31. This Isn’t a Coffee Shop
Chapter 31
This Isn’t a Coffee Shop
G uilt swirls in my belly. In my attempts at being the woman Sam wants when he initiates sex, the one who doesn’t worry about turning the lights off or laying a towel over the sheets, I ignored the open door. I was the woman who went along with the spontaneity. But when Nick peeked in, I couldn’t pull my eyes from him. No matter how much I commanded my eyes to look away, to stop, to cover myself, I couldn’t.
All the times Nick was home when Sam wasn’t, all the words of encouragement Nick offered, kept my eyes glued to his. Thoughts of how it’d feel if he were the one underneath me snuck in uninvited, and it resulted in the best orgasm I’ve had in a long time. Of course, it could be attributed to having one at all. Or, it could be that I wasn’t staring at a blank wall or praying for it to be over. Instead, an intense, dark pair of eyes shared that passionate moment with me, and we weren’t even touching. But now I feel about as low as a person can.
After all, who was responsible for that orgasm, Sam, Nick, or me?
And what did he mean he liked seeing me in his sweatshirt? What did he mean when he backed me against the wall? “You can be sure you’ll never be in tears after I fuck you.” There’s no way he’s fallen for me. Maybe he’s lonely, or sadder than I realized. He’d have to be, to want me.
* * *
I laid in bed last night so conflicted about how to feel that I didn’t feel anything at all. After a sleepless night, I drove to work, prepared to pretend like last night didn’t happen. Determined not to let his words affect me, determined to ignore the pull of gravity and stay upright. I don’t need Nick or his belief in me, or his comforting shoulders.
Now, as I open the door to the diner, carrying a file with recipes and the social media account information Mike asked me to bring, I try summoning the excitement I’ve had since we rolled out my ideas. I haven’t cried on my drive to work in a few weeks, finally feeling like I had a purpose, that I hadn’t given up on life, as Dad likes to say. But today, I just wanted to hide under the covers.
Mike and some other servers are gathered around an unfamiliar woman in uniform when I walk back to his office. I didn’t know we were hiring anyone new. Her blonde hair is held back in a neat ponytail, a cheerful smile lighting up her pretty face.
When Mike spots me, he gestures for me to join them. “Cori. This is Tessa, and of course, you know Kiersten already.” He points to a server I’ve worked with for years. “We’re moving Kiersten behind the counter instead. Did you know she used to work at a coffee shop? Your dad and I thought she’d be better at the counter, you know, for when we add more drinks to the menu and roll out the premade breakfast sandwiches.”
“Wait. What?”
“Well, we’re hoping to have more to-go business. And with more coffee orders, we’ll need someone experienced.”
“Okay, and what about me?” My heartbeat picks up. Is it finally the moment? Do I get to start training for assistant manager? Full-time instead of half a day?
“You’ll return to the floor. As normal. And Tessa here is the new assistant manager.” He smiles like it’s good news. As if a fire doesn’t rage inside me, ready to burst forth and consume everyone in my path.
I jerk back as if physically pushed from the realization—this was their plan all along. To use my ideas and free labor before ripping any hopes of advancement from my naive, inexperienced hands.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”
“What did you need these for?” I ask breathlessly, holding up the binder.
“Well, we need the recipes for Kiersten to use, and Tessa’s going to run the social media accounts.”
The hot blood in my face boils over, spewing the words before I can tame them, “If Kiersten is so much more experienced than I am, she can use her own recipes. And if I’m not going to be compensated, you’re not getting the passwords to the accounts.”
His mouth hangs open. “What do you mean, compensated?”
“I did all of this work off the clock. With the assumption that it would be me taking the assistant manager position. We talked about it being me , remember?”
“Yes, but in the end, your father wanted someone with experience. He thanks you for your ideas, but… come on, Cori. You’re a waitress. That’s all you’ve ever been. You have no other experience to offer us.”
“You used to be a server. For two years. Then, you were promoted. That’s how it works. I’ve been here for five. And I know more about this diner than you or Dad combined. ” My voice is shockingly calm, despite my entire body shaking with anger and nerves.
Everything I’ve done was for nothing. I mean, it helped my dad out, but… that’s just it though. It helped Dad.
Everything I’ve done is microscopic compared to the accomplishments of other people in my life. In truth, I’ve done nothing except entertain dreams I have no business dreaming. I’m not a barista. And this isn’t a coffee shop.
So I take my file with my recipes and log-in info, and I walk out the door. Dad will tell me later that I gave up once again. That I stopped fighting. But why do something if I no longer see the point?
