Chapter 8 Coffee And Complications #2
This is bad. This is very bad. I did not sleep. I cannot function without coffee. Today is going to be a disaster. Everything is going to fall apart because of missing caffeine.
Etienne tilts his head, studying me with growing concern.
"Did you not sleep well?"
I frown, slowly shaking my head.
"The snoring," I mumble, my voice coming out pathetic even to my own ears. "It was so loud. Like, unreasonably loud. I thought there was a bear in the apartment. Or maybe a motorcycle. Or a motorcycle being driven by a bear through a construction zone. It shook my walls."
Cal snickers from his position at the table, where he is slumped over with his head resting on his folded arms like he is trying to become one with the furniture.
"Told you," he mumbles into the table surface.
Rafe's voice rises with indignation, sharp and defensive.
"I do not fucking snore!"
Cal lifts his head just enough to laugh, the sound tired but genuine and dripping with vindication.
"Dude, you snore so fucking loud! Like a truck engine!
Like a fleet of truck engines hauling cargo through the mountains!
I have recorded it multiple times. I have evidence saved on my phone.
You sound like you are trying to inhale the entire apartment while simultaneously sawing logs with your throat. "
"Fuck off."
"The walls are thin, man. We all heard it. Even the neighbors probably heard it. There are probably noise complaints being filed as we speak."
"I said fuck off, Cal!"
"Make me."
Etienne ignores their escalating bickering with the practiced ease of someone who has witnessed this argument a thousand times. His attention stays focused entirely on me, those storm-blue eyes soft with concern.
"How do you like your coffee?"
The question is so simple. So mundane. Such a normal thing to ask someone in the morning.
And yet it breaks something inside me.
I sniff.
Actually sniff, like a child who has just been told they cannot have a puppy.
Like the orphan in a movie who has finally found someone willing to offer them a scrap of kindness.
I can feel the pressure building behind my eyes, the exhaustion and stress and overwhelming newness of everything combining into an emotional tsunami I am powerless to stop.
I look up at Etienne, and there are actual tears in my eyes. Real tears, threatening to spill over and make this whole situation even more pathetic than it already is.
"Black," I whisper, my voice cracking slightly. "Like my soul."
The room goes very, very still.
Rafe is gawking at me like I have sprouted antlers and started speaking in tongues.
His gray eyes are wide, his mouth slightly open, clearly having no idea how to process an Omega on the verge of actual tears over the absence of caffeine.
He looks like someone has just shown him a math problem in a language he does not speak.
"Shit," Cal says, lifting his head fully from the table. His amber eyes are round with disbelief. "Is she actually crying over coffee? Like, real tears? That is happening right now? In our kitchen?"
Etienne sighs, the sound patient rather than annoyed. He reaches out and pats my head gently, like I am a distressed kitten who needs soothing. His hand is warm against my tangled hair, the touch surprisingly comforting.
"Okay, okay. Do not cry. It is alright. Everything is going to be fine." His voice is soft, soothing. "Why don’t we take one step at a time, hmm? One thing at a time."
I nod slowly, the tears still threatening to spill over at any moment.
He puts his hands on my shoulders, warm and steady and grounding, and gently encourages me to turn around. Then he guides me forward, steering me down the hallway like I am a lost child who has wandered into traffic and needs gentle redirection.
Which, apparently, is exactly where he is taking me.
The bathroom.
He deposits me in the doorway, his hands lingering on my shoulders for a moment before he steps back.
"Did you already put your stuff in here? Your toiletries and things?"
I nod slowly, still sniffling pathetically.
"Okay. Good. Do your morning routine. Take a warm shower. Let the water help wake you up." His voice is soft, reassuring, like he is talking someone off a ledge. "You will feel better, I promise. If you do not want to deal with your hair afterward, just tell me. I can help with that."
He can help with my hair?
Can he actually do hair? Or is he just being nice? Does he have secret hairstylist skills along with the writing and the hockey and the tattoos?
I do not have the mental capacity to ask questions right now. I just nod again, accepting his instructions like gospel from a caffeinated deity.
"Okay," I mumble. "Shower. Routine. Hair. I can do that. Probably."
