Three
THREE
VANESSA
“Excuse me.”
I hastily fold the medical report and shove it back into my pocket. “Hi.”
A young woman stares back at me, takeout cup pinched between forefinger and thumb as though she’s plucked it from the dumpster. “I ordered full cream with no sugar.” She drops the offending beverage on the counter several inches above the black marble. “This is oat milk.”
The cup bounces, tilts left, and loses its lid and contents over the surface.
For fuck’s sake. “I’m sorry. Let me check the order and remake it.”
“Let you check what?” she sasses, arching a thick brow. “Are you calling me a liar?”
I drag my gaze down her tanned arms, over the strategically curated bracelets, to the impeccable nails tipped in white. “I need to check that I didn’t mix up your order with another one.” Last thing I need is some poor lactose-intolerant individual dashing from bathroom to bathroom the rest of the day.
“Do that on your own time,” she quips, stepping back to avoid the coffee that spills off the front edge of the counter. “Make me what I asked for. Or is that too hard for you to wrap your head around?” She squints, and I catch the glimmer of an infinitesimal nose stud as she enunciates slow and rounded, “Full. Cream. No . Sugar.”
Having a job is still better than watching the shadows crawl over the walls of your house. I close my eyes briefly, rolling my lips as I count to three. “Fine.” The reply comes out sharper than I intended.
She recoils as though I spat at her. “Fine?” The young woman turns her head with such vivacity that her long blonde hair fans out behind her. “Do you hear this?”
Do you hear yourself? I gather a cloth to sop up the warm mess inching toward the stack of paper serviettes and sneak a look at the person she speaks to from beneath my lashes. Right… A man in a neat suit rises from a seat nearest the window, snapping his laptop shut with a flourish. Dramatic much? “What’s the issue?” His voice commands the room despite having barely lifted it above conversation level.
I remember seeing these fuckers come in, yet Theresa was the one to serve them. I’m starting to feel that was an initial lucky break on my part.
My boss lifts her head from where she takes an order in the annex behind me. Great.
“This incompetent, woke bitch got my order wrong, and instead of apologizing and making me a free replacement, she tells me she wants to mess around checking the order,” the young woman gripes, mocking my words. “She’s calling me a liar.”
I toss the cloth and slam the coffee grinds into the portafilter. If she keeps going this way, I’ll call her a hell of a lot more in a minute.
“Are you refusing her a replacement?” Mr. Not-his-fucking-business’s dark gaze scrutinizes me despite the fucker never once breaking eye contact.
My clothes suddenly feel dirty. “I did not.” I lift the full-fucking-cream milk from the fridge and swirl it toward the metal jug with enough of a curl in my wrist that they can’t help but catch the label. “I simply said I wanted to check I hadn’t mixed up orders in case somebody lactose-intolerant received her order.”
“And how is that Candy’s problem?”
Of course, her fucking name is Candy. “I didn’t say it was. I wanted to do my due diligence, is all.” More of a sour chew than anything sweet, but whatever…
Today is not the day to pick a fight with me. The goddamn letter feels like a brick in my pocket.
“Your due diligence,” the fucker scoffs. “The sort you should have applied when making the order the first time?” He approaches the coffee machine, leaning close enough that his jacket lapels brush against the stainless surface.
Swear he moisturises daily. Either that or he hasn’t worked outside a day in his life.
“Is there a problem here?” Theresa sweeps into the serving area through the short swing door to my right.
“Do you screen your staff for competency before hiring them?”
My guess is the fucker is Candy’s father, going off the grey creeping into his temples and perfectly maintained scruff. Either that, or she sure knows how to get her bills paid—red flags be damned. I take far too much satisfaction in his sudden shift backward when the steam hisses out of the wand.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Theresa states in level tones. “I asked if there’s a problem here.”
“The orders were mixed up,” I explain, the first vestiges of a panic attack creeping over my skin in a hot flush. Not now. For fuck’s sake.
“I can talk for myself, you know,” Candy bitches.
Could have fooled me. I lift an eyebrow and glance at her daddy to convey my thoughts.
“Your staff member refused to replace my order and then rudely shoved the wrong one back at me, creating a mess that could have burned me.”
Excuse-the-fuck-me? “I’m making your damn replacement now.” My tone rises—high and pitchy—as I slam her new takeout cup beneath the nozzle and pump in three shots. My heart rate doubles due to the unnecessary conflict. Bitch needs the extra caffeine to calm her ass down.
Fuck . I need something to calm my ass down.
“You hear this?” the guy exclaims, waving his hand toward me. “This is the attitude we’ve received since politely bringing the issue to her attention.”
