Chapter 31
THIRTY ONE
THE LATE AFTERNOON sun slants through the front windows of Maddy’s Place, dust motes dancing in the weakening golden light.
The frantic energy of the Sunday rush has faded, leaving behind the quiet murmur of a few lingering customers.
My hands tremble as I refill the sugar holder, the tiny paper sleeves slipping through my numb fingers.
Keep it together, Amy.
“One almond croissant and a large latte with oat milk, please,” Mrs. Henderson says sweetly.
“Coming right up,” I manage, forcing a smile that feels stiff.
It’s her usual Sunday treat, an order I could make in my sleep.
Turning to the case, I grab the tongs and slide a plain butter croissant into a paper bag.
“Oh, dear, I think you grabbed the wrong one,” Mrs. Henderson points out gently. “I asked for the almond.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Oh my gosh, I am so sorry,” I stammer, fumbling to take the bag back, nearly dropping the tongs. “Of course, almond. Right away.” My fingers feel thick and clumsy as I bag the correct pastry.
Helen steps in smoothly beside the register.
“Sorry about that, Margaret,” she says, her words a warm apology as her fingers move efficiently over the register keys.
“Long weekend for all of us, I think.” She doesn’t look directly at me, but I feel her concerned side-eye as Mrs. Henderson thanks her and walks away.
Just breathe.
I turn to the espresso machine, needing the familiar rhythm of making a latte to steady myself.
Tamp the grounds, lock the portafilter, pull the shot.
You don’t have time for this. Neither do I.
Matthew’s flat voice rings in my ears.
My movements are robotic as I reach for the steaming pitcher and pour the milk in. I plunge the steam wand in, flicking the switch automatically. The machine hisses, steam swirling the liquid. My gaze blurs, lost in the image of Matthew’s cold eyes and rigid shoulders walking away.
The hiss climbs in pitch. The milk heats. Then, a flash of bright red from the carton catches my eye.
Red label, not blue.
My head snaps towards it.
Dairy milk.
Not the oat milk Mrs. Henderson requested.
My stomach sinks.
Not again.
With a choked sound of frustration, I yank the steam wand out, cutting off the hiss midstream. “Damn it,” I whisper, staring down at the perfectly steamed wrong milk.
I dump the pitcher’s contents into the sink grate, the hot milk swirling down the drain like my composure.
Before I can reach for the oat milk to start over, Helen’s hand is there, resting firmly on my forearm. “Mija, stop.” Her command is quiet, low enough that the customers won’t overhear.
I freeze, milk carton in hand, unable to meet her gaze.
“Go sit down,” she continues, her eyes locked on my profile. “Take a break. Please. I can handle the last hour.”
“No, I’m fine, Helen. Really, I just…” My protest sounds as weak as I feel.
Helen gives my arm a small, insistent squeeze, forcing me to look at her. Worry fills her dark eyes, tempered by a resolution that makes arguing pointless.
“Go,” she repeats softly. “Now.”
Defeated, I nod, setting the carton down with a trembling hand. I turn and walk toward the hallway, acutely aware of Helen’s gaze boring into my back.
I stop just outside my office, resting my shoulder against the wall. I close my eyes for a second.
Get a grip.
Just hold on a little longer.
The thought feels impossible.
The image of Matthew walking away plays on a loop in my mind.
“Ames?” Helen’s voice comes from the end of the hallway, softer now, hesitant. “You okay back there?”
I straighten instantly, pasting on a smile as I turn to face her.
“Yeah,” I force the word out. “Like I said, didn’t sleep well last night. Guess it’s catching up to me.”
It’s true, just not the whole truth.
Not even close.
Helen walks a few steps closer, studying my face. She doesn’t look convinced. Not by a long shot. I see the questions banked behind her eyes. The urge to push me for answers warring with the need to give me space.
Finally, she lets out a slow sigh. “Bueno,” she concedes reluctantly.
She disappears back toward the front. I lean agains the wall for another moment. The borrowed calm evaporates instantly, leaving only dread.
Just get through closing.
The thought is a desperate prayer.
Taking a deep, unsteady breath, I push off the wall. I force my shoulders straight, feigning competence as I head back out.
The last hour and a half passes in a strained silence.
Helen and I move around each other with a wary choreography.
I focus intensely on every small task. I wipe tables with meticulous care.
I arrange sugar packets. I double-check expiry dates.
I am terrified of another fumble under Helen’s watchful gaze.
She doesn’t hover, but I feel her attention, a constant, worried pressure at the edge of my awareness.
Finally, the last customer waves goodbye.
I lock the door and flip the sign to ‘Closed’.
The deadbolt clicks, echoing in the sudden quiet.