He gives me an encouraging smile before stepping back and closing the door, giving me privacy to fall apart and put myself back together in peace.
Okay, Mae. You can do this. You have survived worse than a coffee-less morning. You have survived your mother's disappointment. You have survived sixth grade. You have survived years of scraping by on nothing. You can survive a shower.
I turn on the water, letting it heat up while I stare at my reflection in the mirror.
Yikes.
Yikes on several bikes.
The woman staring back at me looks like she has been through several wars and lost all of them decisively.
Dark circles under her eyes that could qualify as bruises.
Hair that has given up on life and is now actively rebelling against all known principles of gravity and hygiene.
Skin that is somehow both pale and blotchy at the same time, like a watercolor painting that got left out in the rain.
No wonder they thought you were a zombie. You look like death personified. You look like death's less attractive cousin who got rejected from the family photos.
The hot shower helps.
It helps more than I expected, actually.
The warm water sluices over my skin like a blessing, washing away some of the tension, some of the exhaustion, some of the lingering despair over the coffee situation.
The steam fills my lungs and clears some of the fog from my brain.
I let myself stand under the spray for longer than strictly necessary, just breathing, just existing, trying to center myself.
Today is a new day. A fresh start. Your first real day at Valenridge. You are going to make it through this. You are going to be fine. You are going to survive like you have always survived.
I do the basic essentials. Soap and water on the face because I know nothing about skincare beyond the fact that it exists and other people seem very passionate about it.
Shampoo and conditioner for the rat's nest masquerading as hair, working through tangles that feel like they have been planning this coup for months.
Brushing teeth until the minty freshness tricks my brain into feeling slightly more awake and human.
Fixing my hair is the next adventure.
It takes forever. The tangles have evolved into sentient creatures with personal vendettas against me, fighting back against my brush with determination and spite.
I wrestle with knots that seem to multiply the more I attack them, cursing under my breath and occasionally yelping when I pull too hard.
By the time I am done, thirty minutes have passed.
But my hair is somewhat presentable. Smooth enough to not look like I survived a wind tunnel. Contained enough that I will not be mistaken for a creature from a horror movie. Good enough for a first day of classes at a prestigious academy.
I shuffle out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, steam following me into the hallway like a dramatic entrance I did not ask for.
Rafe is coming down the hall from the opposite direction.
He stops. Looks me up and down with those storm-gray eyes. Takes in the towel situation, the damp hair, the slightly less zombie-like expression that I have achieved through the miracle of hot water and determination.
Then he huffs.
"At least you look slightly more human now," he mutters, pushing past me toward the bathroom. "Jeez. Not even a morning person. You are going to be real fun to live with for six weeks."
I roll my eyes at his retreating back, too tired to come up with a witty comeback.
Who is a morning person? Morning people are not real. They are a myth invented by coffee companies to sell more product. They are a conspiracy.
I shuffle to my closet space, closing the door behind me and leaning against it for a moment of peace.
Then I grab the uniform we are supposed to wear.
Valenridge has a dress code, apparently.
Navy blazer, white button-down, plaid skirt that hits just above the knee.
Very preppy. Very prestigious. Very not my usual style of leggings and oversized sweaters that hide my body from judgment.
But rules are rules, and I am too tired to fight this particular battle today.
I get dressed mechanically, my body going through the motions while my mind drifts.
Thinking about the day ahead. The classes I have to attend.
The people I will have to interact with.
The possibility of running into Bastien or Vanessa or any of the other complications this school seems determined to throw at me.
One step at a time. Just like Etienne said. One step at a time. Do not think about the whole day. Just think about the next step.
By the time I am finally ready, fully dressed with my bag packed and my hair contained in a low bun that almost looks intentional, I feel almost functional. Almost human. Almost capable of facing whatever this day decides to throw at me.
And then I smell it.
Coffee.
Rich, dark, glorious coffee. The scent drifts down the hallway like a siren song, calling to my caffeine-deprived soul with promises of alertness and survival and the ability to form complete sentences. It wraps around me like a warm embrace, filling my lungs with hope.