Theresa sighs and sets both hands on her hips, chin dropping while she stares at the floor as though she searches for the strength to get through the next ten minutes.
I can’t blame her. The adrenalin pumped into my system for an initial round of panic quickly morphs into anger. It takes everything I have not to write “Bitchface” in crisp lettering on the side of the cup.
“With all due respect,” a husky male voice pipes up behind the entitled duo. “Nothing was polite about how you spoke to Nessie just now.”
Oh, Mike. These aren’t your people. I love the old guy. I really do. A simple pot of peppermint tea every morning at ten and today’s paper is all he asks for. I give him a sneaky biscuit or two anyway and pop a few dollars in the till out of my pocket. Genuine souls like his need looking after, given how rare they are in the world.
The veteran rises from his seat with a groan and moves to stand beside Candy. “It’s a simple mistake that may have been avoided if you weren’t facedown, nose in your phone when you blindly grabbed a cup off the serving counter, missy.”
Candy opens her mouth and shuts it as quickly.
“You’re blaming my daughter now?” -piece snaps. Called it.
“I’m calling a spade a spade,” Mike interjects. “Now, I’ve tolerated your goddamn voice for the past half an hour as you made call after business call loud enough for us all to know exactly how big your… budget is,” the old-timer snaps, eluding to the size of the fucker’s ego. Or dick. Either one is equally as unremarkable. “But this has crossed the line.” He turns his head slightly as I slip the new coffee onto the damp counter and nods toward the paper cup. “Kindly take your drink and leave.”
“We’ll be sure to rate you one star,” Candy snaps as she takes the coffee and then snatches a wrapped cookie with a huff.
“Bitch just shoplifted right in front of my face,” Theresa whispers as the out-of-towners storm toward the door.
I move backward until my ass hits the storage cupboards behind me, hands braced against the top edge while I will the feeling of my fucking skin melting off to ease. My heart pounds against the bars of its cage, angry fists beating to a frantic tempo. I should have gone home. The minute I opened that goddamn envelope, I should have just walked my ass back indoors and feigned sickness. Theresa would have understood—eventually.
“Watch it.” The father’s broad frame fills the exit as he comes to an abrupt halt, reaching forward to set a protective hand on his daughter’s shoulder.
Mike grins, shaking his head as he returns to his table.
“Here we go,” Theresa mutters, setting an elbow atop the baked goods cabinet to settle in for the show. “Been a while since I’ve seen these fuckers around here.”
I’m too far down the spiral to care about whatever drama she has going on. My chest hurts to breathe. My heart feels inflamed. I close my eyes and let my head fall forward, reaching for the tie around my wrist to give it a healthy snap. Get it together, Ness. They’re leaving. You’re strong enough to get past this. Clear your mind. I snap the hair tie twice more, yet it does nothing to ebb the rising fears.
The echoes of nightmares past.
I need to get out of here. I need to be somewhere private where I can fucking meltdown without the added shame of people seeing my crazy.
I remove the apron from around my waist as I veer left in a controlled stumble toward the back room, dumping the grounds-covered cotton atop the cabinets. The door swings shut behind me with a slight thud, my shoulders jumping as I shift Theresa’s bag off the sole chair in the corner. Muffins sit atop the counter opposite, ready to be slipped into their paper casings and displayed out front. I drop my ass to the creaky plastic seat and set both elbows on my knees, cradling my head between my hands.
My heartbeat vibrates through my entire fucking torso.
My skin feels too tight. And hot.
Nausea swims in my empty stomach.
I feel as though I want to crawl out of my goddamn body and find somewhere safer to hide.
Fuck. Fuck that letter. Fuck his goddamn name having this power over me. Seven printed letters spelling out the sum of all my issues. It was ink on a goddamn page, and yet, it may as well have been a loaded gun to my head for how my nervous system reacted.
“You okay?”
“Huh?” I jerk upright. When the hell did she come in?
Theresa drops to her haunches before me. “They’re gone.” She extends a hand toward me to touch my arm yet thinks better of it. “What do you need?”
I draw a deep breath and drop my arms on either side of the seat to shake out the jitters. Why the fuck I have a goddamn panic attack over being bullied into believing I made a mistake, I don’t know. But if I’ve learned anything over the past decade or more, it’s that trauma doesn’t need a reason to trigger fight or flight.
It does it for funsies on the daily.
“Grab a cold juice from the fridge and pop outside for a bit, huh? Get some sunshine on your skin.” Theresa offers a small smile.
You’re failing already. “I’m okay. Honestly, I just need five to let this pass. I’m sorry I messed up.”
