French Pressed Love

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

The whines and hisses screaming from the espresso machine drill a hole through my skull, adding to the headache I woke up with. The steady hum of background music and chatter from the morning rush isn’t helping much either. And the wafting aroma of freshly ground coffee beans makes my stomach swim.

Above me, a screen beeps, ringing in yet another order. I don’t look up. I don’t want confirmation of just how far behind we are.

For a moment, the world spins. I grip the cool metal counter with my free hand and close my eyes for a second. Then another.

You’re in the weeds—quit standing around like an idiot, I tell myself as I open my eyes. You have only yourself to blame for being hungover.

I blink rapidly when I hear another beep.

In my periphery, I spot a flash of orange and a severely slicked backed ponytail. I glitch. Lagging, I forget what I’m doing and set down the milk jug a little too hard. Frothed milk lurches from the stainless-steel vessel, splashing on the counter and on my hand.

“Shit,” I say, scrambling for the towel slung over my shoulder and mopping up the mess. Lucky for me, I don’t need to start the drink over. Not too much spilled. There’s enough milk left to complete the order—thank God.

“Colleen,” I call, slapping a lid onto a vibrant purple cup and setting it down at the pickup counter.

Within a blink, the cup is snatched by a smartly dressed man whose eyes are glued to his phone. He takes a sip and scowls. “Hey, sir, I ordered a flat white—not whatever the hell this is.”

A woman in a frilly white blouse and a restrictive pencil skirt steps up to him. “I’m Colleen, and that was my drink,” she says, bringing her hands to rest on her hips.

Pinching my forehead, I try and fail at resisting the urge to groan. I’m not even mad about being called sir—again. I don’t have the brain space for anger. The shift is dragging and nothing is going right.

Normally, I don’t drink heavily on nights before I’m scheduled to clock in. At thirty-two, I need a full day’s rest after drinking myself under a table. But my best friend Sarah’s confession and subsequent announcement drove me to the bar.

Stress is my kryptonite, and I probably self-medicate too much. It’s a weakness, and I like to think that I’m working on it. But my bad habits like to resurrect the moment I feel the teensiest bit of pressure. Maybe it isn’t that bad that I reach for a bottle or a spliff or a woman when things get a little tough. But I do worry sometimes. My father is—was an addict. I don’t want to be like him.

There’s another beep. I flinch.

Breathing out like a bull, I force out thoughts of my father and of Sarah.

Ugh … the man and Colleen are still at it. Can’t they shut up already? Their raised voices bang against my eardrums, exacerbating my headache.

The screen beeps again. The tail of the snaking line of customers keeps growing. It feels like there are a million eyes on me. There’s nothing worse than suffering the judging stare of a waiting customer. And I know she’s one of them, watching from the horde.

Businessman and Colleen are now full-blown shouting at each other. They’re all up in each other’s airspace, chests almost touching. On any other day, I might find the spat over something so trivial funny.

But today, I’m not laughing. Today, I’m just annoyed.

These rich professionals, who buy eight-dollar lattes every day, don’t have any real problems, so they go hunting for them.

Fuck, I need a cigarette.

For what’s got to be the hundredth time, I blame Marquess for putting me in this mess. Me being hungover is only part of the reason we are drowning. If I wasn’t down a barista, we’d be somewhat afloat. It’s the second time in the last few weeks that Marquess has flaked on a shift last minute. He’s got one strike left. If he fails to show up one more time, he’s gone. I don’t care how much he begs.

I am rubbing my temples when I hear a familiar voice behind me say, “Jay, you okay?”

Wayne Carson, my assistant manager, comes to my side. His perfectly shaped brows furrow with concern.

Wayne and I have the most seniority at Grind That Bean. We both started when the coffee shop opened its doors five years ago. The first year or so, we hadn’t gotten along. But in our third year of working together, I began to find Wayne’s penchant for gossip a great source of entertainment during the slow hours, and Wayne seems to live vicariously through me. He claims my love life is as dramatic as a telenovela, which I think is a stretch.

“Yeah, I’m good,” I say. “But could you handle this for me?” I gesture towards the quarrelling customers.

Wayne winks at me. “On it.”

I trust he will find a way to diffuse the situation. Wayne’s like the customer whisperer.

Letting out a deep breath, I finally look up at the screen. I wince—and not just because there are ten flashing orders queued. The next order is hers , which shouldn’t come as a surprise to me since I spotted her moments ago. But still …

Unable to stop myself, my gaze wanders past the cash register. My skin prickles and my stomach twists when I see her—Noémie St. Pierre.

I hate the way she affects me.

Having been with my share of gorgeous women, usually it takes more than a pretty face to hold my interest. But Noémie is like a cyst—she’s under my skin in the worst way and growing. I’m not sure how to extract her, and I’m probably just a little obsessed with her. Looking at her hurts—like what I imagine staring at an eclipse without protective sunglasses feels like. But I can’t stop myself. My eyes drink in the sight of the vexing woman.