Helen dims the main overhead lights, leaving only the warmer glow over the work areas.
The familiar intimacy of closing time should be comforting.
But tonight, it leaves me exposed with nowhere to hide.
“I’ll count the till,” I offer quickly.
I grab the cash drawer, needing an anchor for my scattered thoughts, and carry it to the back counter, away from the front windows.
Bills first.
Sorting ones, fives, tens, and twenties.
I count a stack, then recount it immediately.
Did I missed one?
Focus, Amy.
Coins clink as I separate them.
Quarters, dimes…
Matthew’s face invades my mind. The hurt. The cold withdrawal.
I squeeze my eyes shut, pushing the image away, forcing myself back to the coins.
Did I count those dimes already?
A low sound of pure frustration escapes my lips. I drop a roll of nickels. The coins scatter across the counter with an explosive series of sharp clinks.
“?Basta! Enough.”
I jump, head snapping up.
Helen is standing right beside the counter, arms crossed. She takes in the scattered coins, the disorganized bills, the chaos.
“Move aside, mija,” she says gently. Her expression leaves no room for argument.
She steps up, sweeping the nickels back toward the drawer. “I’ll deal with this.” Her hands move deftly, sorting and securing the cash. “You,” she says, not looking up. “Grab a stool and sit.”
She finishes consolidating the cash, locks the drawer and pockets the key. Her dark eyes hold mine as she pulls a stool across from me and climbs on. Her posture is straight, resolute.
She waits.
The silence stretches, amplifying the hum of the fridge, the ticking of the wall clock, and the thumping of my pulse.
I trace the swirling pattern of the countertop with my index finger, unable to meet her eyes.
“Porfa, mija, you’ve been walking around like a ghost in a fog all afternoon. Dime, what’s wrong?”
I take a shaky breath, sit upright, but my gaze remains fixed somewhere past her.
“You were right,” I whisper. “When we spoke on the phone yesterday. You asked if it was about James. About the dinner…” I trail off, the humiliation still fresh.
Helen gives my arm a gentle squeeze. “What did that pendejo do this time?”
My voice is hesitant, gaining a tremor as I recount the story I’ve rehearsed. “He never showed up. Left me waiting for an hour.” I tell her about Jake’s slip-up, the unanswered texts, the calls going straight to voicemail. “He just left me there.”
“Mierda, I’m so sorry, Ames.”
“That’s not even the worst part.” I clear my throat, forcing the words out. “I decided to go to his office. I had a feeling I would find him there. And I did.”
“Last minute business again?”
“I wish.” My voice cracks.
For a second, the café disappears. I’m back in that doorway, the ugly image burning my mind: James, shirtless. Candice, a mess of tangled hair and cheap lace, writhing on his lap.
“I found him with his latest assistant. Practically naked on his office couch.”
“?QUé?!” The word rips out of her, echoing in the quiet café.
It’s loud enough to make me flinch. “That slimy, CAbróN!” She recoils from the counter as if the news itself burns her.
“With his assistant?!” Her voice rises incredulously.
“On the couch in his office?!” She throws her hands up, her expression a potent mix of disgust and rage. “?Ay, Dios mío, qué cerdo! What a pig!”
She starts pacing beside the stools, hands flying as she vents her fury. “I told you, Ames! Didn’t I tell you? Ese tipo es un pendejo! That guy is an asshole! Como dice el dicho, aunque la mona se vista de seda, mona se queda!”
She stops abruptly, noticing my blank stare. “Meaning, even if the monkey dresses in silk, it’s still a monkey,” she explains, planting her hands firmly on her hips.
Leaning forward, she looks me straight in the eye, her expression blazing with indignant fire. “Basically, James is a shiny piece of shit.”
She holds my gaze. The sheer force of her anger is a comforting shield.
Seeing my expression start to crumble, her fierceness melts into deep, empathetic concern. “Ay, mija.” She reaches a hand across the counter to mine. “Lo siento mucho. I’m so sorry.”
The whiplash from her righteous fury to this sudden tenderness. The betrayal. The exhaustion. The sheer ridiculousness of my life falling apart because of a man Helen just accurately described as a “shiny piece of shit”…
It all crests inside me. A frantic wave of unbearable pressure.
And then, something snaps.
A strange, choked sound forces its way up my throat. It’s not quite a sob, not quite a gasp. Helen probably expects tears. Instead, a single, sharp bark of laughter escapes me, startling us both.
Then the dam bursts. Instead of tears, helpless, hysterical laughter pours out. It starts as ragged gasps, punctuated by peals of manic noise, then escalates, taking over completely.
I double over, clutching my stomach as laughter shakes me.