Chapter 32
THIRTY TWO
A DULL ACHE low in my back nudges me awake. Groaning, I push myself up, swinging stiff legs off this torturous office couch.
I unlock the door and peek cautiously down the hallway. Early sunlight spills through the front windows, cutting long stripes of gold across the empty coffee shop.
The idea of a fresh brew is a lifeline, so I pad barefoot toward the front counter.
Forget the drip machine; I need a proper espresso.
It feels strangely illicit, standing here behind the main bar in my pajamas, the professional-grade machine gleaming in the sunshine.
I lose myself in the ritual. Grind the beans, the roar momentarily filling the void. Tamp the grounds. Lock the portafilter into place. My finger reaches for the brew button just as a sound cuts through the quiet.
The unmistakable sound of a key turning in the lock.
I freeze, heart instantly hammering.
The heavy glass door swings open, letting in the chilly morning breeze and Helen’s familiar silhouette. She steps inside, gaze sweeping the room, then does a double-take when she spots me.
Standing behind the counter in my pajamas, about to operate the espresso machine.
I watch the comprehension dawn in her eyes. She closes the door, leans back against it, and crosses her arms, her expression settling into dry, exasperated disbelief.
Her sharp eyes take in my sleep-rumpled state. My pajamas… this whole incongruous scene.
She raises one eyebrow, a wry smile playing on her lips.
“I am seriously starting to question your generation’s fashion choices, mija,” she says with mock seriousness.
“Perdón, pero this outfit”—she waves her fingers up and down at me—“really looks like pajamas. Plus, those stripes make you look like a squishy marshmallow.” She tilts her head at me in despair.
“Come on, really?! Weeks ago, those baggy blue sweatpants and black stilettos, I’ll never forget, and now… this.”
Helen’s teasing, her pointed callback to that other time I showed up looking like a disaster, makes heat rush into my face.
“Yeah…” I lean forward onto the counter, defeated. “No, luckily, unlike my sanity, my sense of fashion has yet to take a hit,” I say, attempting a wry tone that probably just sounds exhausted.
I push a stray strand of sleep-tousled hair from my face and meet her waiting gaze. “Truth is, I’m between places.”
Helen stares at me for a beat, then her eyes flash. “?Lo sabía! I knew it! I knew something was seriously wrong yesterday,” she declares, slapping a hand on the counter. “Oranges and berries when you looked like death warmed over?!”
Helen’s flare quickly gives way to horrified concern. Her gaze darts around the counter, as if searching for clues, then flicks towards the dark hallway leading to my office. Her eyes snap back to mine, wide with sudden worry.
“Wait a minute,” she says, her voice dropping, losing its sass. “Ames…” She draws my name out urgently. “Mija, where did you sleep last night?”
A heavy sigh escapes me, and my shoulders slump. I can’t meet her eyes. Instead, I just lift a hand and point toward the hallway.
Helen doesn’t wait. She hurries to my office, face tight with dread. I follow numbly. She pushes the door open, hand flying to cover her mouth as she takes in the scene.
I come to stand beside her, my gaze following hers.
My open suitcase lies on the floor in the corner. The couch has my crumpled coat discarded across it.
I bite the inside of my cheek. My head drops, eyes fluttering shut against the sudden heat of shame flooding my face.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks, voice hoarse.
I stare at the floor between us. “It’s not exactly something I’m proud of.”
Silence stretches, filled with unspoken questions as we stand in the doorway of my office-turned-bedroom.
Helen lets out a long, slow breath and puts a gentle arm around my shoulders. “Come on, mija, let’s get some coffee before we open.”
Helen sips slowly, eyes full of a sympathy I can barely stand. We’re sitting at the counter, cradling warm mugs between our palms.
“Ames,” she begins softly, putting her coffee down. “Look, my place… it’s tiny. Just the one bedroom, you know… But my couch is yours. For as long as you need it. Seriously.”
I shake my head, blinking back moisture. “I can’t,” I start hoarsely. “It’s so, so kind, but I really couldn’t impose.”
Helen waves a dismissive hand. “Impose? Don’t be ridiculous. It’s what friends do. Better my couch than,” she gestures toward the office, “that.”
“A couch is a couch.” I shrug.
“Okay, then why not get a motel room? Get a proper bed, a shower?” she asks, her tone practical.
I stare down into my coffee mug, swirling the dark liquid. The thought of a sterile motel room makes my stomach turn.
It triggers memories best left buried.
Transient years.
Temporary addresses.
The constant feeling of drifting.
