Chapter 2
Roni
I’m sick and tired of these bleak mornings. Waking in the wee hours to get ready for work, only to be met by rain. More fucking rain. It’s been two weeks since I last saw a sunrise, though I wouldn’t get to enjoy one even if it happened. I’m usually at work by then.
The owners like to think of it as a local coffee shop, though really, it’s a tiny shack.
A moderately sized tool shed with a drive-up window on each side, and barely enough room for two workers and all the supplies inside.
Every time I’m here with someone else, we’re bashing elbow and trying to keep from knocking shit over.
And it’s good twenty minutes away from city life, and nobody lives along the stretch of main road.
We’re just lucky enough to be the only caffeine vendor out this way.
It’s usually about then I start getting the “Hey there, honey,” or “What’s up, baby?” and always a plethora of grotesque “Good morning, sexy.” It’s appalling. So many of these men see me as an object they’d like to possess. One they’d like to fuck. Nothing more.
The worst part is how they hang out of their car windows, expecting me to do the same, to lean closer, further exposing my cleavage while they order.
Their breath always hits my face. The worst is stale cigarettes mixed with whatever they were drinking last night.
Some of them think slipping an extra dollar into the tip jar gives them permission to let their eyes wander, or worse, to brush their fingers against mine when I hand over their change.
There's this one guy, comes in every Tuesday and Thursday in a beat-up pickup truck. Always orders a large dark roast with two sugars. Always has something to say about my appearance. Last week it was my hair. This week he’s asking if I’ve been working out because I “look like I’ve lost some weight.
” No, I don’t. And no, I haven’t. But more than anything else, I can't stand when people comment on my weight, whether they're trying to hurt me or give me a compliment.
I’m not a virgin, but I don’t exactly have a roster of exes rattling around either.
I’ve been single forever. Most guys I find attractive either recoil at my size or only notice my boobs.
It's exhausting being reduced to an object.
To body parts. I've tried dating apps, but the messages I get are either generic copy-paste lines or immediately sexual.
The few dates I've managed to go on have been disasters.
Guys who clearly expected something different based on my photos, or worse, guys who thought I'd be grateful for any attention at all.
Mercy, my feisty attention-seeking colleague, keeps telling me I need to put myself out there more, but she doesn't understand what it's like. She rocks her tight-bodied, redheaded, pale-faced emo model vibe, with tattoos, piercings, dark eye makeup and lipstick in a different color every day. She looks stunning in short skirts paired with fishnets or thigh-highs. These guys all want to fuck her, and she flirts with all of them. I’m also pretty sure she’s making decent money with her live stream, but I don’t ask.
By the time I get home in the afternoon, I'm drained from plastering my customer service smile while dodging wandering eyes and inappropriate comments. The last thing I want is to dress up and pretend to be bubbly for some stranger who might turn out to be just as bad as Mr. Tuesday-Thursday.
What I want is someone who sees more than what they see. Someone who accepts me as I am.
Between orders I often mumble the shitty lines I’m expecting to hear as more familiar faces approach the window.
“Hey, Kevin,” I greet one of my regulars with a wave and a little smirk.
“Hi there, Beautiful,” he says, and I groan under my breath.
Not Kevin, too.
“Just your usual today?” I ask. He nods, fumbles through his wallet, and hands me a $5 bill for a couple shots of espresso and some foamed milk with a splash of sugar.
I make his change, $2.50, and he snags the two singles from my hand, leaving me holding the change before waving a thanks and driving off.
I pocket the quarters and move to prepare the next order.
This is how it goes. The brief exchange of pleasantries.
The counting of change. The hollow tip. I can mark the passage of time by the faces coming through.
7:15 a.m. brings Mrs. Hendricks in her sensible sedan, always requesting her cappuccino “extra hot.” 7:30 a.m. is when the construction crew from the site down the road arrives in their dust-covered trucks, ordering black coffees, mentally undressing me and making comments about how I “brighten their day.”
“Here you go, miss,” I call out, sliding a vanilla latte across the counter to a woman in a blue sedan.
She barely looks up from her phone, grabbing the cup with a distracted “thanks.” But as she pulls away, I spot a new guy on foot approaching the window.
I’ve never seen him before. But I think I saw him get out of the dark SUV parked next to my little clunker.
He’s older, middle-aged if I had to guess.
“Hey there stranger,” I say as he leans against the coffee bar.
He doesn't respond with the usual “hey beautiful” or any variation. Instead, he just studies the menu board above my head for a moment, then looks directly at me, not at my chest, not scanning up and down, just makes eye contact.
“Hello,” he replies quite plainly.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you here before. What can I get you?”
