11. Charlotte
— ? —
Charlotte
The coffee was waiting for me when I got to the desk.
It was sitting next to the keyboard, lid on, steam curling through the small hole at the top.
No note. No name. Just a cup from the place two blocks over, the one I used to go to every morning when I first moved here, before I started making my own coffee because it was cheaper and I couldn’t afford to spend four dollars a day on something I could make for fifty cents.
Randy was wiping down the concierge station. He looked up when I set my bag down.
“That was here when I opened,” he said. “Guy dropped it off around six. Didn’t leave a name.”
“I know the name,” I said.
I picked up the cup. It was warm in my hand.
I could smell it through the lid, the exact blend I used to order, the one with the extra shot and the oat milk because regular milk made my stomach hurt.
He had remembered that. After everything, after all this time, he had remembered how I took my coffee.
In the back room, I poured it down the sink.
The brown liquid swirled down the drain while I waited to feel something. Victory. Satisfaction. The small, petty pleasure of rejecting something he had given me.
I felt nothing. Just the hollow echo of a gesture that meant nothing because it came too late.
The week didn’t get easier.
Tuesday, there was breakfast at the desk. A brown bag with a croissant inside. I left it in the breakroom for someone to enjoy.
Wednesday, I was carrying boxes from a delivery truck when he appeared beside me and lifted two of them out of my arms before I could stop him.
“I don’t need your help,” I said.
“They looked heavy,” he said. “I was walking past. I’m just trying to help.”
“Everything you do is a statement right now.” I grabbed the boxes back from him, felt my shoulders strain under the weight. “Stop.”
“Charlotte, it’s just boxes.”
“Stop, Sutton.”
He stepped back. His hands went up, palms out, the gesture of a man trying to prove he meant no harm. I hated that gesture.
Thursday, there was another coffee. Same cup, same blend, same perfect order. I poured it out without hesitating this time.
Friday, he held the door for me as I was coming back from lunch. I walked past him without making eye contact, and he fell into step beside me, matching my pace across the lobby.
“You used to let me hold doors for you,” he said.
“I used to do a lot of things,” I said. “People change.”
“I’m not asking you to change back.” He was keeping his voice low, mindful of the guests milling around, the staff at their stations. “I’m asking you to let me do small things. Things that don’t cost you anything.”
“Everything costs me something when it comes to you.” I stopped walking and turned to face him.
“Every time you show up with coffee or croissants or your hands on my boxes, you’re asking me to remember.
You’re asking me to think about how things used to be.
And I don’t want to remember. I want to forget you ever existed. ”
“You don’t mean that,” he said.
“I mean every word of it.” I started walking again, faster this time. “Stay away from me, Sutton. I’m not going to ask you again.”
He didn’t follow me. I could feel him standing there, watching me cross the lobby, but he didn’t follow.
Saturday morning, there was a muffin on the desk. Blueberry. Wrapped in wax paper with a small note tucked underneath.
You used to like the blueberry.
I crumpled the note in my fist and handed the muffin to Randy. My hands were shaking. I pressed them flat against the desk and took a breath, then another, forcing myself to calm down.
“Breakfast of champions,” Kiera said, appearing beside me. “Want to talk about it?”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I said. “He thinks he can show up with pastries and coffee and I’ll just forget everything he did. He thinks small gestures are going to fix years of being invisible.”
“Are they working?” Kiera asked.
“Of course not,” I said.
Kiera raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. She knew me well enough by now to know when I was lying.
The problem was that I knew it too.
I was restocking the brochure rack when I heard Sean’s footsteps behind me. I knew the sound of them, the deliberate pace, the way he walked like every step was being measured and recorded.
“Miss Waltham,” he said. “A word.”
I turned to face him. His expression was neutral, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Mr. Lynch,” he said. “The gentleman in the Harbor Suite. He seems to spend a great deal of time at your station.”
“He’s a guest,” I said. “He asks questions. I answer them.”
“Guests who linger at reception are a problem.” Sean’s voice was mild, almost pleasant, but his eyes were flat and assessing.
“They make other guests uncomfortable. They distract staff from their duties. They create the impression that certain employees are receiving preferential treatment, or giving it.”
“I’m not giving him preferential treatment,” I said. “I’m doing my job.”
“Then I suggest you do it more efficiently.” Sean tilted his head slightly. “Problems at the front desk are the receptionist’s problems to solve. If Mr. Lynch continues to linger, I’ll assume you haven’t solved it, and I’ll need to reconsider whether you’re the right person for this position.”
“That’s not fair,” I said. “I can’t control where he stands or how long he stands there. He’s a paying guest.”
“Then find a way to make him pay somewhere else.” Sean smiled, the thin smile that never reached his eyes. “You’re a resourceful woman, Miss Waltham. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”
He walked away before I could respond.
I stood there with a stack of brochures in my hands and felt the ground shifting under my feet. Six months of work. Six months of showing up early and staying late and doing everything right.
And now Sutton was here, and his presence was a threat to everything I had built.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw the brochures across the lobby and walk out and never come back. But I couldn’t do that. I had nowhere else to go and no one else to turn to, and if I lost this job, I lost everything.
So I finished restocking the brochures. I smiled at the next guest who approached the desk. I did my job, because that was all I had left.