Chapter 4
ALEX
Ican’t catch a fucking break.
The second I squeeze through the door of the cafe, there’s a line stretching out the door.
And there’s Vicki, once again relieved that I’ve come to save her from a crowd of irritable, impatient students.
I plaster a smile on my face, a learned response I’ll probably become intimately familiar with over the next four hours and every shift after that.
The shift starts in a blur of faces and drink names.
Everyone gets their lattes, americanos, drip coffees, and iced coffees without nearly as much struggle as yesterday. I remember to correct my mistakes, and while I still make some, they’re no longer catastrophic. I’ve also learned not to playfully insult anyone’s order.
The line finally dies down after two hours.
I brace my hands on the counter and puff out a breath like I’ve just run a marathon.
I turn toward an equally exhausted Vicki, who took over making drinks from the other barista whose name I still don’t know.
She glances at me, so I take my chance to ask for something. “Can I get my shift drink now?”
She nods. “Sure. One more drink won’t hurt. What do you want?”
I look up at the ceiling. “Hmm. Can I get a large decaf iced latte, but with no ice, two pumps of vanilla, a quarter pump of caramel, half macadamia milk and half oat milk, and with—”
She holds up a hand. “Okay, stop.”
I smirk at Vicki as she gives me a withering look. “Normally I don’t care about different syrups, but as soon as it’s different milks or ‘iced but with no ice,’ that’s when I start losing it.”
I’m realizing this job really makes me enjoy pushing people’s buttons.
For some reason, being behind this register makes me feel powerful, like I can do whatever I want.
I can wield that power like a sword.
“I can see the mischief in your eyes. Whatever it is… let it go,” Vicki says, eyeing me carefully.
“Fine. Just get me a vanilla latte with oat milk.”
Vicki nods. “That, I can do.”
“Thanks,” I mutter.
“Alex?”
My skin prickles, and my posture straightens immediately like I’m a soldier.
I turn toward the register and come face-to-face with Fiona, the chief editor of The Goldberg.
“You got a job here?” she asks, eyeing me like she’s shocked I exist outside the newsroom.
I nod. “I needed some extra money.”
She purses her lips. “This week’s assignment is due on Sunday. Usually, you hand it in by now.”
I want to roll my eyes. Getting things done early used to be a useful trait to have.
Now Fiona loves using it against me. I set a precedent she thinks will always hold true.
I brace myself against the counter. “I’m not dropping out of journalism or The Goldberg, Fiona. I just needed the extra cash.”
She squints at me, and that’s when I know she’s about to say something mean.
“I don’t think you can handle anything more than what you already have. But I guess I can’t stop you. Your work will have to do the talking.”
I bite my tongue because that’s what you have to do with Fiona.
Even though she sees me as her right-hand man, I still have to tough it out. She’s in her senior year, and next year I won’t have to deal with her anymore, so I grin and bear it.
“I promise I’ll keep my composure,” I say through gritted teeth.
She plasters a smile on her face. “Good. I’d hate to see someone as talented as you lose perspective.”
I hate the way she acts like I don’t have a life outside of school. Like I don’t have a million different responsibilities and people to take care of.
“I’ll get a large black coffee, please. In my thermos.”
She slams the thermos onto the counter in front of me.
I give her a thin smile and fill the thermos she never seems to let go of.
Sometimes I feel like I could give her decaf one day and finally get my revenge. But I have to bide my time.
I have all the power here, and I get to decide when I want to use it.
“Would you like a pastry with that?” Vicki asks.
Fiona frowns. “I didn’t ask you to talk to me.”
I snort as Vicki opens her mouth in offense. That’s just how Fiona is, and at this point, all I can really do is laugh.
She pays for her coffee and is gone like leaves in the wind.
I blow out a breath.
Vicki frowns at me. “Does she reserve that bitchiness just for us?”
I shake my head. “She does that with everyone. It’s not a big deal.”
Vicki squints at me.
