20. Leo #2
We work in a kind of frantic sync, our movements a dance of necessity.
I man the espresso machine, hissing and steaming like a cornered dragon, while she takes orders and plays waitress, her smile a brittle, fragile thing that doesn't reach her eyes.
We pass each other in the narrow space behind the counter, a brush of shoulders, a quick, shared glance of understanding that says, just keep going.
Around eight, the line thins for a blessed thirty seconds. I wipe my sweaty hands on my apron and pull out my phone. I've been trying to get through to Daniel for hours, but the cell service is still as reliable as a chocolate teapot. Now, miraculously, I see two bars. I hit dial.
He picks up on the second ring, his voice rough with exhaustion. "Leo?"
"Daniel. Thank god. What's the news? Is Tess okay?"
A heavy sigh comes through the phone. "She's okay. It was a stomach bug. A nasty one. The doctor said it was probably something she ate, but with all the stress from the job interview and her not sleeping, it just… completely wiped her out."
Relief washes over me so intensely my knees feel weak. "A stomach bug? That's it?"
"That's it," he confirms. "They're admitting her for a couple of days, just to rehydrate her and keep an eye on her. Gray's staying with her. Mom and Dad are here, too. We'll head back as soon as visiting hours are over. Should be by evening."
"Okay, that's… that's great news, man." I lean against the counter, watching Mara clear a table, her movements slow and heavy.
"Are you guys doing okay over there?" Daniel asks, his voice laced with concern. "Holding down the fort?"
I glance at the line that's already starting to form again, at the mountain of dirty dishes in the sink. I think of Mara's pale face and the tremor in her hands.
"Yeah," I lie, my voice smooth. "We're fine. It's busy, but we're fine."
"Good. Call me if you need anything. Anything at all."
"Will do. Tell Tess we love her."
After I hang up, the rush is back. I want to tell Mara the good news, but there's no time.
The bell jingles, and a new wave of customers floods in.
I lose myself in the rhythm of the work: grinding beans, tamping portafilters, pulling shots, steaming milk.
My hands move on their own, a muscle memory honed by years of helping my parents.
I'm carrying a box of clean mugs from the backroom, the ceramic clinking softly, when I see it happen.
Mara's heading back to the counter, a tray balanced on her shoulder, laden with four steaming mugs of hot cocoa. She's moving too fast, her exhaustion making her clumsy. Her boot heel lands right in a puddle of snowmelt that's pooled near the counter, a slick, invisible hazard.
Her ankle twists. A gasp escapes her lips as the tray tilts at a catastrophic angle. The mugs slide, a slow-motion disaster about to unfold.
I don't even think. I drop the box of mugs—it shatters on the floor, but I don't hear it—and lunge forward.
My arm shoots out, wrapping around her waist just as her feet go out from under her.
I pull her back against me, my other hand grabbing the tray and somehow, miraculously, righting it before the cocoa spills.
For a second, we're frozen there. My hand is firm on her waist, strong but careful, the heat of her body seeping through her shirt.
Her back is pressed against my chest, and I can feel the frantic, panicked beat of her heart.
The scent of her hits me then—honeysuckle and rain, but with a new, sharp note of adrenaline and something else, something warm and sweet that makes my own pulse quicken.
"Whoa, there," I say, my voice a low rumble against her ear. I force a grin, my usual defense mechanism. "Careful, Mara. You can't go falling for me just yet. At least buy me dinner first."
She goes rigid in my arms. The brief, unguarded moment of vulnerability snaps shut. She pulls away, her movements stiff and formal as she rights herself and takes the tray from my hand. Her face is a mask of composure, utterly blank. The warmth is gone, replaced by a cool, professional distance.
"Thank you," she says, her voice flat. She turns and delivers the cocoa to the waiting customers without a backward glance.
I stand there for a moment, staring at the shattered mugs on the floor. My joke, usually a guaranteed way to get a smile, landed like a lead balloon. I sigh, grabbing a broom and dustpan. Okay. So that's how it's going to be.
I clean up the mess, then decide it's time to unleash the Sandoval charm. The line is getting restless. I can handle this.
"All right, folks, listen up!" I call out, my voice booming with a confidence I don't entirely feel.
I hop over the counter, landing on the other side with a flourish.
A few people look up, surprised. "The name's Leo.
The coffee machine and I are having a bit of a disagreement, so while we sort out our differences, I'm taking orders directly. Who's first? Who's brave enough?"
A few people chuckle. The tension in the line eases slightly.
I take orders with a pen and pad, making jokes, complimenting a woman on her hand-knit scarf, promising a little boy that his hot chocolate has extra marshmallows, on the house.
I'm a whirlwind of motion and sound, a one-man show designed to distract and entertain.
It's a skill I've honed over years of working in my parents' businesses. The Sandoval side. The showman.
Once I have a dozen orders scribbled, I hop back behind the counter. "Mara, I've got this," I say, all business. "You focus on getting the food out."
I start making the drinks, my hands flying. I pull a perfect espresso, the crema a rich reddish-brown. I steam the milk to a silky microfoam, the pitcher a graceful extension of my arm. I pour, and a beautiful, intricate rosetta blooms on the surface. I slide it across the counter.
"One latte art masterpiece for the lovely lady!"
I work like that for the next hour, a blur of efficiency and showmanship. Mara works beside me, plating up pancakes and bacon, her movements still hesitant, her silence a contrast to my constant chatter.
We're a team, but a disconnected one. I'm the loud, chaotic engine, and she's the quiet, focused part that keeps the machine from flying apart. Every time our hands brush as we pass each other, I feel a jolt, a spark of awareness. Every time, she flinches away, just slightly.
The rush finally starts to die down around ten. The skiers have hit the slopes, and the café is left in a state of cheerful disarray. We work in silence to clean up, wiping down tables, restocking the display case. The air is thick with everything we're not saying.
I'm scrubbing the counter, watching her out of the corner of my eye. She's stacking clean plates, her movements precise and economical. She's built a wall around herself, and I have no idea how to get past it.
All I know is that when I caught her, for one brief second, she'd let me in.