The Poutine Princess—so dubbed by Wayne—looks out of place amongst the throng of stiff-backed financial district professionals. As expected, she’s decked in her signature colour. Orange is not a colour most can pull off. I certainly can’t. One of the few times I swapped my usual black tee for an orange sweatshirt, a giant street cone stared back at me in the mirror. But Noémie always sports a pop of the retina-searing hue, and she makes it look good. Sometimes it’s just a bag, or a pair of heels or jewellery. More often than not, the colour is a staple stitching her outfit together.

This morning, she wears an oversized tangerine blazer with the sleeves cuffed at her elbows. Underneath it, she’s got on a ribbed white crop top that exposes her sun-kissed midriff. Dark jeans hug her hips. Impractical stilettos give her inches over most patrons in the coffee shop.

My heart blips when our eyes meet. Hers are steely grey with a hint of blue—they are as striking as their owner is irritating.

I don’t like the Poutine Princess. She’s spoiled, standoffish, and rude. She’s also probably a homophobic conservative just like her prick of a father. But, fuck, she’s beautiful.

Trying to get back on track, I wipe my sweaty palms on my apron and grab an empty cup to start Noémie’s order. It’s a nuisance to put together. Grind That Bean’s most exasperating customer insists on having a large double shot latte with an equal blend of whole milk and almond milk, followed by exactly half a pump of vanilla syrup and half a pump of hazelnut syrup. The steamed milk needs to be micro-foamed to perfection. If it isn’t, she complains. If her drink is too bitter, she complains. Too watery? Another complaint. On average, Noémie makes a fuss twice a week. She never seems to be fully happy with our service. For some unknown reason, she keeps coming back.

Not in the mood to deal with Noémie’s antics, I take great care to ensure the drink will pass scrutiny. I’m confident when I set down the completed order for pick up and call out her name. My confidence dissolves like sugar when the Poutine Princess takes a sip and wrinkles her nose.

“Excuse me, you got my order wrong,” she says.

Despite the pleasantness of her voice—soft and feminine—the muscles in my back tense at her words.

She leans over on the counter and waves at me. She’s so fucking annoying.

I don’t get paid enough to deal with her shit. And, fuck, my head hurts—I am dying for a fucking cigarette.

“What’s wrong with it?” I say, marching towards the pickup area and folding my arms over my chest.

Noémie pushes the large purple cup towards me. “It’s way too sweet,” she answers. “I find your tone abrasive. There’s no reason for you to get defensive.” She smiles sweetly. Her grey eyes sparkle with a challenge, as if daring me to argue with her.

My hands drop and clench at my sides. Heat creeps up the back of my neck and burns my ears. My brain pounds against my skull.

It’s not the first time she’s said something like this to me. She’s also called out other Grind That Bean staff for being rude when she’s the one who isn’t reasonable. Sometimes, I think she only comes to the coffee shop to stir up shit—to add zest to her life. There’s a part of me that wants her to never come back. Another part of me dreads the day she stops coming.

I look at the large purple cup. It crosses my mind that I could accidentally knock it over, making its contents splash onto Noémie’s expensive clothing and handbag. Boy, wouldn’t that be funny? But a good chuckle isn’t worth the aftermath. The Poutine Princess would definitely throw a fit if even a drop got on her. I also wouldn’t put it past her to slander us all over social media.

About six months ago, Wayne uncovered Noémie’s Instagram and TikTok accounts. The Poutine Princess has quite the following. Last time I checked, she’s got over 150K followers on IG and another 50K on TikTok. She frequently posts about Grind That Bean. Surprisingly, so far all her commentary about our small coffee chain has been positive. However, I can easily see Noémie turning and disparaging us. I get the feeling she’s that type of person—a snake.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, putting on my best customer service voice. “I’ll remake your order right away.”

“Merci,” she says, flipping her auburn ponytail over a shoulder. I catch a whiff of her shampoo—spicy and citrusy. She smells good, but my hangover makes it hard to enjoy the scent of her. It’s too much—too overwhelming. I’m back to feeling dizzy.

Noémie’s attention drops to her black purse. She fishes her phone out of it.

I turn and walk back to the espresso machine.

Two minutes later, I set down a new drink for her. Fortunately, she finds no fault with it. Latte in hand and eyes transfixed on her iPhone, she struts out of the shop. When she’s gone, I find that I can breathe easier.

It isn’t until eleven that the rush dies, and I escape outside for a smoke. Leaning against a brick wall, I light up. The nicotine hit weighs down my body with a sense of calm.

I notice the overcast sky and pray to the heavens that it doesn’t rain. When I checked earlier this morning, rain hadn’t been on the forecast. But the clouds above me now are dark and billowing. The air is thick with moisture.

In the warmer months, my method of transportation is a 2006 Kawasaki Ninja. It had been my father’s bike. It’s one of the few things he left me when he died. It, along with his comic book collection, are my most cherished possessions.

Riding a motorcycle in the rain is no fun at best and dangerous at worst. The first and only time I got caught in a downpour, I lost traction coming to stop at a red light and nearly collided with a Jeep in front of me. I’d been so fucking terrified.