“Oh, yeah, I’ve never been. A little off the beaten path for me.” His voice is deep and gruff, yet there’s something soft to it too. “What would you recommend?” he asks. His voice is steady, no sleazy undertone.
I'm so caught off guard by the normal question I pause. “Um, depends what you're in the mood for. The house blend is pretty good if you want something straightforward. The caramel macchiato is popular if you want something sweeter.”
“House blend sounds perfect. Large, please.”
“Sure thing,” I say, unable to pull my gaze from him.
“It’ll take just a moment. Anything else I can get you?”
“No, thank you. I appreciate you asking, though. I love your energy.” He catches me off guard and I squint at him. I mean, who even says that?
I roll my eyes a bit. My energy. Maybe this guy isn't so different after all. Just another one with slightly better packaging. I turn away to make his coffee, half expecting him to add some creepy comment while my back is turned.
“Actually,” he says, and I brace myself. Here it comes. “Do you have any of those little cinnamon sticks? I like to stir my coffee with them.”
That's it? No comment about my ass while I'm working the espresso machine?
“Um, yeah. We do.” I grab his large cup and the house blend. “We usually save them for the fancy drinks, but I can throw one in.”
“Only if it's not a hassle.” He drums his fingers on the counter, but his eyes stay fixed on my face, not wandering.
He’s well-dressed, in slacks and a button-up which clings to broad shoulders and thick biceps.
His blue eyes glow in the gloomy air. He has a well-groomed dark beard flecked with gray, and his hair is styled neatly, slightly damp from the rain.
He’s Definitely out of my league, and I bet he’s closer to my dad’s age.
Ew. The thought nearly makes me puke.
It’s then Mercy leans in behind me, batting her perfect eyelashes at him, and he gives her a quick glare before returning his attention to me.
Fuck. Why am I so excited?
“That’ll be $3.25, Sir,” I unwittingly state in a sultry tone, and as I hand him his coffee and cinnamon stick, our fingers gently brush against each other. The contact sends an unexpected jolt through me, and I quickly pull my hand back.
God. I’m such a fucking hypocrite. Ew. All these guys hitting on me. I hate it. Blah, blah, blah. Then this… specimen of a man shows up and I’m a ball of goo.
“Thank you,” he says, pulling a ten-dollar bill from his shirt pocket.
My eyes widen. “Let me get your change, sir. I’m so sorry for the delay.”
“Don’t you dare.” His gaze pins me.
“Are you sure? This is—”
“I'm sure.” He takes a sip of the coffee and nods approvingly. “This is excellent. You know what you're doing.” His look sweeps over me, and I think about every curve, every freckle, every imperfection I can’t hide while he takes me in. And somehow, though it’s my ick with every other man, I don’t mind.
It doesn’t feel invasive. It feels curious.
Especially when his eyes soften on me, standing here in a flannel shirt and leggings, slinging coffee in the weathered dark.
Behind me, I can practically feel Mercy's confusion radiating off her.
She's not used to being ignored, especially by attractive older men with money to throw around. She waves and coughs, trying to get his attention, but all he ever offers are quick go away glances. Finally, she giggles when he offers her a quick nod, seeming more like he doesn’t want to be rude than if he actually cares.
“What’s your name?” His voice drops low and rough around the edges.
“Oh, I’m—”
“No, not you,” he cuts Mercy off, jerking his head back toward me. “You, Little Temptress. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I just… I don’t know you like that. But, miss, what’s your name?”
“Hehe.” Mercy snickers, and her eyes dart between us.
He hands me the ten, and I clutch it like a lifeline.
“Aren’t you going to tell me your name?” he asks, pinning me in place with his stare, and a heat floods my skin.
“That’s Roni,” Mercy blurts, snickering louder now. “She’s single.”
My cheeks flush hot. “Oh. My. God.” I scowl at her.
“Look at him,” she whispers. “I’d do him.”
“Mercy!”
He laughs, a rich, unexpected sound. I shuffle coins, desperate to end this.
“So, Roni, is it?” His smirk turns to something dark and predatory. But damn, it’s hot.
“It’s Veronica,” I murmur, no confidence at all.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, mock-saluting. Mercy nearly loses it behind me, and I glance back at her with a snap of my head, wishing I could throttle her, but it’s boring here without someone to talk to.
I look back to thank him, but the window’s empty. In his place, a gap-toothed farmer in a busted truck leers up at me.
“Hey, sexy,” he calls, eyes gliding past me like I’m air.
Of course.
“Oh, Mercy,” I say sarcastically. “One of your fans is here.” I crane my neck, hoping for one last glimpse of the mysterious stranger, but he’s gone, vanished into thin air, leaving me bewildered and needing to cool off.