19. Olivia #2
The chaos felt good. Grounding. Every completed order was proof I existed beyond last night's tears, beyond Rhys's retreating footsteps echoing in my skull.
A rookie I vaguely recognized leaned against the counter, flashing what he probably thought was a charming grin. "Hey, you're new, right? I'm—"
"Medium latte?" I cut him off smoothly, already reaching for the espresso portafilter.
He blinked, thrown. "Uh, yeah. How'd you—"
"You ordered it yesterday. Same time." I pulled the shot, watching the crema form with the same focus I'd watched Jenna demonstrate two weeks ago. "Anything else?"
"I—no. Thanks."
I handed him the cup without meeting his eyes. Professional. Efficient. Exactly what Jenna had drilled into me: be polite, be quick, don't engage.
The line kept moving. I kept working. Steam hissed. The register beeped. Conversation buzzed around me like white noise I'd learned to filter.
Ben arrived for his shift, all easy energy and bright smiles. He bumped my shoulder companionably while tying his apron. "Morning. You seem focused today."
"Busy morning." Not a lie.
"Want me to take over the register so you can restock?"
"I'm good." The register gave me something to do with my hands. Something to concentrate on besides the empty hallway beyond the café entrance where Rhys might—
No.
Not thinking about him.
“No, thanks. I appreciate it, though.” I turned to the next customer. "What can I get you?"
The rhythm continued. Order, pour, serve. Order, pour, serve. My movements sharpened with each transaction, confidence building in small increments I hadn't noticed until now. I wasn't the terrified girl who'd spilled coffee everywhere her first day. Wasn't the one who apologized for existing.
I was good at this.
And that mattered more than any man who couldn't decide if I was worth staying for.
Ben worked quietly beside me for a few minutes, restocking cups and checking milk levels. But I felt his gaze land on me more than once, assessing in a way that made my shoulders tense.
"Everything okay?" he asked finally, voice careful. Concerned.
I paused mid-wipe; the rag bunched in my fist. My pulse kicked once, hard. The question hung there, heavier than it should've been. Weighted with everything I couldn't say.
No. Nothing's okay. I kissed a man who can't decide if he wants me or regrets me. Who touches me like I matter and leaves like I don't. Who makes me feel safe and terrified in the same breath.
But I didn't say any of that.
Instead, I turned to face him. Straightened my spine. Met his eyes directly. "Is that dinner offer still open?"
Ben blinked, surprise flickering across his features before his whole face brightened. The transformation was immediate—eyes lighting up, smile spreading wide and genuine.
"Yeah. Of course."
"Great." I forced my voice to stay calm. Even. Normal. "It's a date."
The words left my mouth steady, confident, like I meant them completely. Like my stomach wasn't twisting itself into knots. Like some part of me wasn't screaming that this was wrong, wrong, wrong.
Ben's smile widened further. "Tonight? Or—"
"Tonight works."
"Perfect. I know I mentioned tacos, but since it’s Saturday, I thought… Well, there's this Italian place a few blocks from here. Nothing fancy, but—"
"Sounds good." I turned back to the espresso machine before I could see the full force of his happiness. Before guilt could claw its way up my throat and make me take it back.
Ben deserved someone who wanted him without reservations. Without comparing him to dark eyes and trembling hands and kisses that tasted like desperation.
I'd try. I'd really try. Even if every cell in my body knew I was lying to both of us.
Ben was normal.
The thought settled over me like a blanket—not warm, exactly, but familiar. Comfortable in the way things are when they don't demand pieces of yourself you're not sure how to give.
Ben was safe. He smiled without shadows behind his eyes. Talked without measuring every word like it might detonate. Touched my shoulder in passing and didn't flinch away like the contact burned him.
Ben wouldn't hurt me. Wouldn't kiss me like I was oxygen and then vanish like I was poison. Wouldn't look at me with hunger and guilt tangled so tightly I couldn't tell which emotion won.
Ben wouldn't run.
And that mattered. Had to matter.
I wasn't choosing him purely out of spite—I wasn't that cruel, not to Ben, not to myself. This wasn't about punishing Rhys for his cowardice or proving some petty point about my worth.
But I was choosing to stop letting Rhys Ackerman dictate my emotional life.
I was choosing to stop waiting in empty hallways for a man who couldn't decide if wanting me terrified or disgusted him more. Choosing to stop holding my breath every time footsteps echoed, hoping they belonged to him. Choosing to stop breaking apart every time he walked away.
The truth carved itself deeper with every passing second: I still wanted Rhys.
God help me, I still wanted him. Wanted his careful hands and careful words. Wanted the version of him that pinned me to walls and kissed me like drowning. Wanted whatever fragile thing existed between us that he kept shattering because he was too afraid to hold it.
But I refused to be someone's secret weakness. Someone they touched in darkness and pretended didn't exist in daylight. Someone they kissed and then abandoned.
If Rhys couldn't choose me openly, I'd move forward without him.
Even if moving forward felt like walking away from the only thing I'd wanted in years.