Three
Sawyer
I’m forced awake by the noise of my mother's headboard and whatever chap she had over last night, the wood clamouring against the hollow walls.
My alarm wasn't meant to go off for another hour, but I can’t lay here listening to this. Listening to someone who even remotely thinks he has a chance of becoming a part of this family, someone who thinks that my mother has true intentions, it’s painful, but this is what she does.
Ironically, I would be the subject of conversation with anyone the predator had an eye for, her portrayal so convincing that you’d think that she was a caring mother. She’d lie to her prey about how she raised me on her lonesome because my father passed away when I was young or he bailed before I was even born, reeling them in with sheer sympathy and the desperately toxic need to play the masculine role model that I so desperately need because how on earth did I survive without one?
Funnily enough, once they come through that front door, I become a very distant memory for her and whatever poor soul she’s dragging in.
I stumble my aching body downstairs and into the kitchen, needing some sort of food to power through a day at the café. I reach into the fridge and grab the carton of milk. It seems stale cereal is my only option since I can't remember the last time any shopping was bought for this house. The carton feels hollow in my grasp as the slightest dribble is left, yet it had been put back in the fridge. I glare at the ceiling, exhaling before squashing the carton up small and tossing it into the bin.
A baked good from the café is my choice of breakfast for today, so here's hoping the cinnamon bun that I was eyeing up all day yesterday is still good to warm up.
I leave the kitchen, pulling my cardigan tight around my frame while burying my head into the neckline, the lingering smell of coffee threading itself throughout the knitted fabric since I wore this at the café yesterday.
I fail to hear anyone coming down the stairs as I cross paths with a pale man, similar height to me. His dirty blonde curls fall over his forehead and a scattered beard sprouts across his face and jaw. He’s shirtless with last night's jeans on, a musty smell following his every movement.
“Good morning, champ! How are you? Your mum is a lovely person!”
I have grown far too familiar with this charade with whoever my mother would bring home. I am used to hearing champ, buddy, pal, dude or whatever nickname they think would win me over. I am always asked how I am, but they definitely don't care, and I needn't mention how many times I hear about how amazing my mother is.
“Well, I'm going to make some tea for your mum and me, help myself through there?”
He gestures to the kitchen, smacking my shoulder and causing me to need regain my balance from the sheer force he applies, and strolling by me.
“Have fun, there's no milk.”
“Damn, care to run out and grab a fresh carton? I just want to treat your mama well, you know, after what happened to your father.”
He clearly feels this solemn presence in the room after trying to sympathise with me, but all I want to do is roll my eyes. I want to roll my eyes to the furthest point in my head that they can possibly go, but I can’t. I wouldn’t dare break my mother's perfect family picture for some random guy who has fallen for her.
I am the reason we are in this position, if I had just kept my mouth shut, or if I could just like what every other man likes, then we wouldn't be here. I wouldn’t have this shirtless, musty man trying to console me for something that never happened.
“I'm sorry, I've got to get ready for work.”
I leave for my bedroom once more before my face gives away how I am feeling. I have fully accepted that this is my life now. I couldn't leave my mother's side, she has paved the way for the life she wants me to lead, with running the café and having a loving woman by my side.
A loving woman isn't in the cards that life has dealt me though. No matter what I’ve tried, I can't bring myself to hurt a woman by masking who I really am, so I made an agreement with my own conscience: I will not hurt a woman by lying about my entire being to her, but I will not succumb to the emotions I feel towards men, for the sake of mine and my mother's brittle relationship.
My mother had changed entirely since my father left, and our relationship took a turn for the worst as well. Her dress sense, her attitude towards me and the world, her entire demeanour was someone I did not recognise.
Too many times, I found her asleep on the sofa or on the living room rug, a bottle in her hand or plastering the floors, or I’ve found that I was left alone overnight since she never came home.
We still wouldn’t mention what happened. I tried to talk about it, I was and still am heartbroken over my father leaving, and I know she was and remains to be, too, but it was a conversation that never graced the air and most likely never will.
The blue dress I loved never saw the light of day again, the roast dinners became ready meals – if that – and we said few words to each other and had fewer embraces, to the point where my own mother’s touch has turned foreign.
She despises me because of what I did to this family, because of what I did to her marriage, of what I did to her dream. I ripped everything from her within a matter of seconds solely because of who I am. I couldn’t make it to my bedroom in time, nearly having collided with she who decided to emerge.
“Sawyer.”
Her right leg takes all her weight as she wobbles out of the bedroom, her hair tied in a bun closely resembling a bird’s nest, in a leopard print dress which did not leave anything to the imagination – the dress which had swept Mr Musty off of his feet. She glares at me, eyeing me up and down.
“Heading to the shop?”
She nearly falls forward before catching herself on the doorframe.
“Café, and yes.”
Her dull eyes narrow, she musters a cough from the depths of her smoker’s throat and drags herself into the bathroom, clumsily locking the door behind her.
I could say we tried our best to run Sombre's Café together still, but I work every day of every week while Mother would turn up when, and if she felt like it.
Everything the café makes floats its way into her pockets and whenever I bring it up that I feel I should have my own income, it’s met with crashing waves of yelling, eye rolling, door slamming, and whatever motion can be used to display her lack of wanting the conversation.
