When it started, I brushed it off, thinking that someone who looks like him—not to mention someone who’s a star player on the college hockey team that everyone here is obsessed with—will naturally find another girl way more receptive to his interest.
I have no idea how that hasn’t happened in the five months that I’ve been here.
Of course, some guys have an ego about this kind of thing. They can’t stand being rejected, so refuse to take the hint. But I don’t think that’s the deal with Jamie. Nothing about him says ego or arrogance.
I pour his coffee and set it in front of him. He pays in cash, and when I hand him his change, the tips of my fingers brush against his open palm.
Instantly, his face turns beet red. His jaw tightens, muscles flexing on the sides of the broad, sharp-cut arc of bone.
Like his jaw is clenched too tightly to speak, he nods and flashes me a tight smile before turning around and leaving.
There’s something awkward about his stride as he heads out. Wait, is he really battling a stiffy just from the lightest brush of my fingertips? I push an almost-laugh through my nose, rolling my eyes.
But when the door rattles shut behind him, I can’t ignore the tingling sensation that remains on my fingertips.
It was impossible not to notice how his palm felt: rough and coarsened, a thoroughly masculine feel, no doubt worked into it by years of handling a hockey stick.
At the same time, it felt warm and inviting.
I imagine how that palm would feel closing over my hand, pressing it snugly.
A stronger tingling sensation dances on my fingertips now. My stomach tilts a fraction.
Honestly, the thought of hooking up with Jamie has crossed my mind. He’s hot, and maybe some satisfying sex would release some of this writer’s-block-induced tension.
But I know it would be a bad idea. I can tell he’s not the type for a no-strings-attached arrangement. He’d get clingy, which is the last thing I want. I don’t need any distractions before I finish my book.
Even if I had the time to spare, he’s a guy who’d want a real relationship. And there’s no way the two of us would work, no matter how much he’s blinded himself.
Sure, sometimes opposites can click. Like my aunt Cindy and her boyfriend Kazu, who owns the ramen shop in town. They’re as different as two people can possibly be, but sickeningly in love.
Jamie and I, on the other hand, are the wrong kind of opposites.
If we spent time together, I can that tell his sunny, golden retriever personality would get on my nerves.
He has that kind of perky optimism that would make me want to wring his neck on days like today, when I’m feeling particularly ornery.
No, it’s best that I maintain the distance between us and continue to withhold anything that might give him hope.
I pick up a cup and take advantage of one of the perks of working here by pouring myself some free coffee.
The rich flavor is at least a distraction from something I feel far too often when Jamie walks out the door of the café: a tiny—but tangible—twinge of disappointment at seeing him go.