I shrug. “I want to be the chief editor next year, and since she can smell desperation, she likes to bust my ass and make me work for it.”
Vicki hands me my drink. “What a great role model.”
I hold my drink up to her. “The bestest.”
Vicki glances back at the door like she’s expecting Fiona to storm back in. “If I see her outside the cafe, I won’t be as nice.”
I take a sip of my drink and watch her angrily pull out a book of crossword puzzles before scribbling into it.
I take another sip of my latte, desperately hoping the rush of caffeine kicks in before the next customer rush does.
I’m quickly learning that this job is about taking breaks when you can get them. You can never predict when the next rush will happen, if it happens at all.
I sigh and glance at the dish bin, which is almost overflowing with mugs and plates, and, like a good worker, I walk over and lift it up.
My arms tremble immediately, but I don’t have an ounce of pride left to lose, so I take careful steps while eyeing the tiny espresso cup balanced on top of the pile, threatening to fall and shatter with one wrong move.
The bell above the door tinkles, and I don’t even have it in me to look. My arms are about to give out.
This was a terrible idea, and Vicki’s too engrossed in her crossword puzzle to notice.
“Vicki,” I groan through the struggle.
She doesn’t look up, and my arms are seconds from giving out when a tall figure appears in front of me and steadies the bin.
Relief washes over me as the weight is lifted.
“Thank you so much, I was about to—”
My mouth dries as I realize it’s Backward Hat Guy from yesterday. He took the bin from me.
Figures. His biceps are bulging like they were made specifically to carry heavy things.
I forget how words work for a second because I’m so distracted by his arms that I forget how to talk like a normal human being.
“I was about to drop all of it.”
His emerald eyes bore into mine, and a shy smile forms on his lips. “It’s no trouble. I don’t think I could handle you dropping all of these and the embarrassment on top of that.”
I snort. “Yeah, I think the embarrassment would be the worst part of it all.”
“Here—point me to the dishwasher, and I’ll carry it there for you,” Backward Hat offers.
I shake my head. “No, I wouldn’t ask you to do that. I can just take some of the dishes out and do two trips—”
He shakes his head. “I insist.”
I sigh. “Fine. Follow me.”
I walk behind the counter, the sound of clanking dishes trailing behind me.
Vicki looks up from her crossword puzzle and throws me a bewildered look.
“Don’t ask,” I say, but she doesn’t move from her spot or question me.
I hold the kitchen door open for him and pat the counter beside the sanitizer.
He puts the bin down, and the tiny, shaking espresso cup perched atop the pile falls to the ground and shatters across the linoleum floor.
Horror paints Backward Hat’s face. “Shit. I’m so sorry. I should have set it down more carefully—”
I smile and shake my head. “It’s okay. It’s one cup. I’ve already broken three, and it’s only my second shift.”
He bites his lip. “At least let me clean it up.”
I shake my head. “You’ve already done enough work here to earn yourself an apron. I’ll handle it.”
He looks down at the ceramic shards scattered across the floor, then back at me.
He looks so out of place in the kitchen with his gym bag, gym shorts, and sweater.
He shifts his weight to his other foot, and I notice the scar on his knee again.
I lift my gaze back to him, and he looks like he wants to apologize again. But I give him a warning look that says I won’t accept another apology if he even tries.
“I’ll get you a free drink. How’s that?”
He lifts his eyebrows. “No, I can pay for myself—”
“I insist. Come on,” I say, beckoning for him to follow me back to the register.
His gym bag jingles as he follows me and stops in front of the register. Luckily, no one else is in line, so I can take my time with him.
He studies the drink menu, his tongue jutting out to the side in concentration.
I find myself watching him for a long moment.
Both times I’ve seen him, he’s had a backward hat on, his chestnut hair peeking out from beneath it and curling past his ears.
He puts his hands on his hips. “Can I get a coffee… but without, uh—coffee?”
I try to bite back a laugh.