She would explain that all the money she takes is only investing back into the café and into my future with running it. With the little amount of time she spends at the café, she still hadn’t noticed the tip jar I started, so there’s my income.
The café is my escape. Not only did I greet so many of the warm and welcoming faces of Tetherton on a regular basis, but they often return the kindness I attempt to give by sharing their personal reasons as to how they turned up in the little family café today rather than some mainstream retailer down the road.
When the café’s quiet, that’s my time to read. To escape this world entirely and experience a romance which can only be written.
I ponder over who and how many I will be serving today as I head for the front door, dressed, and packed for the day ahead. I did not want to run into Mother’s new chew toy again. I took his presence still within these walls as a sign that I would be on my own again. Typical.
We live a while away from the high street, but walking the coast every morning with the salt air lining my throat helps to divert my focus.
The café is situated near the peak of the high street, which means I have this uphill battle every day. As my lungs begin to feel shallow, I have the realisation of how unfit I truly am only being halfway up this dreaded thing.
Across the road a sign screaming brand new white neon lights hangs from a tall window. I scramble my thoughts together to try and remember what that shop previously was. A florist over the past couple of years, but I remember the music shop which stood there when I was younger. Now, the sign reads ‘Picks and Strings’.
At some point, I’m sure my mother will send me to investigate to make sure it isn’t someone who could either be competition or someone who might end up in her bed, but it sounds like a music shop to me.
I continue my ascending trek until I pull the bronze keys out of my messenger bag slung over my shoulder and unlock the silver shutters in front of the café. The gate recoils itself into the ceiling as I unlock the front door, the familiar ringing of the bell echoing throughout the empty and silent building before locking myself in. I had a couple of hours to set up for the day since I arrived earlier than planned.
Thanks to those two.
This has always been one of my favourite times of the day, solely because of the overwhelming aroma of freshly ground coffee beans which immerses the room in this rich, nutty delight.
After grinding my tester shots for the day, making sure all my equipment is ready to go for a busy day of orders, I turn to making myself my morning blessing – a double shot, hazelnut and caramel oat latte.
The silkiness of the caramel alongside the creamiest oat milk I can get my hands on fights the earthy and nutty intrusion of the hazelnut syrup. The rich yet smooth taste of the coffee withstands it all and remains present with every sip – one of the many reasons I can only ever drink hot coffee – these layers of depth within the flavour all disappear once poured over ice.
I place my coffee tumbler next to the till and begin to open the confectionary fridge. The comforting fragrance of coffee is interrupted by the immense introduction of sugary treats, and the colours in this fridge are quite intrusive for this early in the morning.
I had previously organised all of the cakes and treats into the order of a rainbow, for aesthetic reasons. Strawberry tarts: mango cheesecake, lemon drizzle cake, green tea cookies, blueberry muffins – amongst many other berries – blackberry meringues, and a variety of chocolate dipped, coated and drizzled goods.
Anything fresh from the bakery stands on top of the fridge in tall, cylindrical cloche jars, a variety of pastries flaking across the bamboo bottoms.
I eye up every single pastry, making sure their appetising side is facing the customer, and as I reach the end of the cloche jars, I see it. I salivate as I lock on to my morning breakfast, sitting there, begging to be eaten.
I am forever grateful to The Sweet Bakery, which just so happens to be owned by my childhood best friend Gwen and her older brother, Xander. They run the most popular bakery in town and provide Sombre's Café with all its baked goods whenever we request them.
I guide my hand under the counter and find myself a plate before grabbing the final cinnamon bun, justifying it to myself as the bun had started to dry around the edges. Gwen would always sneak extras into my orders each week for days like today, when she knew I would be eating and living out of here once again – I need to remember to thank her.
Gleefully, I take myself to the staff room, also known as my hideaway. It’s compact, a few feet ahead of me being the fire exit to the building. A fridge is shoved into the right-hand corner with shelves built in next to it – this is where all our stock is stored.
Opposite sits a free sofa that Mother found online, navy in colour with a tear down the middle cushion. I’d spent too many nights sleeping on this thing, when I couldn’t sleep at home. When my mother or my mind just wouldn’t hush.
The room has no windows, and all of our seasonal decorations are piled into the corner. Halloween is the next holiday but not for another two or so months, so I’ll have time to dig for those later. Tucked away next to the shelving is a small side table, which balances a temperamental microwave which I rely on wholeheartedly.
The rattled humming of the microwave continues, my cinnamon bun circling until the ceremonial ringing begins. I grab my breakfast, rush through the seating area and back to the counter to grab a fork, and I dig in.
I have never been so glad to be alone, because an ever so quiet moan escapes my lips. While the edges of the bun have turned tough, the top is still so deliciously fluffy with a layered centre of cinnamon sweetness. The sticky icing lathers my lips and anything it touches, the icing having the slightest kick of cinnamon sugar, similar to the pastry itself. I feel its warmth within every bite, and I could not have finished it faster.
A small dribble of icing sugar lay still on the corner of my mouth until I sweep it away with my thumb and lick it clean.
With over an hour to spare until I’m due to open, I slide my book out from the back of the shelves hidden under the coffee machines, and begin to flick through the chapters, desperate to know when he’s going to kiss this goddamn boy. Maybe today might be a good day after all.