Chapter Twenty-Five
Kat
Hearing Damage – Thom Yorke
Pour. Swirl. Breathe. Yawn.
Steam curls up from the pitcher in whimsical ribbons, clouding the space between me and the espresso machine.
My eyes burn from lack of sleep. Every slow blink feels like I’m trying to lift a truck with the strength of my eyelids alone.
The smell of coffee is thick in the air.
I’ve consumed two espressos since I arrived this morning, but even that’s not enough to wake me up.
It’s officially snowflake season. We’ve moved on from pumpkins and onto fucking snowflakes.
No one prepares you for the absolute hell that is the holiday season in a coffee shop.
It’s like everyone suddenly remembers coffee exists once the ground frosts over.
And apparently every single person in the city wants their drink to look like a fucking Pinterest post. Snowflakes, candy canes, cinnamon stars.
If I have to sprinkle one more edible glitter snowflake on a latte today, I might actually lose my mind.
After I found my apartment door open last night—and even though I told myself it was me who forgot to lock the door—I still slept on the bathroom floor, not moving until the rising sun gave me the courage I needed to leave the cold tiles.
Even then, I was still late to work, arriving shortly after the fifth customer, which in snowflake season might as well be arriving three hours late.
Harper just gave me a suggestive eyebrow wiggle as she continued to serve.
I move the ridiculously glittery drink to the collection counter and immediately get started on the next one, muscle memory taking over. Grind beans. Tamp. Lock the filter. Steam milk. Pour. Repeat. The rhythm of the machine almost drowns out the thoughts clawing at the back of my brain. Almost.
I glance over at Harper, who is leaning with both elbows on the counter.
If cartoons were real, this customer would have pulsating hearts for eyes.
Harper doesn’t even have to try. She could probably flirt her way out of a murder charge if she wanted to.
He gives her a seductive smile as he drops twenty dollars into the tip jar, earning him a wink in return.
A sharp hiss rings out from the espresso machine, making my heart jump straight into my throat.
A fragment from last night’s panic flashes through my mind at the intrusion.
Milk sprays out the sides of the pitcher and splashes against the counter and my clothes.
Fucking great. I’m going to smell like sour milk for the rest of the day.
“Whoa, jumpy,” Harper says, making her way towards me. “Are you okay? You look paler than usual.”
“I’m fine,” I tell her, wiping down the milk frother and then my clothes. “I could just do with a break.”
Harper takes the drink from my hands, adding the last finishing touches to it before placing it on the collection counter. She turns to me, linking her arm with mine, and guides me towards the back porch.
“We’re on break, Kaycee!” she shouts.
Kaycee offers a wave of their dish towel in response.
We let out a collective sigh as we take our usual seats on the back porch stairs, the old wood creaking under our weight.
“So, what’s really going on?” Harper asks.
“Nothing.” I pause. “I didn’t sleep well last night.” Not a lie, but not the whole truth either.
She offers a sympathetic nod. She doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t push it.
How can I condense years of feelings into words?
How do you explain the constant prickling of anxiety under your skin, or the feeling that your world is one bad moment away from collapsing?
How do I explain that I slept on a cold tile floor last night because even though I checked the door three times, I still convinced myself that I imagined the click of the lock?
Or that I spent the night listening for any slight shuffle in my apartment, and every time the pipes gurgled, I’d already mapped out the worst-case scenario for the imagined threat?
Some things are easier left unsaid.
We both kick back, resting on our palms as we let the midday sun seep into our bones. Enjoying a rare warm moment before the dead of winter hits.
“I saw Nathan yesterday,” I offer, watching her out of the corner of my eye.
She sits up, her eyes narrow. “Where?”
“At Steve’s Spinners. He said he was planning a surprise for you, and I shouldn’t say anything,” I reply tentatively, not wanting to ruin the moment just in case he surprised her.
“That asshole,” she mumbles under her breath. “No, he didn’t fucking surprise me, and he still hasn’t called me back.” Her chest rises and falls as her jaw tightens, the muscle ticking under her skin. She’s angry, and not one ounce of me blames her.