“No motels,” I say too quickly. “All those years moving around… I’m so tired of not having a place that’s mine. Even this,” I gesture around us, “feels more like home than a motel ever could. It’s a long story. Hard to explain.”
“I understand,” she says, leaning forward slightly. “So what are you going to do? Are you going to start looking for a place?”
Hope flickers. “Yes,” I nod, latching onto the action. “I’m going to look for a small, affordable place to rent. With any luck, I’ll find something before the week is up.”
Helen nods decisively, shifting into problem-solving mode. “Bueno. People move in and out of my building all the time. I’ll ask Lucia at the front desk if she knows of any vacancies. She’ll be there Wednesday morning.”
“That would be amazing, Helen,” I whisper, gratitude surging. “You’re truly the best.”
“I know.” She winks. “Now please go change. We don’t want you scaring the customers.”
I change into my jeans and black v-neck sweater. Feeling gritty and rumpled, I freshen up in the staff washroom, feeling passably professional. I tie my hair back into a slick ponytail and plunge into the workday, grateful for the distraction of familiar tasks.
The café hums with its usual Monday rhythm. Commuters grabbing coffees to go. Regulars settling in with their laptops. I move through the motions. Take orders. Brew coffee. Steam milk. Wipe counter.
My hands work automatically. My mind is miles away.
Stuck in a loop.
Matthew’s face.
The way he flinched when I compared him to James.
The shutters slamming down in his eyes.
The tremor in his hand.
Don’t you ever compare me to him.
The pain in his voice.
His final, clipped dismissal.
You don’t have time for this. Neither do I.
Gone.
I nearly overflow a latte, catching it just in time.
I give a customer the wrong change, fumbling an apology while my cheeks burn under their patient gaze.
I’m functioning, but barely.
Every moment between orders, my thoughts snap back to him.
To our fight.
To the terrifying feeling that I’ve ruined the only good thing I had. That I took his unconditional kindness and threw it back in his face.
As the morning wears on, the need to reach out, to apologize, to gauge the damage, grows into a suffocating ache.
Calling Matthew feels impossible.
What would I even say?
Hearing his voice so dry and distant might just break me again.
But the silence is its own kind of torture.
Hours pass in a blur of forced normalcy. By the time a lull arrives in the middle of the afternoon, I find myself staring into nothingness.
My heart pounds against my ribs.
Now.
If I’m going to do it, it has to be now.
My hand trembles as I slide my phone from my back pocket, keeping it low behind the counter. I scroll quickly to his number, digits still unsaved, stark against the white background. My thumb hovers over the screen.
What do I write?
I type out the first thing that comes to mind.
Hey, hope you’re okay.
Too casual. Too insincere after what happened.
My thumb mashes the backspace key.
Can we talk?
No. Too demanding. It puts pressure on him.
Delete.
About yesterday…
Vague and cowardly.
I groan, frustration mounting.
Simple, I tell myself.
Honest.
Apologetic.
I take a breath and begin again, typing slowly.
Matthew, I’m so sorry for what I said yesterday.
I pause, reading the sentence.
Better.
It’s direct.
It takes responsibility.
A flicker of relief, immediately followed by doubt.
But it’s not enough. It doesn’t show that I understand why it was so wrong.
My fingers move again before I can stop them:
It wasn’t right to compare you. I didn’t mean to do it.
I stare at the two sentences sitting together. They feel inadequate, small against the magnitude of his reaction. Small against the depth of the hurt I sensed in him.
But what else can I write?
Groveling won’t help. Excuses are pointless.
This is a start.
An opening.
Maybe.
Hopefully.
Taking a deep, shaky breath that does nothing to calm the fluttering in my chest, my thumb darts out and presses SEND.
The message whisks away into the ether.
My stomach immediately ties itself into a tight, anxious knot. I lock the screen and shove the phone back into my pocket, my hands clammy.
Now comes the worst part.
Waiting.
Minutes stretch. Agonizingly slow. The knot in my stomach doesn’t ease; it tightens with every passing moment that my phone remains stubbornly silent.
I throw myself back into work. Wiping the steam wand with unnecessary force. Restocking sugar packets. Taking an order for an iced tea.
All on autopilot.
Beneath the surface, every nerve ending is hyper-focused on that small rectangle in my pocket, waiting for a vibration, a sound.
Every time my fingers brush against the smooth case, a jolt of hope shoots through me, only to fade. I steal furtive glances at the screen whenever Helen ducks into the back or lingers with a customer.
Nothing.
The screen stays dark.
Did he even get it? Is he deliberately ignoring it? Is he angrier now?
Or worse…
Does he simply not care anymore?