Chapter 28
Ellie
The line starts to form as we begin the morning rush, and I am not ready.
Waking up this morning was painful. Not literally, but figuratively. I was not ready to get back to reality, but it was coming whether I liked it or not. Other than the 'Rebecca situation', this weekend was a dream, and I'm disappointed that it’s over.
When I got home, I immediately started getting ahead of my homework for the week. All of the reading I did on Saturday was helpful for the weekend discussion board, but I forgot about the socratic seminar tomorrow.
Time is moving way too fast as we approach the last two weeks of the class, and I need to keep myself sharp.
As I steam nonfat milk to go into a mocha, I’m also thinking about how I can discuss how James Joyce’s use of literary elements in Dubliners helped impact the theme. It can’t be too contrived, but I also can’t just wing it. There needs to be a balance, and I am struggling to find it.
Stirring the espresso into the chocolate, I try to remember a reference to an article that I read five weeks ago. As I pour the steamed milk, I don’t even notice that I miss the cup until there is a giant mess in front of me.
Fuck! Get it together, Ellie.
I need to get out of my head and focus on the task at hand. Running into the backroom, I chug what is left of my hazelnut cold brew and try to take deep breaths.
It is okay to not think about school right now. You have time tonight to prep. Everything is going to be okay.
When I go back out to the floor, my mojo is back, making drinks almost as quickly as Nick is ringing them in; we're a perfectly well-oiled machine. Since it’s summer, most of the drinks are iced, which makes running bar easier.
Not having to steam milk is one less step, and I am appreciative of the warm weather for once.
Knocking out drink after drink, I consider timing myself because I’m so impressed with the focus I’ve regained since I stopped thinking about my class.
There is a small crowd in the lobby, but I am doing good at not allowing it to grow any bigger than five people waiting at a time.
I’m so focused that I don’t even notice that Patrick has been leaning on the counter in front of me for who knows how long.
“Oh my god!” When I look up and see him, I practically jump out of my skin. “You scared me!"
There is concern in his eyes as I give him a half smile. He leans in over the counter to whisper, “Hey, are you doing okay? You look really tired, El.”
I don’t have the capacity to be cheery right now.
At this point, Patrick should know me well enough that I shouldn’t have to keep up my customer service persona, so I let the mask fall and roll my eyes.
“You know, that isn't what a woman likes to hear. You want to tell me that the bags under my eyes are a little dark?”
There was no reason to snap at him, but I couldn’t stop myself.
He frowns, and I instantly feel bad about my attitude. We normally joke, but my reaction wasn't from a nice place. He leans back a few inches, giving me space, and his voice is apologetic. “El, of course I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just concerned about you.”
Patrick deserves my full attention, but I can’t stop working through these drinks.
As I drizzle chocolate all over the inside of a cup, I find an apology.
“I’m sorry. I’m fine. I’m just really stressed about a socratic seminar tomorrow.
I totally forgot about it, which would normally be fine, but for some reason, I’m not feeling so good about it.
I stayed up pretty late trying to review some past readings, and now I am exhausted. ”
I strain to pump three pumps of caramel into a small, hot cup.
Fuck this stupid-ass thick sauce!
His voice cut through my frustrations.
“Aw, come on, El. You’re the smartest, smarty pants I know.” Looking up, I see he is smiling at me, and I hate that it’s making me feel a little better. “When you get home, take a tiny nap, and then do some prepping. You might doubt yourself, but I don’t.”
God, I want to kiss him so bad right now, but there is a double layer of syrups between us.
Not to mention, I am working right now, and it would be highly inappropriate.
There would definitely be a complaint to my manager if I stopped making drinks at 7:20 in the morning to make out with Patrick, and my excuse of him being 'nice to me' and 'looking extra handsome this morning' will not stand in an argument with the owner.
He continues to watch me as I work in silence, and I love having his eyes on me. It makes me sad when I get to his drink, knowing that it means he will have to leave soon. There is a deep desire to talk to him again, but I don’t really know what to say.
Trying anyway, I say, “Um, I haven’t talked to my parents yet about dinner, but I was thinking Friday night? What do you think?”
