Chapter 5
Ellie
The Ellie who took this shift did not have our best interests in mind.
Apparently working five days this week, attending my Tuesday/Thursday lectures, and having dinner at my parent’s house last night was not enough torture.
I shouldn’t be surprised. If screwing myself over by not giving myself enough time to relax was an Olympic sport, I’d have the fucking gold medal.
Literally, the whole point of only taking one class this summer was to give myself a break, but trying to avoid stress and agreeing to dinner with my parents feels like one big oxymoronic conundrum.
Whenever I go over there, I expect things to be different, but it always ends up the same. They invited me over since it had been a while, and every second felt like I was being crushed beneath my mother’s pressure.
She always wants to catch up and make sure that I am doing okay, but it never seems like she or my dad care about how I feel or what’s going on in my life. While they don't outwardly critique me, the questions they ask always make me feel like I’m not doing enough.
‘When are you going to work somewhere that fits with your degree?’ ‘Do you want us to go shopping? I can buy you some nicer clothes.’ ‘Have you signed up for a new gym membership? You would be happier if you lost a few pounds.’ ‘Why aren’t you seeing anyone?
You were so happy when you were with your last boyfriend.
’ ‘I just hate to see you so lonely. You only hang out with Nick, and he doesn’t want to date you.
’ ‘Why don’t you take another class over the summer?
I thought you said you wanted to finish soon. ’
It just keeps going and going and going until I feel like I want to cry—and sometimes I do cry.
I understand that they are only looking out for what they think is best, but with every question and comment comes a criticism. After a while it feels like they are jabbing at my open wounds, and there’s only so much that I can take.
I love them so much—don’t get me wrong—but they don’t understand.
It’s partially my fault because I don’t open up to them anymore.
They used to listen, but even then, they’ve never supported what I wanted to do.
That’s why I don’t tell them why I haven’t tried to get an internship or why my ex and I actually broke up or why I’m trying to save money this summer.
They can’t be trusted not to chastise me any more than they already do, so I stay quiet and do my best to fake a smile.
My body and mind are already trashed, but after Patrick dropped by, I’m even more of an anxious mess.
What could Patrick want to talk with me about? Is it about yesterday? Did he finally come to his senses about how ridiculous and unprofessional I was?
Ugh, I’m such an idiot!
At least I don’t have to wait too long. The Saturday morning shift just needed some extra coverage, so I’m only working four hours this morning. That being said, time is still moving at a snail’s pace.
I’ve always been an anxious person, and what I’ve learned is that time never moves how you want it to.
When you need time to move slow, it moves so ridiculously fast, and when you need time to move fast, the minutes feel like hours.
There’s also the added suspense of waiting a whole forty-five minutes so Patrick can reveal all the ways I screwed up yesterday.
More than anything, it was odd seeing him on a Saturday.
There have been countless times that I’ve picked up a weekend shift, but Patrick has never come in outside of his Monday through Friday coffee schedule. At least, I don’t remember him doing so.
It became increasingly obvious I was correct about it when he showed up not wearing his usual work attire—I almost didn’t recognize him.
No offense to Patrick, but I never paid much attention to him.
If we’re being honest, I don’t pay attention to most people while I’m working. But, yesterday when he was leaning over the bar, it took me aback how attractive he was, and since then, I haven’t been able to get him out of my head.
He has these deep emerald eyes that make you feel like he’s hanging onto every word you say, and they looked just as mesmerizing when he came up to me this morning. His bedhead should’ve made him look disheveled, but instead, it gave him this sexy, messy look.
He was dressed plain in jeans and a white t-shirt, but his clothes fit tight to his body, like they were custom made for him.
I had already noticed that he was much taller than I remembered, but the way his broad shoulders strained against the fabric of his shirt was a surprisingly new revelation for me.
I don’t usually get flustered like this, but when I realized it was him, it took me a moment to get a hold of myself.
What is wrong with me?