Outing my cigarette, I push back into the shop.

Inside is dead, and I welcome the quiet. Corrine, a newer hire, is busy wiping down the stainless-steel counters and the electric purple high-top tables.

Grind That Bean is the antithesis of the conventional coffee shop. It isn’t cozy vibes and slow jazz music. It isn’t a third place where customers can gather to comfortably connect or sit down to study. Chrome stools without padding provide the only seating. Harsh fluorescent lighting bounces off purple subway tiles that stack the upper half of the walls. Right now, Metallica growls from the speakers.

The aesthetic shouldn’t work—especially not in Toronto’s financial district. Surprisingly, it does. We are never hurting for customers. But maybe it’s because the coffee is better than Starbucks and the pastries are bomb.

Wayne leans against a counter, scrolling through his Instagram feed.

I slide up next to him. “You shouldn’t be on your phone.”

“Someone’s pissy today,” he says, tucking the phone into his front apron pocket. “What’s eating at you? Is it the reason you’re smoking again? I thought you quit?”

A sigh escapes my lips. I’m not ready to tell Wayne about what happened with Sarah. I’m still trying to digest her confession. Also, I don’t want to hear him say “I told you so.”

“I’m just really hungover,” I say, rubbing my eyes with the backs of my hands.

Wayne arches a brow. “Drinking on a work night?”

I know he is expecting me to say something, but I let silence hang between us.

“You’re really not gonna to tell me what’s up?” He pouts. “Is this about the girl you’re fooling around with—the crazy chick bent on wife-ing you up?”

“First of all, Audrina is not a girl, she’s a woman—a really great one too. She’s got, like, her shit together and a good job. She even has her own place with a mortgage,” I reply. “And she’s not crazy—just crazy about me.”

Wayne rolls his eyes. “I wonder why.”

“Because I’m irresistible.” I nudge him with my shoulder.

“If she is so great, why won’t you settle down with her? It’s about time, Jay. You aren’t getting younger.”

I shrug. “I’m not the settling type,” I lie. Truth is, I do want to be in a relationship, but it isn’t possible. And while Wayne and I are close, some secrets I won’t voice again. Some truths are best left buried.

Audrina might want me now. She might swear to love me now. She might get ridiculously jealous and play clitorference whenever she sees me talking to someone else now. But what happens when she realizes how broken I am?

Wayne’s lips pucker. “While I am devastated that you don’t want to talk to me about whatever it is that is making you like this,” he says, gesturing at me with a flourish, “I will stop my probing—for the time being.”

“Thanks.” I’m glad he’s not pressing. Usually, Wayne doesn’t give up until I fold and spill the tea.

“Changing the topic, did you see the purse Poutine Princess was toting today?”

I try to remember. “The black one?”

“Yeah, it’s a Birkin,” Wayne states. “Costs as much as a car.”

My mouth drops. “You’re kidding.”

“If you cared anything for fashion, you’d know that Birkins are the Hope Diamond of handbags,” he says. “One of them went on auction recently and fetched three hundred thousand fucking dollars.”

I don’t bother correcting Wayne, telling him that I do care for fashion. Sure, maybe I don’t dress to impress. And yeah, I probably only know the names of the most popular designers. But at heart, I’m an artist who appreciates all beautiful things. Fashion, like a sketch or a painting, is a form of artistic expression. A lot can be learned about a person from the way that they dress. I’m sure there’s always a story to be found amongst the colours, textures, and silhouettes of garments.

I wonder what it says about me that I pretty much only wear black.

When I do speak, I say, “Some people have too much money to know what to do with it.” I shake my head. If only I could have three hundred thousand dollars … Hell, if I could somehow find an extra five hundred dollars a month, that would be enough.

Soon I won’t be able afford rent, and I’m freaking out. Meanwhile, the Poutine Princess walks around with a bag that probably costs more than my annual salary. I should have “accidentally” spilled her drink.

The shittiest part about life is the unfairness. Some people are born into money and the ability to follow their dreams while the rest of us scrape by and stay stuck in unfulfilling jobs.

At one point, I really thought I’d be something. I thought I’d be the first one on my mother’s side of the family to climb the financial ladder and find success. But the joke was on me. Then again, I should call myself lucky to even be where I am now, working as a shift manager. Having a Bachelor of Fine Arts, I am not very employable. Things could be far worse.

“So how long do you think Corrine will stick around?” Waynes asks, cocking his chin in the direction of the seating area where Corrine is somehow still wiping down tables. A part of me wants to shout at her to hurry up. She was a horrible hire, but she’s my boss’s best friend’s niece. The choice to add her to the roster wasn’t up to me.

I shrug. “I don’t know … three months.”

Corrine trips over a stool. The cruel devil that he is, Wayne chuckles. “I bet she only lasts a month.”

Just then, a customer walks in. Wayne takes his place at the register, and I go to the espresso machine. My eyes dart to the clock. In a few hours, my shift will end. I’m looking forward to going home, but I’m dreading facing Sarah.