Chapter 22 The Coffee Shop #2
“You got violent looking there for a second,” came the unneeded observation from across the table.
“Thanks, Paige.” My head drops down onto my crossed arms. “I have some shi-znit going down.” My voice is muffled, but audible enough to be heard.
“Yeah, you do.”
“Okay, yeah, well, ugh.” I raise my head to find her studying me.
Her eyes get a little narrow, then they widen. “Becky? Are you good?”
I study her back. I take in her open, but tired face and decide on the whole truth. “No.”
She considers me, then nods. “Do you need a hug?”
“Yes.” No hesitation.
“Oh, honey, come here.” She demands in her gentle way, so I do.
I stand my happy, basically thirty-year-old ass up and meet her halfway in a soul warming hug.
The baby cooing and babbling between us helps heal my heart a little.
“You’re going to get through this. Carter has been working so hard and… ”
I pull back and take in her face. “And what?”
“I’m sorry, Becky. You’ll have to see it yourself. I can’t say anything else about it.” Her words say sorry but her face says got ya. But then I watch as a weight settles over her shoulders, and see her brightness dim.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I know she keeps saying no, but I want to keep asking.
“No, Love. Not right now. We have bigger fish to fry.” She settles herself into her seat and picks up her drink. The baby starts fussing a bit, and I watch as she shoves his pacifier into his mouth and begins to bounce with him.
“You’re a natural at that, you know?”
She laughs. “Honestly, not really. I was sorta pushed into becoming a natural, or else.” A soft smile lights her face.
“Jacob taught me a lot. Now that I’ve been nannying and taking care of little ones for nine, nearly ten years, I’ve learned even more.
” We move naturally into talking about her adorable son, his classes, and school, when Cass starts to get really fussy.
Paige throws me an apologetic look when he hits an impossible decibel.
“I’m so sorry, he needs his nap. But I’ll see you tonight, I promise.
” She leans over and kisses my head before heading out the door.
I sit in the ambiance of the busy coffee shop for a while and consider the last few months of my life, but then I finish off my drink and gleefully stand to fix the easy problem that presents.
I stand in line, convincing myself that I need and deserve another cup of milky coffee goodness when I feel a chill run down my spine.
The little hairs on my neck stand straight up.
I shrug my shoulders to try to ease the feeling.
That doesn’t work, so I turn to look behind me, but I don’t see anything, so I face toward the counter again.
My eyes catch on a help wanted paper on the register.
Oh, sad. I wonder who’s leaving.
Nearing my turn to order, I start to mentally script my words in preparation.
I can teach kids with no sleep, a head cold, and no supplies if necessary.
Talking to adults is a different story. How am I going to talk to the school board, in front of my peers and community members, if I can’t even order a drink without being anxious?
“I’ll take a white mocha rasp—” a flash of a familiar red is reflected in the glass in front of me, and I lose my train of thought. “I’ll take a white rasp—oh my gosh I am so sorry.” Deep breath. “I’ll take a white chocolate mocha with raspberry please.”
How do I function in society?
Brenda, the owner, raises her brow at me and her lips tilt in the corners, betraying the humor there. I grin back at her, pay, and go over to my table to sit and wait for my name to be called, but a head of bright red hair is there waiting for me.
Shit. Should I call someone? Fuck me. I left my phone over there.
My name is called while I stand in indecision limbo, so I grab my mocha, take a long sip and let the warmth soothe my nerves. Shoulders back, chin up, I walk back to my seat.
“Hey Taylor.” You dirty ass tramp. She continues to sit and type on her phone, pretending not to hear me though she’s sitting next to all of my stuff.
My bag literally says “Ms. Duchamp” on it.
She knows it’s my seat. So, I sit across from her, reach over, and grab my stuff from beside her. She still says nothing.
Until finally, “You know he was panting after me, right?”
Oh this bitch.
“You will not speak of him around me,” or so help me God I will wreck your pretty little face. Carter is the pacifist. I am not. I stop and swallow hard. I have so much violence towards her, but I can’t lose control.
“Oh, honey.” Her stupid voice drips in feigned pity. “He had all of these chances to pick you, but instead, he picked me—over and over again.” She leans closer to me. “All I had to do was see him, want him, and take him.”
“Yet, there was that desperation in sending yourself flowers and buying yourself chocolates?” I flip my phone facedown on the table between us and lean closer to her too.
She doesn’t flinch at the barb. She smirks. “It hurt, didn’t it? He told me how he’d never bought you any, so I saw an opportunity, and I took it.”
That admission hurt more than the flowers ever could.
“You had options. So why him? Why me? Why us?”
Her bright hair sways when she leans back.
“First, cause I was stuck in this dumpy town with nothing to do. He was pretty and a challenge.” She reaches out and starts to fiddle with a strap from my bag.
I stomp down the urge to slap her hand away.
“When he kept ignoring my early advances, I nearly gave up. But before I did, I had to see you. I had to know who had this gorgeous, rugged man on lock. So I saw you. You two were at the Farmer’s Market.
” The idea that she staked me out makes my stomach drop.
What a fucking creep. “I saw you, and I heard your rough, crude words. I saw your lazy hair and lazier clothes. I saw, well, you. An average woman in an average job.” She clasps her hands under her chin and tilts her head to the side.
“I knew it would be silly for me to give up. He needed someone soft and feminine.”
That hits, despite the armour I have around me. Despite what I know this viper did.
“He needed gentle, and I gave it to him. I gave it to him so good that he finally started giving back.”
Silence fills the space between us as I take in her answer.
I don’t acknowledge her words. I look at her.
I look at her hair, her eyes, and the ugly look on her flawless face.
Then, I smile. I smile because I know my worth.
I smile because I have every reason to smile, even as she tried to dismantle the parts of me I thought defined me.
“Thank you for telling me.” I take a final, slow, delicious sip of my latte, stand up and gather my things. Then, with a final glance at her now slightly confused face I say my goodbyes.
“See ya later, honey.” And I walk out, checking to make sure everything saved.