I need to get my head out of the gutter and stop thinking about him in this way. Just because he came to my rescue yesterday doesn’t mean that he’s my knight in shining armor. He probably just sees me as a not-so-hot mess, and I need to get myself together before I do or say something stupid.
When I got in this morning, I was grateful that they put me on bar, but now that the rush is over, I find myself begging for a complex order—or a stampede of teenage girls demanding iced drinks the color of unicorn throw-up to show up and make the time go by.
Ever since Patrick came by asking to talk, the anxious thoughts have been running rampant.
When I take my phone out of my pocket to check the time, the screen reads 10:23.
Only forty-seven more minutes to go.
My phone also shows a text from Nick with a tongue sticking out emoji, which is his response to my complaining about the extra shift.
He so graciously reminded me that I was the one that offered to pick up a sixth shift this week, so it is completely on me.
I hate when he reminds me when things are my own fault.
Oh, what a broke postgrad student does for money.
Okay, I’m not actually broke, but I do pay for college on my own.
Being frugal has come fairly easy to me.
It’s as simple as saving as much as I can without neglecting my own basic needs and giving myself a tiny bit of money to spend on the side.
Sometimes I like treating myself to something nice, whether it’s a fancy dinner or a cute outfit or a couple new books, but it’s always within my budget.
There isn’t a job planned out for after grad school, but I am happy with the current set up.
While most people in my classes have started interning, I can’t afford to do it unpaid.
It has been the dream to do something I’m passionate about; unfortunately for me, I also want to make a livable wage.
There lies the issue—what do I think will be better for me versus what I actually want.
My mom would encourage me to go with the job that makes more money, even if that means being unhappy, which is just another reason why I keep those thoughts to myself.
My body doesn’t stop working, even as I get lost in my own thoughts.
Honestly, it’s surprising how well I can multitask while making drinks.
My movements go into autopilot, and my brain works just enough to not mess up someone’s order.
Hell hath no fury like a soccer mom who gets oat milk instead of almond milk.
Three blended iced mochas with extra whip are the only things standing in the way of finally talking to Patrick. I told him I get off at 11, so when he walks in at 10:55, I’m not surprised. Based on everything I know about him—which is very little—he seems like a punctual guy.
Instead of coming to the counter, he sits at the table closest to the front of the store, but for what reason?
He didn’t order a drink when he came in earlier, and he doesn't order one now. I wonder if he doesn’t drink caffeine on the weekend.
The alternative is that he is avoiding me until it’s on his terms.
As I stealthily watch Patrick, Lily saunters through the lobby and into the back-of-house to clock in, which is my sign I can leave as soon as she comes back out to the floor.
Thank god.
For my own peace of mind and a gesture of good faith, I quickly throw together a small iced vanilla latte for Patrick. He can’t be that upset with me if I give him a drink, right?
Lily comes out to the floor looking put together per usual. She has been wearing braids for the last few weeks, and today she has them styled in a high ponytail. Her makeup is natural, but I can still tell that she put some time into it.
Apparently, this is what people look like for work when they get to sleep past 6 a.m.
I’m not thinking it to be malicious, but I’ve always been the type of person who doesn’t put much effort into what I wear for work.
It’s impossible for me to not leave without at least one stain or smelling of coffee no matter what I do, so I keep my work appearance simple and clean.
It baffles me how she can feel safe from spills wearing a flowy lilac shirt to work, but it does complement her darker skin tone perfectly. I’ll give her that.
A nod from Lily signals my time to go into the back and clock out.
Taking a second to gather myself, I remove my apron and hang it with the rest, sling my black leather purse over my shoulder, and grab my shift drink off the back table.
My half-drunk iced chai is almost all melted ice, but I take a sip anyway.
Yuck.
My breath catches in my throat when I think about going out there and facing Patrick, but it needs to happen. I have never enjoyed confrontation, but there is no getting out of this. Whatever this is.
Everything is going to be okay.