“I’m sorry, Harp,” I say, resting my hand on her knee in support.
“He probably didn’t want you to tell me because he’s seeing someone else. Which is fine, we were never official. But what slimeball doesn’t call someone and then acts like nothing’s wrong?” The question is rhetorical, but I feel the need to say something anyway.
“He doesn’t deserve you.” I give her thigh a gentle squeeze. “You need to get back at him somehow.”
A devious grin spreads across Harper’s face. That smile never means anything good.
“I know what we should do,”
“We?” I exclaim. “I love you, Harper, but I don’t think sleeping with me is the best way to get back at him.”
“No, silly. While I would absolutely love to show you a thing or two, that will have to wait until we’re both widowed at ninety years old in our nursing homes,” she says, giving me a playful shove. “I know this club downtown. NINE. It’s a sex club. Nathan and I went a few times.”
She says it so casually, like she’s talking about a new Italian restaurant that’s opened downtown. I can’t stop my eyes from widening. Not really sure where she’s going with this, but my mind is wandering.
“You don’t have to have sex at the sex club,” she says, noting the look on my face. “It’s just a place where sex can happen.”
We notice two teenage boys peering over the fence at our conversation, their eyes wide with bewilderment.
“Didn’t your parents tell you never to listen to private conversations?” Harper asks them, and their eyes grow impossibly wider. “Run on home now. I’m sure it’s past your curfew.”
They drop from the fence, and we listen to their frantic footsteps and giggles as they fade into the distance. Harper turns back to me as if nothing happened.
“Look, I’ve had a shitty week. Judging by your deathly pallor, you’ve also had a shitty week. Let’s go let off some steam and dance. Nothing else needs to happen.”
“You’re doing this because you know Nathan might be there?” I ask carefully, watching her features.
“Maybe,” she says after a beat of silence.
“I can’t,” I reply.
She quirks a brow in response.
“I’m seeing someone.”
Am I seeing someone? We haven’t even had that conversation yet. My palms grow sweaty, so I rub them against my jeans. Am I just assuming things? I know I don’t want to fuck anyone else right now, and I know that I’ve never felt so safe with anyone either…
But does he feel the same?
“Yes, yes. Hottie with a body, Elias, who I’ve also seen there,” she adds casually, watching me out of the corner of her eye.
My stomach dips. The words settle deep and heavy in my stomach.
Well, I guess that answers my question. I had a feeling I was just one of many girls, but I hoped it wasn’t true.
I wanted to believe that I wasn’t. I wanted to believe I was different.
My mind betrays me and wanders back to his office, the last time I saw him.
The way his hand felt against my thigh and how his beard felt against my most sensitive part.
Has he been doing that with other women?
Sure, you don’t have to have sex at a sex club, but what the fuck else was he doing there?
Watching? Waiting? Touching someone else the way he touched me?
I know I shouldn’t feel like this. We haven’t had a conversation or anything about what we are.
And going to a sex club where he’s been seen seems an awful lot like self-sabotage.
But the way Harper is looking at me tells me she needs this.
And I could do with being put outside of my comfort zone for a night.
“Let’s do it,” I say firmly, but I regret the words as soon as they leave my lips.
“Great!” she squeals. “We’re going after work, wear something sexy.”
My ribs tighten. Am I really prepared to see what Elias is really up to?
I know I’m not ready to be on display. My mind jumps to the worst possibilities.
Strangers watching, judging. Eyes everywhere.
Hands reaching. Bodies too close. My skin prickles at the thought.
I’m not ready to be seen by people who will look at my body like it’s an invitation.
Harper doesn’t notice the way my fingernails bite into my palm. Or if she does, she chooses not to push. Because Harper knows me well enough to understand one thing. If I’ve agreed to go somewhere like that, something must be wrong.
Maybe it is.
Right now, I’m not thinking about Harper’s words—I’m thinking about Elias. About the way he looked at me the last time we were together, like I was the only woman in the world. If he looks at everyone like that, then I was never special at all. And somehow that hurts more than anything.