* * *
O nce I get back to Sam’s apartment—because it’s always been Sam’s apartment, never mine—I go to Sam’s room. I take my notebook, the one with notes on different coffee suppliers with their prices and flavors, and the pros and cons of using them as my roaster. Then I go to Sam’s kitchen and grab the remaining coffee samples from the cabinet. And I throw it all into Sam’s trash can.
I crawl underneath Sam’s covers, where I can cry and not be shamed. But no tears come. I have no one to blame but myself, and I’m tired of being upset about it, but I don't know how to fix it. That’s the problem, isn’t it? I don’t know. I don’t know myself or what I want or what I feel or what I think. I don’t know what to do or where to go or when to do it. I don’t know what’s right or wrong. And I don’t know the reason to keep trying to figure it all out.
* * *
S hamelessly, I slept with my sweatshirt over my pillow last night.
I asked for it back before I could stop myself with every intention to shock her. But I was the one who couldn’t pry my eyes from her chest, or close my mouth until she was already gone. I almost left it behind on the table in the hallway. Then I caught a whiff of my soap mingling with Cori’s coffee and floral scent, and I couldn’t part with it. So I brought it with me to Callum’s one-bedroom apartment, slept on his short couch with the peeling leather, and dreamt of Cori.
I told him everything when I arrived, every detail, every feeling between Cori and me, every long look shared, and every demeaning comment I’d heard Sam say. To cheer me up, he invited Tyler to watch a baseball game with us after work today. Yet, all I can think of is the game I saw with Cori two nights ago. Was that only two nights ago?
My phone rings, interrupting the game. The name on the screen is Sam’s, and I debate letting it go to voicemail. But I man up and answer it as I walk out the front door for privacy; God only knows how ugly this conversation will be.
“Hey, I can’t get a hold of Cori, can you go see if she’s in my room? She’s probably sleeping again. She’s always fucking sleeping.”
She’s not always sleeping. And if she is, it’s because her low self-worth keeps her awake at night.
“I’m not there. I moved out,” I answer, calmly.
“What do you mean you moved out ?”
“I mean, I moved out.”
“When? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why didn’t you tell me you slept with Kenna?”
The line is silent as he thinks about how to worm his way out of this.
“She was lonely. You were distant, only focused on football and you ignored her. Sorry if I wanted her to be cared for.”
I almost laugh. What kind of answer is that? “Can you just do me a favor? Can you just treat Cori right? You’re an ass to her and she doesn’t deserve it. She’s too good for you and you know it. Step up, be a man, and treat her with respect. And encourage her to continue with her coffee business. Don’t crush it like you do everything else.”
I should hang up now, but stupidly, I don’t.
“Are you in love with her?” he asks, tone dripping with accusation.
I decide it’s time for honesty. “Yes.”
“And you have the nerve to be pissed at me because I was the one Kenna cheated on you with.”
“The same reason you just gave me for sleeping with Kenna, is the same reason I have for falling for Cori.” I understand it’s not justified. I understand I’m still in the wrong. But he has no right to talk.
He laughs, a cruel, mocking, sound that sets my nerves on fire. “And yet, she stayed with me.” More laughter. “Kenna chose me over you, and now Cori. Man, you can’t catch a break.”
“Because you manipulate them, Sam. Believe me, I will be praying that she leaves you. Not for me, but for herself.” I end the call and let my head fall in my hands.
After a moment, I go back inside and resume my spot on the couch. From my left, Tyler rubs my back. I look at him.
“Sorry, is that weird? It felt like a back-rub moment.”
“I think it’s a stiff drink kind of moment.”
Callum jumps into action. “I can do that.”
After he hands me a glass of scotch, I tell them what Sam said over the phone.
Just as disgusted as I am, Callum picks his phone up to call Cori to check on her, but she doesn’t answer. He sends a text instead, letting me see the screen.
Callum: Hey, just checking on you. How are you doing?
While we wait for a response, hoping we get one at all, he asks, “Should we tell Cori? About Kenna?”
“I have no idea.” I’ve debated myself, since the beach house, about whether or not I should tell her. “I don’t know if it’s my place or if she’d rather not know. If it’s even something she needs to know.”
“I would want to know. Especially since he keeps bringing her around.” We drink in silence, refilling our glasses when we’ve drained them.
Tyler sits up. “Wait. You don’t think they’re still …”
I shake my head, another thing I’ve warred with myself over. “He’s gone all the time. It’s highly possible.”
“I don’t want to just turn my back on, what? Five, six years of friendship? I understand why you would, but what do we do?” He gestures between himself and Callum. “I don’t want to be friends with someone like that.”
I don’t have any more answers than he does.
“Shit. Sorry, I’m making this about me.”
“I could use the distraction. Let’s talk about your hair next.”
His hands fly up to his head. “What’s wrong with my hair?”
But my phone dings with a text, and we all scramble to see it.
Roommate: I need you.