Normally, with any other customer, I’d struggle not to roll my eyes or wonder what the hell they were talking about, but something tells me this might be the first time this guy has ever ordered anything like this.
And after he helped me with the dish load from hell, I suddenly have the patience of a saint for him.
I give him a lopsided smile. “Wanna try that again?”
He winces and closes his eyes. “I mean—a coffee with, uh… without caffeine?”
“You mean a decaf coffee?”
He nods, his eyes still closed. “Yes. That.”
“What size would you like for the coffee without coffee?”
A shy smile tugs at his lips. “Just a small.”
“You sure? You’re getting a free drink here. It’s go big or go home.”
He blows out a breath, takes his hat off, and rakes a hand through his wavy hair before placing it back on his head and adjusting it with both hands. “I guess a medium, then?”
“Fine by me.”
I grab a medium cup from the stack and start pouring his coffee.
I glance back at him. “Do you want me to leave room for milk or cream?”
He frowns. “Huh?”
“Do you want any milk or cream in it?”
He blinks. “Um… I’m not sure. Does it taste better with it?”
“This is your first time having coffee?”
He grips the strap of his gym bag and blinks rapidly. “Yes.”
I laugh. “Now that’s something you don’t see every day. I’d say at least try it with cream and some sugar. Then we can work our way up.”
He shrugs. “Okay.”
I prepare his coffee and slide it across the counter. “There you go.”
He picks it up and studies it like it’s some concoction I brewed in a cauldron under a full moon.
“Anything else with that?” I ask.
He glances at the pastry case, then back at me.
His gaze lingers longingly on the rows of pastries. “Can I get a lemon square? I will definitely pay for that.”
I nod. “Sure thing.”
I grab a bag, pick out the biggest, best-looking lemon square I can find, and place it inside before handing it to him.
He pulls out his wallet and hands me a five-dollar bill, and once again, he drops the change into the tip jar.
I shake my head. “Hey, you basically did my job for me. Why are you tipping me?”
He shrugs. “Because you’re nice. Not a lot of people are.”
“If only everyone got paid handsomely for acts of kindness.”
He chuckles, and his gaze lingers on me for a beat too long.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
He blinks like he momentarily forgot he had one. I can’t keep calling him Backward Hat in my head forever.
“Oh, it’s, uh—Logan.”
I nod. “Logan.”
His eyes linger on me again.
Then he blinks, his eyes widening. “Oh, sorry—what’s yours? Your name?”
I smile. “Alexander, but I prefer Alex.”
He sets his cup down on the counter and holds out his big hand to shake mine like he’s some kind of interview candidate.
I shake it, his hand completely enveloping mine, his grip unyielding.
“Nice to meet you, Alex,” he says with the formality of an older man.
I smile. “You too, Logan.”
He keeps shaking my hand while staring at me but quickly lets go once he realizes he’s been doing it for too long.
“I, uh—I gotta go. I’ll see you around. Thanks for the coffee,” he says, already turning to leave.
I wave. “Thanks for helping with the dishes. I won’t forget it.”
He gives me an awkward smile and a thumbs-up as he wanders out the door, taking his coffee, lemon square, gym bag, and football-player muscles with him.
I smile as I turn back to Vicki, who has abandoned her crossword puzzle and is staring directly at me.
I frown. “What?”
“Now that is customer service.”
I flush. “Thanks. He was just being nice, so I repaid the gesture.”
“Mhmm,” she says, raising her eyebrows, clearly unconvinced.
I shake my head, walk back into the kitchen, and start sweeping up the shattered espresso cup.
For two days in a row, Backward Hat—Logan—has been the highlight of my shift, and I already want him to come in during my next one.
There’s something about someone who doesn’t know what they want but is endlessly nice about it that makes me want to guide them. To nurture a possible palate for coffee.
Maybe I can do more than grin and bear this job. Maybe I can actually learn to enjoy it.
At least until the next time I see Logan.