She sighs as though frustrated at trying to reason with a child. “Vanessa.” My name is a whip crack off her lips. “You told me you had an anxiety disorder when I hired you, sweetheart. Don’t feel as though you have to hide your struggles. I wouldn’t have given you the job if I figured it’d be a problem.”
I don’t deserve her kindness. “Thank you.” I haven’t done enough to earn it.
The broken record of criticism echoes through my head as I rub the lingering heat from my arm. Swear to God, I made that rude woman her damn drink how she ordered. I lift my hands before me as Theresa pushes to her feet with a groan, her knees popping. My fingers tremble, arms like lead. It was just a letter. It shouldn’t have this effect on you.
Just an invitation to re-enter the hell I spent half my lifetime escaping.
He only has the power you give him. I draw a deep breath, rubbing the heel of my hand to my sternum.
I shouldn’t feel like this. I’m thirty-fucking-six, and yet, my brain is stuck somewhere around nineteen. I look to the adults around me, navigating life with such poise and resilience, and I feel like a child. Immature. As though I’m yet to bloom. As though I’m frozen in time despite how my body ages.
I feel disadvantaged. And all because of what some sadistic fuck did to me. All because of something that was totally out of my control.
So why don’t I have control now? Because it’s a practiced skill, you dumbass. I know the answers, yet I continue making the same mistakes. Maybe this is all I’ll ever be? The thought threatens to make me cry.
I will not break further. Not when Theresa is still watching me as though she doesn’t know what the fuck to do to fix me. Newsflash: neither do I.
“Maybe some sun would be good.” I rise from the seat and force a smile.
“Take one of these.” Theresa turns and collects a muffin off the counter, sliding a paper napkin beneath it. “Chocolate fixes everything.”
“Thank you.” I accept the gift into my trembling hands. I will not cry. “I really appreciate your understanding.”
She opts not to say anything—likely because my shaky words show her just how close to a complete meltdown I am—and gives a gentle nod before leaving to man the counter again.
Her voice cuts through the door when she greets a customer. An audience, more like. I dab the side of my finger beneath my eyes, use the dark glass of the oven door to check my faint reflection, and draw a deep breath. You’ve got this. I can do it.
I’ve done harder things.
Head down, I slip through the door and veer right toward the swing door. My hip bunts the wooden panel open, and I let out a startled yip when it rebounds against me with force. The fuck? Lifting my head, I come face-to-face with a middle-aged guy sporting what can only be called a lion’s mane of riotous sun-bleached blond waves.
He tilts his head and smiles, looking at me with kind brown eyes. “Could we get a cloth to wipe the table? Got some papers that are sticking to it.” He gestures toward the garden annex tucked to my right, behind the room I was just in.
“Sure. Just a moment.” I set my muffin down on the nearest clear section of the counter and duck down to get the spray bottle and cloth.
I take the opportunity to sniff away any lingering emotions while I’m hidden behind the cupboard door.
Theresa glances down at me from where she serves a customer to my left. “What you doing?”
“A customer asked if I can clean their table.”
She looks over me and frowns. “Leave it to me. You go get away from this.”
“Are you sure?”
She gives the old lady opposite her a smile as she hands over the woman’s change. “Positive.”
“Thank you.” I push to my feet and grab the muffin.
The lion takes a step back as I exit through the swing door.
“Theresa will come clean the table for you in a moment.” I try my best to plaster a convincing smile on. “I’m actually on a break just now.”
“No sweat. Sorry for interrupting, ma’am.” He lifts both hands. Brown beads adorn his right wrist in a loose bracelet.
I step toward the door when he stalls me with another question.
“You okay, sweetheart?”
His seemingly genuine concern almost undoes me. “Okay is a fluid concept.” I fake a smile.
He frowns briefly before dazzling me with a wide grin and chuckling. “You’re sure right there.”
“You need something, Jinx?” Theresa catches my eye, jerking her head to give me my leave.
The lion moves toward her, allowing me to escape. I head for the door, glancing into the annex at the two men seated at the round table.
Piercing blue and brown stare back at me. My heart stutters and thuds back into rhythm, his unique eyes captivating. The devil has many faces. And most of them are beautiful beyond compare. The handsome guy’s chin sits nestled behind clasped hands, his elbows on the table as he studies me frozen before the door.
A black-haired man scrolls his phone, seated with his back to me, masked skull peeking out over the top of the chair. Kings of Anarchy sits in bold lettering arched atop the image.
The devil feels like temptation. I look away, stabbing my teeth into my bottom lip as I jerk the cafe door open and step outside. You forgot the juice. Shit.
I don’t need it anyway.
There’s nothing on this earth that could fix the rot inside of me.
A juice sure as shit isn’t going to do it.