I pump the vanilla into his cup and spin around to scoop the ice in, bending over the bucket since we are getting low on ice.
“Friday works for me, and—” A slight fire burns in his eyes as he leans in close again and speaks low so only I can hear. “Your ass looks amazing in those pants.”
Choking on the air, I end up completely flustered.
I’m used to random, unwelcome comments about my body at work, but never from someone that I actually am attracted to.
My face is getting embarrassingly warm, so I focus my attention back on his drink.
The espresso and milk mix together as I pour them in at the same time, and adding a lid to the top, I hold it out to Patrick.
When he takes his drink, our fingers brush over each other. The reaction from just the smallest touch makes my body go haywire. I try to muster up some semblance of a valediction, but nothing comes out.
“Have a good day, El.” Patrick smiles and keeps looking back at me as he walks through the lobby.
It would do me well to learn how to play it cool when he pays a compliment to me because it is seriously hindering my day to day life.
“So, you guys are sleeping together?”
“Yes.”
“But still fake dating?”
“Also, yes.”
Nick leans over to me like he’s telling a secret, but I'm confused since we’re the only ones in our apartment. “And when are you going to tell him that you have a big ol’ crush on him?”
“Stop it! I do not have a crush on Patrick.” I hit him with my pillow and try to hide my defensive tone. He rubs the spot on his arm where I just hit, attempting to milk my sympathies, but I am not having it.
He singsongs, “That’s not what it looks like from over here.”
“Stop it! I like him just as a friend... A friend who is interested in making me come… multiple times.”
“Okay—” Nick does not believe me, but he doesn’t have to. “But, when you guys fall in love, I get to say I told you so.”
I roll my eyes. “We are not going to fall in love, and you need to leave me alone so I can study.”
Nick always thinks he knows everything, but he does not know this. Well, maybe he can sense it from the big emotions radiating off of me, but I don’t really know how I’m feeling about this new predicament.
My brain is probably just getting a little scrambled by the physical stuff because I definitely do not have a crush on Patrick.
Not that I want to date him anyways—since the idea of being in a relationship still frightens me.
My ex was nice for a long time until he wasn’t.
So, how am I supposed to know that it won’t turn out the same this time?
My stomach churns just thinking about the things he used to say to me. What’s worse is the way he used to say them. Like it was so obvious that I wasn’t smart or pretty. Like everyone else already knew, and I was the idiot for believing that people actually liked me.
Shaking off those thoughts, I try to gain my composure, but it’s hard.
After my last couple breakdowns, I have thought about reaching out to my therapist, but it’s been over a year since I’ve needed to talk to her. While I feel mostly recovered, other than these moments of overthinking, it still makes me wonder…
Whatever, I’ll be fine.
Hearing a knock at my door, I get up to grab the takeout that I ordered.
It has been four hours straight of reading through old texts and annotations, and my notebook is a complete mess. I’ve filled six pages with ideas that I desperately hope are connected, but who knows if they will actually be helpful?
It’s hit-or-miss with grad school professors. I could say the same thing to two different professors and get vastly different responses, so the only thing to do is to hope for the best.
Doing what I can to stack my work in a pile, I make my way out of my study zone safely, but in order to actually make it to the front door, I have to move out of the chaos that I’ve created all over the living room.
What normally exists as a safe haven to relax and watch TV has turned into a dumpster fire.
There are books and papers covering the entirety of the coffee table and most of the floor.
Not to mention, there is a slew of writing utensils scattered in my mess, and if you have ever accidentally stepped on a mechanical pencil, you will understand why I am taking these precautions.
The space is in complete shambles, but there is an organization to the madness. I know exactly where everything I need is, and if I move any of it, it will all be ruined. So, I need to be very careful to not mess any of it up.
It takes me a solid minute to move cautiously through my mayhem, but I like to wait a couple extra minutes anyway for the delivery person to walk away.
Getting annoyed when I hear a second knock, I do my best to compose myself.
I hate when they feel the need to hand you the food, especially when you say that you want a no-contact delivery.
I take a deep breath, preparing for an unexpected social interaction, but I am puzzled when I see Patrick standing in front of my door with my takeout in his hand.