17. Chapter 17 #2
Patrick perks up, surprised. "Yeah. Exactly that.
" He takes a deep breath. "The customers are one thing, but...
It's also Rosie, one of the managers. She’s constantly riding me about being more friendly, about upselling, about smiling more.
As if my emotional labor is part of the job description.
As if I'm not already giving everything I have to make these drinks perfect.
Every day I have to work with her is legal torture. "
I nod, thinking about my own work at the shop. "Eli's not like that. He's tough, but fair. He knows my strengths. He doesn't micromanage."
"Well, you’re lucky," Patrick says with a bitter laugh.
"I've got Rosie threatening me with 'customer service workshops' like I'm the one with the problem.
As if the issue isn't that people are becoming more demanding, more entitled every day.
I'm working hard, but I set boundaries. I don't see anything wrong with not letting people walk all over you. "
I lean forward, lowering my voice. "Have you ever thought about why that is? The entitlement?"
Patrick shrugs. "Because people are assholes?"
"No," I say, shaking my head. "It's deeper than that.
Think about it. We're living in this age of instant gratification.
Everything is on demand. Streaming services, one-click ordering, food delivery at the touch of a button.
People have lost the ability to wait, to be patient.
And when they have to interact with another human being for their needs, they bring that same expectation of immediate, perfect service. "
Patrick is quiet.
"And the coffee shop," I continue, "is the perfect storm.
It's a place of necessity and indulgence.
People need their coffee to function, but they also want the experience—the cozy atmosphere, the artisanal drink.
So when that experience doesn't meet their impossibly high, media-curated expectations, they lash out.
At you. Because you're the face of their disappointment.
You're the punching bag for those customers due to pure proximity, unfortunately. "
"Fuck," Patrick says, running a hand through his red hair. "That's... depressingly accurate. So what's the solution? Accept that I'm going to be an emotional punching bag?"
"Hell no," I say, leaning back in my chair, my coffee forgotten. "You find your own space. Your own control. For me, it's the road. When I'm behind the wheel, I'm in charge. There are rules, but they're my rules. The only expectations I have to meet are my own."
I watch as the idea settles over him, see the gears turning in his mind.
"That's what you were doing this morning," he says. "With the stereo and the flowers. You were creating your own scenario, taking control of the narrative."
"Damn right," I say, grinning back. "I didn't wait for the perfect moment or the right words. I made one. Because life's too short to be passive."
I see a shift in his expression. The wariness is still there, but it's joined by curiosity. A glimmer of the man behind the barista apron.
"You're different," he says softly.
I feel a warmth spread through my chest. "So are you." I push my empty bowl forward, signaling for the check. "Next time, you're telling me about your record collection. And then I'll let you see how it feels to hit one-hundred in a drifter outside the city."
Patrick tilts his head in thought. "Okay. I'll hold you to that," he says. "You know… You're really good at this. You’re more charming than I gave you credit for."
I tense slightly. "I'm not," I admit. "I've never... I've never had a steady boyfriend, nothing longterm anyway."
"Shit," He props himself up on an elbow, searching my face in the dim light. "Was I your first?" he asks, his tone gentle.
"No," I shake my head, holding back a laugh. "But it's different with you. The others... they were bodies. Just moments. But you..." I trail off, struggling to find the words.
"I what?" Patrick prompts softly.
"You're electric," I finally say. "You're driven, outspoken, you take charge. I admire that. I like that." I pause. "Most people I've been with, they drain me. They take and take until there's nothing left. But you give me energy. You make me feel alive."
His expression softens. "So that's why you keep coming back," he murmurs, more to himself than to me. "You think I'm your spark."
I smirk. "I don't think it. I know it."
The café's ambient noise fades to a dull hum while I see him processing what I've told him.
Then Patrick's phone buzzes on the table, the sudden intrusion pulling him back to reality.
His thumb begins jabbing at the screen like he's trying to punch through the damn thing.
The warm flush that had risen to his cheeks moments ago drains away, leaving him pale under the shitty fluorescent lights.
"Hey," Patrick says, not looking up from his phone. "Sorry to change the subject. I'm having a great time, but… I'm actually kind of worried about Aubrey right now."
I lean against the counter, watching him. "Why? What's up?"
"He tried to call me a dozen times this morning," Patrick says. "He sent a melodramatic text saying he was about to be kidnapped. But ever since then, he's been leaving my texts on read."
The grin falls off my face so fast it practically never existed. I push myself back from the counter, the warmth from our conversation gone cold.
Kidnapped? Aubrey's got a flair for the dramatic, sure, but leaving Patrick on read after a claim like that? That's not just Aubrey being Aubrey. That's a problem.
"Give me your phone," I say. Patrick slides it across the counter without argument, his face already a mask of worry.